tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79388870230721199542024-03-13T23:54:57.587-07:00Bad Girl All Grown UpKathleen Langley's candid and personal blog of growing up and living her life as a "bad girl." I currently own Lucky 7 Tattoo and Piercing in Kings Beach / North Lake Tahoe, California Over the years I have learned to dig the bad girl I am, helping myself my own way instead of blaming others. Join me and read my vida loca.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841986739792729011noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7938887023072119954.post-41925263303208134112014-01-22T14:13:00.000-08:002014-01-22T14:13:41.419-08:00Oath of Honor To My Ex-Husbands Daughter.....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Auntie Kathi Acquires Gorgeous Leopard Garments<br />
For my comfort and her amusement!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abba, wearing a lovely, hand crafted Mermaid Outfit. Don't You want to take a little<br />
Nibble from her Darling tail?!? Homemade gifts CAN be cool!</td></tr>
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I chose the nickname of "Abba" for MY second ex-husbands daughter for a couple of reasons.<br />
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Her lovely parents decided to name their unborn daughter the very old fashioned name of "ABAGAIL - even before she was happily conceived! Her daddy fancied a 1980's heavy metal record - by a long forgotten screeching warbler with the moniker of "KING DIAMOND". One of King Diamonds self penned songs is called "<u>ABAGAIL". </u> That was Abba's parents divine epiphany for naming their beautiful daughter - a long forgotten song about a Welsh witch!??<br />
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Well, in my punk rock world I decided the name is too long and cumbersome. She is a tattoo artist baby! Edgy names are given to tattooer tikes. I personally recommended names like "Bunny Marie", "Lucky- Chance" or "Geisha". Mommy and Daddy smiled at my ideas - but their minds were set. As I pondered many sideways thoughts to the many ways to possibly shorten this tiny babes name - my ears suddenly became flooded with the awesome super 70's soft rock of the Swedish band "<u>ABBA".</u><br />
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The song popping onto the tattoo shops radio I took as my own divine, musically inspirational cue! Top 40 tunes sung by <u>"ABBA"</u> had blared through my mothers crappy dashboard speakers all through childhood. Contained deep within my compact disc collection - a hidden "BEST OF" from these Swedish Sensations resides. Therefore the name is a perfect fit to my muddled mind! (Much to the amused chagrin of baby daddy.)<br />
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On to the meat and pureed potatoes of what I want to say to you, Miss Abba. In thought and deed, from the day you arrived to your mommy's lovely nurse arms: These vows I do decree:<br />
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<li>Never will I turn from your cry, no matter the timing - no matter how "silly" or annoying others may think your need is. Dropping whatever I am doing to carefully listen completely to what you have to give voice to. Depending on age and standards I shall give out hard won wisdom, advise your mother and father or just let you get your thoughts and feelings all out of your head and heart. I am here for you.</li>
<li>You shall be told more than "I LOVE YOU". Your talents, character and promising performance in all that you love will be fawned over. Nurturing your exploration of what may interest you for a moment or a lifetime. Come empty wallets that were once full of money. Or conquering my dislike of large crowds of people for your dance recitals. Support will be freely given for all you have a passion for.</li>
<li>When you "can't stand" your Ma and Pa for whatever reason - you will find me waiting to take you away for the day. Give you attention you don't even know you need in that moment. Keeping those horny young boys from taking advantage of a girl while she is down. No matter if you are mad at me too. Thinking I am old and uncool. We can silently sit together at a movie or go for a walk - until its time to forgive and forget - going home with the air cleared and a much needed break from the action for all involved.</li>
<li>Truth will always be told in a language suitable to your maturity level. Nothing is worse than a teenager who still acts as a toddler. Mistakenly believing they are the center of the world - that the world owes you something. I shall tell you the secrets to accepting hard work with education AND dedication. Truth and honor. The "school of hard knocks" may knock you down. Yet you shall be ready to stand back up, dust off your leopard print outfit - carry forth with determination to try again. You will be ready to create opportunity for yourself. Not accept the leftovers.</li>
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When I am deemed uncool or an eyesore - due to growing up, finding your identity or your changing taste - no offense will be taken. Carefully I will still watch out for you - just hidden more in the shadows. Never do I want you to feel ashamed of who your "tribe" is. Coming from a unconventional family structure. You will be given the gifts of growing up making your own mistakes of judgement in a hasty moment. Your extended family of "AUNTIES" will run out from the shadows to help any way we can. Saving you from yourself only when necessary. Without interfering or overtaking.<br />
