HUSTLE* box worthy

Once, I was offered $5,000 to go home with a customer. He was a businessman or at least he wore a business suit. Not bad looking, her was a little on the chubby side and Latino. Most girls would’ve spread leg right then and there, but I didn’t. Afraid of crossing the line and never being able to turn back, I walked away. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t consider it for a moment, after all he wasn’t a monster. But then I thought, monsters can be tricky –they can take on forms of the beholder’s weakness. It became apparent I had been visited by the devil himself, at least that’s what I told myself. And I can’t say I never fantasized about the hotel sex scene with mister monster, non-monster. Letting Lucifer himself have his way with me, thrashing me about and whatnot, giving me some good old fashioned spankings; and me, afterwards laying on my back in some black lacey something or other bruised but brimming, counting the stack bill by bill and laughing hysterically.

On a few occasions, I’ve told that story hoping to convince myself that I was better than the average stripper, to convince others that not all strippers put out, to convince myself I was special enough that the devil would bestow me a visit. Or at the very least, I wanted to prove I was worth something. Girls often put their worth in the amount of paper they can stack, in this line of business, that is. Glorified housewives or some shit, only no house and no husband: glorified non-entities with vaginas. Yep, that’s it. Glorified vaginas. Some worth more than others, I guess.

And I guess I weighted myself in paper often.

Once, I was offered a steady gig as a house-call stripper. You know, bachelor parties and birthdays, shit like that. Maybe girl on girl stuff or popping out of cakes, the guy, or manager he called himself, wasn’t too sure on all the details. But I was promised a personal bouncer and a “company” cellphone in case of emergencies. I could be certain that I would not become another statistic, plus the clientele were exclusive Southern gentlemen who were really into tipping big –that’s what the little pee-wee shit tried to sell me on. I knew what that meant. White men with power looking to get off on degrading women’s bodies; looking to beat another stripper bitch or gang bang her because she’s not human or because she deserves it for being [quote, unquote] a slut. I was not trying to become gator grub or fertilizer. I shut that man down with a “fuck no.” Big tips equal I shit on you and you take it.

It’s not movies that make stripping look dangerous, it’s life –it’s reality. Stripping, if done outside of regulated zones, is dangerous because men are dangerous. Not all men, but a substantial amount that provoke me write this piece. Women and women’s bodies are vulnerable. That much I knew. While the clubs were I stripped might have been considered seedy or were located in less than savory neighborhoods, there was a sense of protection that I knew didn’t exist outside. Outside is wild like the beast, the beast of man.

Strangely enough, or perhaps not, I felt safer inside the club than outside of it –like a cocoon or a blanket.

Once, I was offered money to stick pins in a dick. This freaky old man coming at me like, “Yeah, I’m turned on by sharp objects and I want you to stick me.” I cringed. Through his slinky, black, lycra-blend T-shirt, he showed me nipple piercings of quite the large caliber. Said he got them pierced a couple of times, multiple actually, because with each time he got pierced, he ejaculated. I felt bad for the piercer, unless they were into that sort of thing. Then I thought about the mess in his pants and wondered how he dealt with that afterwards.

Did he wear some sort of diaper or a condom? Did he wrap himself in plastic wrap or wear two sets of underwear? It was all too much for me. Then he opened a wallet bulging with one hundred dollar bills. He said we’d have to do it at his place because hygiene or whatever to which I quickly stood up. He called me back with doll face. Said he’d settle for me digging my stiletto heel into his dick for 20 bucks a song, I didn’t have to dance or take off my clothes. It was a pretty sweet deal minus the touching his dick with my heel. It was my Betty Page bangs he liked.

Highly likely that the guy was just a regular run of the mill pervert, but also highly likely that what really got him off was cutting off stripper’s heads or nipples or clitorises. Men lure women with cash and empty promises. Shit, men do that in relationships where no money is involved. Women need to wizen up. Enough of this holy giving-of-ourselves shit, giving of our time and bodies and spirits. Meanwhile men take and take until there’s no more taking to be had. Too much taking is a sin, you know? It makes man, in all his forms, the biggest sinner on the planet.

If I were sticking anything sharp into anything, it would be a knife into my heart.

WORDS BY:  Jacklyn Janeksela

jacklyn janeksela, MFA is an artist and an energy. Find her work @ art mugre, jota cuadrada, &female filet. Her music with The Velblouds @ band camp.

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