<a name='more'></a>These vows I take today for you baby Abba. In a dozen years, when you can clearly comprehend what I am promising to you - we can discuss if you like. All through the decades my promises will be kept. Silent in voice yet shown through action. Much Love - Auntie Kathi<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841986739792729011noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7938887023072119954.post-32560083194157781892013-12-15T19:58:00.000-08:002013-12-15T19:58:23.332-08:00All that Negative will Never Equal a Positive in Your Life <span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">*<b>for anyone reading my words while depressed, suicidal, feeling unloved & unworthy or just plain mad at the world - know YOU can change everything. LIFE WILL GET BETTER! It did for me. Even though I have been beat down, damn miserable and counted out. Take life's beatings as powerful teachings you never wanted, but needed for reasons unknown at this moment. File the negativity away as a lesson learned and move on down the road. Something better is right around the bend. Tomorrow you can change EVERYTHING. One moment, action and decision at a time.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When something negative happens in your life - do you sit back feeling sorry for yourself, asking "WHY ME?"!!?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Yep, I use to do that as well. Never did me a bit of good. Swearing like a drunken sailor, lashing out verbally at those surrounding me. Everyone got "on my nerves". To show my disgust I began throwing glassware against walls. ALWAYS fouling the atmosphere with bad energy. Blaming everyone and everything I could think of for my terrible run of bad luck. Never owning a bit of it. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Too punk in 1984 baby!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Decades of life lived dipped in anxiety - mixed with a steady flow of anger. Repeating "Why Me ?!?" to friends who became weary of my constant complaining. Whipping myself into a frenzy of disgust at any perceived slight from teachers or co workers. Nothing good ever happened to me. And when it did I would toss it without notice to the sidelines of life, loudly and obnoxiously pronouncing: "<b><i><u>Well - that was cool, BUT something bad will happen to take this happiness away!!!"</u></i></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Yikes, I hate myself just writing those things - taking my own inventory. Imagine how my friends, husbands or family felt after dealing with all that garbage coming from me.....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Building blocks of mental sludge piled up on top of each other. All at once my negative thinking and actions came to a truly nasty, red and crusty - pus filed head that needed popping.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">From the outside my scene looked pretty good to those around me. Winters were spent as a pro team snowboarder. Competing all over the west coast, Colorado and Utah. During Tahoe summers, I either traveled for the fun of it or worked part time as a cocktail server. I ran through a fair number of casual boyfriends - then nabbing the funny, yet introverted goth guy who had my back no matter what nonsense I served up. Friends with beers and a guaranteed good time were all around. Yet all I could acknowledge was the little fires life lights around us all (THE BAD IN LIFE). I could never see the abundant blue cool water (THE GOOD IN LIFE). </span><br />
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At 21, I became completely undone. Depression kept me home from things I once loved. Everyone around me I found fault with. Nothing was good enough. Months I spent in front of the television. Counting the hours, then minutes before I had to get up, put my make up on and go to work. Upon the end of my work day I would jet home, parking myself right back in front on the t.v. All the good things and friend in my life began to fall away, either from my actions OR my lack of actions. Misery does NOT love company. Sure, a few friends tried to help. Then after their best attempts at rendering aid they went away. Who can blame them? I did not want to be around me, why would anyone else.....goth boyfriend who became my husband also went away. Burned out from my drinking, violence and my refusal to get help.<br />
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I latched on to a few other guys who offered little more than being full time drinking companions. Booze bloated me up. Hangovers became the normal. Morals flew out the window. Dreams became nightmares. Self hate seethed out of my pores like a noxious mist, infecting all who encountered me. Trying to whack myself I swallowed a few hundred pills - couldn't even do that right. Woke up in Charter Mental Hospital two days later. Refused their help by informing them I had no health insurance. The charge nurse bundled me up, sending me home with my burned out adoptive parents.<br />
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Once home, I had this epiphany: <b><i><u>My negativity, in all its forms, was creating the constant drama and bad karma. No one else is to take the blame. My choices are to blame.</u></i></b><br />
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My next steps came quickly. Gone were the negative boyfriends. Booze came off the daily shopping list. Visitors were no longer welcome in my home. Buckling down, I quit my liquor serving job. Got back to being a body piercer for the man I learned from. I read every self help book the library had. No matter the title. Each and every book had at least one valuable bit of wisdom I could apply. Free time went into consumption or production of "good". Taking my dogs for a swim. Going for a walk. Writing down my negative thoughts - then burning them. Renting Bruce Lee movies. Boiling it down - I put my negative thoughts and actions into the trash - filing the empty hole with positive forward thought and actions.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fetchy Con Carne<br />
1 of the many Lucky 7 pugs</td></tr>
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Besides the personal mental and physical surgery I was performing on myself, I took notice of how others treated me. Deciding I would no longer accept garbage fed to me from humanity either. Unreasonable people were dealt with kindly and firmly - then dispatched. I am no longer willing to accept bad morals, ethics or values in others. Boy has that weeded out a LOT of drama. Fair yet firm in all my dealings. I refuse to give any more than that. Its is not worth my well being.<br />
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Now - I have a life that is worth keeping. Bringing me happiness where before there was none.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Daily, I send a humble little prayer of thanks for all the good in my life. No matter what the world throws at me. Regardless of how other humans have behaved towards or around me. Even if a bird has pooped on my freshly washed truck or someone I care for has passed away from a disease - gratitude for the good in my life must be given. Positive feedback to the "manufacturer of humanity" is the first thought of the new day. Appreciation for milk that has not expired. Plenty of firewood for the winter. My dogs being healthy and happy. A client bringing me a cup of coffee - all is deserving of my gratitude! With that gratitude comes more goodness...law of attraction don't ya know...It is "The Secret" to a meaningful, wonderful life.</span><br />
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Karma is a bitch...I am oh so thankful I no longer serve as "Karmas Bitch!"<br />
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Blessed Be My Darlings...Ta Ta for now....K~<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841986739792729011noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7938887023072119954.post-74536236310622863682013-12-10T15:57:00.001-08:002013-12-10T15:57:40.000-08:00 I Wish "Pa" from t.v.'s "Little House On The Prairie" was my Daddy! <span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Being a young girl who experienced adolescence during<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep, that's me. 2nd grade<br />I loved that dress!</td></tr>
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the 1970's - I was fed a steady television diet of "ideal families". "The Walton's", "Family" and "The Brady Bunch"- made my own family seem sadly sub par. My adoptive clan could never measure up to those television families who were idolized and viewed as templates of a perfect clan by all of America. Each show seemed so perfect and wholesome, good and pure.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For my younger self, the creme de la creme of family television was <i><u>"Little House on the Prairie."</u></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Except for having to cry about some tragedy every single episode - Laura Ingalls had everything I myself wanted out of life at age 8. She had a really nice, pretty mom. Her older sister Mary looked out for her on the school yard (until Mary went blind). Cute boys aplenty came and went weekly at the schoolhouse/church. Those young men never tried to pull Laura behind a tree to show his wiener off! This boy and Laura just got to run around wild with each other all day (after chores were completed). That's some fine childhood living! Yet the best was really Laura's daddy, Charles "PA" Ingalls. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Laura's daddy (whom she called "Pa") was a fine specimen of daddy goodness. Always tan, smooth shaven yet still rugged - nice build for his average height. Hair worn just a bit too long, possibly permed into chocolate waves. A gentle , yet still manly tone to his words, whether praising or scolding his girls. Even when disciplining his children Pa never raised his voice. Verbal admonishing for bad behavior always contained an uplifting lesson at the end. Life lessons that hurt Laura's buck toothed heart so bad seemed to hurt less because of Pa's seemingly natural gift of nurturing his offspring.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Yeah, I had Father Envy pretty bad....my own male parent was not shall we say "gifted" when it came to <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hunky "Pa" Ingalls<br />MY second grade dream dad!<br />Nice.........</td></tr>
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rearing a daughter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Adoptive Dad was not the kind of guy who participated in hobbies with his daughter. I believe his point of view was this: as long as he supported me financially - that was love. Leave the raising of females to the "woman folk". My older brother was taken fishing, hunting, to ball games, boy scouts. All the typical activities for young males. Dirt bike riding was a weekly activity for them. Sadly I was never allowed to be a included their fun. Many youngsters on my block had mini bikes. Buzzing around the neighborhood having a ton of fun. Boy I wanted a mini bike! Time after annoying time I begged, pleaded and threw many a crying snot filled fit. Begging annoyingly for my father to teach me to ride or failing that, to be allowed to go on a ride as his passenger.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Dad couldn't be bothered. I suppose for him it was just too dangerous. Or perhaps against his morals of what was acceptable for girls. Whatever his reasons - a mini bike never found its way under the Christmas tree. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Laura's dad got her a HORSE for Christmas - not a pony, a full size black mare named Bunny.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Lucky bitch.....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Lesson to Fathers: Give your daughters some attention please. Play tea party or hide and seek - whatever. Or we may end up on a stripper pole with a loser boyfriend. *See my other blog entries for THAT story</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841986739792729011noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7938887023072119954.post-5451072714268975612013-11-29T18:03:00.000-08:002013-11-30T13:47:45.362-08:00Picking The "Bad Boy" - My Adolescent Choice (that has lasted a lifetime) Vol 1.<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">*Very import!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">None of the males who have been a part of my life have ANY crimes against women or children. No baby rapist, no sodomites, no crimes against seniors either. We all have to draw the line somewhere in our personal moral code of honor. Those crimes are unforgivable. !*</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/AI-VY5cC2jk?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><u>"GOODFELLAS"</u> is a favorite movie of mine. Especially the one minute excerpt above. It tickles my fancy - I never get tired of witnessing a greaser gangster whip some preppy boys booty for disrespecting his gal. To me the beating means more than a wagon full of flowers, candy, diamond rings and tender "I love you's" whispered every tens minutes in my ear. By pistol whipping the offensive jerk, the gangster could catch a case, going to jail or even state prison. That is L- O -V -E in my hazel eyes. When a guy puts his freedom on the line to uphold your honor (or his own) - he real does care deeply for you. Or he thinks he owns you. Which, as long as he isn't controlling, is kinda sexy, no?</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_C-EKlbfJEjo5etbzYG1HSSutnmPvLNqJFTORkk-BM55-Nm_6uXVVXMou8gO-SKZYfWZa_SV5LzrJpY0FxhOUgvFYd27fJ1nv-iTwnpaDT2eqwhAUbVgVAkV7a0SMc6RrTSMm-eVbucvU/s1600/russell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_C-EKlbfJEjo5etbzYG1HSSutnmPvLNqJFTORkk-BM55-Nm_6uXVVXMou8gO-SKZYfWZa_SV5LzrJpY0FxhOUgvFYd27fJ1nv-iTwnpaDT2eqwhAUbVgVAkV7a0SMc6RrTSMm-eVbucvU/s320/russell.jpg" width="183" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Russell Fortier, high school bad boy AND my husband!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Second grade I had my first "bad boy"crush. I had a playmate named Julie. We palled around for most of that school year-being in the same classroom</span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. My burning crush was Julies' older brother. His name was Billy. Pale white skin, glossy long black hair that he constantly flipped back from covering his brown eyes. Sears store brand Tough Skin jeans with dirty lace up navy blue Vans. Skinned knees topped with a bad attitude. Dreamy!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Billy had a natural swagger that drew me in. Perhaps it was the way he socked the other boys who angered him on the ball field. Or when he would steal ice cream sandwiches from Thrifty Drug Store. My good girl Catholic upbringing did not jive with the budding hormones bubbling through my heart for Billy. Each time Julie and I listened to a Carpenters album on her families turntable, arms, legs and head akimbo on shag carpeting floor- my innocent mind would interpret the schmaltzy lovey dovey lyrics into the story of my puppy love for brother Billy. Singing along - willing him to amble through the living room, lock eyes with me - then peck me on then lips! Big dreams I tell ya!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After a few months of irritating Julie with my mooning over her grubby brother, she set up a "make out session" for the Billy and I. For the cozy tryst, the 2 car garage of the family home was decided upon. High above, the gabled rafters had weather beaten sheets of plywood nailed down to create floor space - grubby stained blankets hung on twine for privacy. A perfect hide away from prying parental eyes. Going crazy with anticipation - emotion sliding through my veins like I drank too many Cokes. Having no previous encounters at my oh so tender age I had zero idea of what would actually happen when "Making Out" with Billy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After 2 tortuous days Julie and Billy's parents finally scrammed, leaving the kids home alone. I ran the three blocks between our homes like a gazelle fleeing a lioness. Arriving sweaty, out of breath with a limp pony tail - Billy and I scrambled up the ladder to our love nest. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS4ylewO_qYYKj_5Ib667jWfWiYUXRo8D0X3CmcSnAmVuuETu4ig7b4bOLRyJe6dhy6PaAPUCpOfvqaDpdJ3dkh_9fKhe-ZWANGuBl8ap5BnWFfc99WrScNPl5NmC1pqN-q55EKuVut2Be/s1600/Me+and+Steve+D+1984.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS4ylewO_qYYKj_5Ib667jWfWiYUXRo8D0X3CmcSnAmVuuETu4ig7b4bOLRyJe6dhy6PaAPUCpOfvqaDpdJ3dkh_9fKhe-ZWANGuBl8ap5BnWFfc99WrScNPl5NmC1pqN-q55EKuVut2Be/s320/Me+and+Steve+D+1984.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kathleen Burke, High School punker<br />
with my main punk squeeze, Steve Dyson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In tandem motion, we sat down cross legged onto a painters drop cloth. Without missing a beat Billy reached over awkwardly with one skinny arm pulling my body to the space between us. Leaning in, he planted his lips on mine - with the force of toy trucks being smashed into one another by a 3 year old. Contact was kept for a count of one-two-three then broken apart. A few seconds passed, Billy smiling with self satisfaction. Then once again, lips smashing together.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">By the third round of kisses I realized a few new things: Kissing Billy resembled nothing close to what I had viewed in movies. His skills seemed quite lacking in ways I could not put words to. Secondly, the lead up was way more exciting than the actual act of kissing. Hi macho attitude, the manner which he strutted the school yard, etc - is where the actual attraction lay. Lastly, while I did not like the act of kissing Billy I still totally dug him. Sigh....</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">By 5th and 6th grade, my choice of girlfriends defined who would be suitable "going steady" boy material. A group of 5 or 6 boys in our grade level were deemed "cute" or "nice". If the boy had a crush on you, he would ask you to "go steady". Usually this was accomplished by notes passed along to your girlfriends. If the boy was a real go getter he would ask to meet you at lunch to "Pop the Question" grammar school style. When you said yes he would then hand you a St Christopher metal hung from a long silver neck chain. Each boy had his own style of metal-this helped others on the playground know who you were "with".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After a few weeks of lame kisses behind the backstop, awkward phone calls about what your mom made for dinner- then the "break up" would happen, with lots of drama. Then your ex boyfriend would work up the nerve to ask one another member of your girl group to go steady. Changing back and forth, in and out like the ribbons around a May Pole. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Summer before 7th grade and moving on to junior high I became fully boy crazy. So many new faces to pick from! About a month into the new school year my click of girl friends from grammar school began to evolve into preppies. Wearing little alligators or polo players on their flipped up collared shirts. Calvin Klein cords or jeans, and penny loafers on feet with neon painted toenails. This new stuck up way to dress, snotty attitude accentuated with flipping their feathered hair - would not tolerate a non fashionable "okay" looking, lower middle class adopted trash such as myself. I was made to feel unwelcome. I took the hint with a broken heart, moving my way on up the schoolyard where the "bad kids" hung out. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Called "China Grove", this area contained some steel benches inside a cluster of very tall trees. Perfect for cigarette smoking between classes. Or to hide during lunch time. Better to hang out at China Grove with the stoners and rocker kids than to wander around crowded halls feeling like a loser, trying to avoid eye contact. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After showing up at the Grove for a few days in a row, puffing on Salem Lights stolen from my mothers purse - some of the girls started talking to me. Foul mouthed and shit talking about the preppies who we hated, (which helped me feel less rejected and much better). Brazenly kissing their long haired boyfriends, talking about sneaking out to drink. Instantly I fell into place with this juvenile delinquent coven of chicks. Instantly feeling more at peace with these bad girls than I ever felt with the grammar school click.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fiC97HLdpuZVUCAnarMvB1rpWTvkWXuQmufZjczIygjz6Xvxu1LqOmk_qYeTgqYh4JuOjJrEQnp6YGLBKi2U7ZzNwDFzgZJCCKz6KsmsZII-Ko21FdTe3kSN7o77TiSuZanSGU4Ratgd/s1600/Kathleen+1st+grade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fiC97HLdpuZVUCAnarMvB1rpWTvkWXuQmufZjczIygjz6Xvxu1LqOmk_qYeTgqYh4JuOjJrEQnp6YGLBKi2U7ZzNwDFzgZJCCKz6KsmsZII-Ko21FdTe3kSN7o77TiSuZanSGU4Ratgd/s320/Kathleen+1st+grade.jpg" width="248" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even though I look like a BOY<br />
with this awful pixie haircut (thanks mother)<br />
it was around this age<br />
I started digging "Bad Boys".</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">With the new girlfriends came new boys. Wearing AC/DC shirts along with skin tight pants loaded with marker ink depicting skulls, band names with other various vulgarity. Feet adorned with one of two choices: combat or hiking boots - looking stoned and disinterested in everything contained in our junior high universe. Fake Confidence with a "Don't F%$#@ with me" glare kept the other kids from messing around or trash talking. Eating it up by the gallon, wanting this powerful aura for myself, I set my sights upon Scott M. Possessing shaggy dishwater blonde hair made worse with comb induced split ends. Very tall and skinny: motherless, a true "biker" father. A real "bad" boy fathered by a "bad" man.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Courtship in 7th grade was better. Meeting at the pizza parlor or bowling ally. Pockets over filled with coins to play video games or purchase smokes. Sneaking warm beer to gag on at the park. Hands in each others back pockets while walking the school halls. Attending thrown together stoner parties with the other guys and gals from China Grove - inside the steep cement walls of a spillway. Making out: feeling a bit slutty going to second base (over the bra of course!) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After a few months it seemed as if I had been Scott M. girlfriend for a lifetime. Feeling a sense of safety from his toughness, I began to evolve. No longer did I care my former friends dropped me over my breeding and clothing. What others thought of me no longer mattered. At first I copied the other bad girls fashions. Wearing tons of purple. Roach clips made of feathers hung from my Le Sac nylon purse. Home permed brown hair swept into birds wings stiff with Aqua Net. Creepy old guys started yelling "hey foxy" from their jacked up sedans. I mimicked the others by flipping the men off, yet secretly loved the flattery - too young to understand that any guy yelling at a 12 year old girl from his vehicle was a creep.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">When the school year came to a close, my relationship with Scott had worn itself out. Never was I comfortable enough to introduce him to my parents. Scott was not what mom and dad want you to bring home - know what I mean? Always sneaking around. Lying about who, what where and why got old. Hating myself for lying just to get what I wanted. Sick to my stomach - afraid of getting caught in some situation I could not fabricate a good enough fib to get out of the trouble I had created for myself. Disappointed in my own choices. Stress had taken away the high I got from being Scott's girlfriend.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After the split, I spent my summer flirting with boys of all kinds. No discriminating due to choice in music or foot wear. Toughness or passivity. I figured I might as well get to know every male who took the time to say "hello" at the Bayshore Golf and Games. Sneaking off with a few to kiss, drinking malt liquor or sitting low in green fields passing a joint around - becoming tougher with each awful encounter I put myself in. Chipping away at my self worth. BUT gaining some life experience no adult could teach me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Three months later I knew I had evolved into a tough chick / bad girl. Attitude flavored with punk rock. Gone was the stoner rocker chick look I had poached from the other girls in China Grove. Bleached streaks of yellow blonde hair hung over my eyes. Black clothing from the thrift store hung off my slender shoulders. Constructing power through my looks over what hurt emotionally.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In concert with my changed persona I still hung around lots of different boys. Now that I had found my individuality, many males would not interact with me. Weak males, preppy guys, most every peer in my age group did not dig my style. Most of those who did fancy me-I did not care for. After Scott, I just was not attracted to passive males who tucked their tails, running from challenges. Guys who dealt head on with life's problems made a positive impression. The more working class the better.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Almost exclusively I was attracted to, then attached with guys in the punk scene. At parties they would break up the fights. Perhaps they would start one IF say, you stepped on my foot then started to walk away without the apology you owed. Tire goes flat on the car? He gets on his hands and knees to fix it. Much more thrilling to drive to Chinatown in San Francisco to sample tofu sweet and sour pork than go to the shopping mall. Some of my best memories from my <i><u>high school years </u></i>have nothing to do with <i><u>high school!</u></i> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I found my own tribe. Within the tribe are the men who were my match in ALL ways. Best sex, most understanding of my introverted personality. Self starters. Adventurous souls who are surprisingly well read or self educated. Do not shy away from protecting who he loves. Even if it means going before a judge and perhaps behind bars. That is devotion. That is my kinda guy!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Volume 2, I will thrill you with tales of Bad Boys through my high school up until my first marriage. Stay tuned by adding your email address to my list. You have my word I WILL NOT sell your address.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841986739792729011noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7938887023072119954.post-57759351745512545112013-11-15T13:18:00.001-08:002013-11-15T13:18:38.063-08:00"Shame Does Not Serve Me"<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">"Where would we be without our painful childhoods."</span> </b> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b> Dr Finch in the movie "Running With Scissors"</b></blockquote>
<br />
<br />
Never let anyone shame you.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
It does not matter what kind of drama you have created. Regardless of what others think. Even if you are to blame for some terrible situation. F*#@ shame! Put those embarrassing events behind you at once! Learn your lesson the first time so your mind's self shaming will not show up for another uninvited visit. As corny as the saying may sound, tomorrow is a brand new day. Do not waste a moment wallowing in defeat.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSdNdYIVUSgj5KqEzK_xQlzdVUBmMfADD9_04Pw5AiJYniFfq8lE9ghCTiqnyzceg_O5Ef3Y7ZjrshvN2AKbzzoiXHcOrTOVpXk47CMRUHSU1vmAeANiUbL5dzYxM-Kd5-ZMpVL85qzk3q/s1600/7th+grade+Farrah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSdNdYIVUSgj5KqEzK_xQlzdVUBmMfADD9_04Pw5AiJYniFfq8lE9ghCTiqnyzceg_O5Ef3Y7ZjrshvN2AKbzzoiXHcOrTOVpXk47CMRUHSU1vmAeANiUbL5dzYxM-Kd5-ZMpVL85qzk3q/s320/7th+grade+Farrah.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">8th grade yearbook photo for Kathleen Burke<br />
Kennedy Junior High...Farrah Fawcett<br />
eat your heart out!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When we humans do something wrong morally, physically or ethically - most of us become disgusted by our own behavior. Our bodies shout at us with anxiety. Skin suddenly flashes hot with hues of red. Digestive tracts quiver in an unsettling fashion. Nervousness pounds through flesh. "Fight or Flight" instinct over loads our circuits in the brain.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
While these physical and mental manifestations are helpful to aid us from repeating words or actions that brought on "shame" - it does nothing to ward off OTHERS who want to shame us. We all know someone who loves to wags his or her finger in our face. Speaking to us like an unwanted child. Talking AT us like we are beneath them in life's grand order. Feeling superior in their actions when compared to our own. So they shame, hitting us square in the jaw with their words or in tiny wordless ways in their treatment of us.<br />
<br />
Here is what you need to say to yourself when these situations present themselves:</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv8MaGxzVmecpuAN6WktWaAsWpJ4eiu5Rm_rBlYP_hQIXCqlrL0PW9m0P-J08EF34GMVdez5-tEcrVt3prRZfAIY3IXUSRSvjyEKC8Q5iuHQzScElJlEFG4CtbeGLpY040F7-Yo_zr43ze/s1600/BGGU+blog+Kat+Ski.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv8MaGxzVmecpuAN6WktWaAsWpJ4eiu5Rm_rBlYP_hQIXCqlrL0PW9m0P-J08EF34GMVdez5-tEcrVt3prRZfAIY3IXUSRSvjyEKC8Q5iuHQzScElJlEFG4CtbeGLpY040F7-Yo_zr43ze/s320/BGGU+blog+Kat+Ski.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Living the dream in 1980, my first year of Junior High. Hair<br />
is feathered and sprayed, no warm hat for me!<br />
Bet you North Tahoe Locals can figure out<br />
what chair lift / Resort this is?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
F*#@ them and their shaming of you! Tell that person to go shove their shame up their bum! Even if deep down you believe some of what they are telling you is true. Shaming is in no way a proper method to teach anyone anything. Remove anyone who thinks they are" helping" you with shame.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Puberty is never kind to anyone.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Back in my first year of junior high I was a mental mess who acted out in every typical bad girl behavior. My hormones, coupled with attachment disorders I did not know I had at the time, plus low self opinion/self esteem made for one super rough ride. I never did anything right as far as I - or anyone else was concerned.<br />
<br />
Boys and drinking came in handy for lots of shame of myself. Here is one example of my stupidity:<br />
<br />
Cutting last period. Go willingly to a stoner boy classmate's house while his mom was at work. Taking little sips off every bottle in their liquor cabinet (don't want to get caught taking too much from one bottle). Getting so drunk that I threw up all over the boys bedroom when he tried to make his pubescent sexual move on me. Ha! With the boy just wanting me out of his house before his mother arrived home, I proceeded to puke, stumble and wobble the 6 blocks home.<br />
<br />
Beat my adoptive parents home from their evening commute by shear dumb luck. Managed to get in the cool, dark house, falling into my stuffed animal covered waterbed. As my brain spun sickening circles, my guts churning a vicious stew - I threw up off the side of my waterbed. Suddenly my Mother is barging through the locked door, very enraged. Calling me all kinds of names, anger flaring her nostrils. Shaming me for drinking alcohol with a boy! Such stupid, slutty actions! (This all the while the ice tinkles in her after work cocktail ). Never once asking me or herself "WHY" would I put myself in such a terrible situation. All that my mothers 1950's values considered was "What will others think of my daughters shenanigans ?!?"<br />
<br />
In those moments of clarity after I took huge personal risks way beyond my maturity level, like drinking with boys, I didn't have a clue why I would act out in these dangerous ways. In my brain I knew drinking with a boy I did not even really like was a bad idea all the way around. My inner voices screamed WTF are you doing right now?!" Yet I was compelled by strange needs that had no voice I could understand. I wanted to be liked, to be wanted, so badly that I constantly put myself in very bad situations. Nothing mattered except making myself feel better for a moment or two. To trick my self hate into submission for a few moments of forbidden fun.<br />
<br />
Many adults surrounding me who claimed they cared for my well being, thought that calling me names like tramp, slut, whore, etc would shame me into change. Including my adoptive family. They punished me with groundings, taking away possessions, no t v for a week. Typical carrot and stick discipline of the time. None of this was effective in any way. I manipulated and lied my way around these punishments. They had already told me I was a slut. As far as I was concerned , I had been called the worst thing you can call a young woman. Who cares what else they may have to say about me? Their lectures about my slutty actions only backed up how I already felt about myself......SHAMEFUL.<br />
<br />
All the verbal shaming never did me a lick of good. The issues were much larger and deeper than these people could imagine.<br />
<br />
As I grew into legal adulthood, I no longer was drawn to bad situations with bad boys in the same way. I mentally outgrew the actions that use to make me feel good for a few moments. MY insight into myself grew tremendously. I read every book I could find on adoption, self improvement, etc. I dumped so called friends/users out of my life. Began making friendships with men and woman who did not just want to party and live in a soap opera. I began to actually like myself.<br />
<br />
All that SHAME myself and others tried to drown my soul in was washed away with coming to know myself better. Learning new ways to think. That awful shame never serving any purpose - except me knowing in my heart I needed no more of it.<br />
<br />
So tell shame to take a hike from your life today. Not a moment longer shall you wallow in any of it! Get up and get going on changing for the better. NOW!<br />
<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841986739792729011noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7938887023072119954.post-56730234796403122092013-11-08T13:40:00.002-08:002013-11-08T13:40:44.325-08:00The Best Man who Became the Next Husband. A California State Prison Love Story<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 18pt;">The Best Man who Became
the Next Husband. A California State Prison Love Story<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><br />
My title sure does say a mouthful, don't it ?!? </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Some of you know the
first part of this story if you have read the Lucky 7 Tattoo blog, For those of
you who haven't read that tale, let us all step back in time, shall we..and
refresh our memories as to who is what in my life. I will keep it brief,
promise.....</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Back in the late 90's I
was poking needles in co-eds for cash in Davis, Ca.There I met a cool, funny
talented tattooer named Corey who became my husband. Shortly after the marriage
we opened our own tattoo and piercing shop, Lucky 7 in North Lake Tahoe. Not
quite two years after our nuptials Corey and I decided the friendship and
business partnership were working out great, but the marriage was not. We
had a civil split, and both moved on to new partners, as mentioned in the
previous Lucky 7 Tattoo blog post. Here is where it gets interesting...</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Corey started his costly
dating stint with a huffy teenager who needed a bowl of soup and some morals.
Me, I went a whole different route. I met a man in prison. Yep, you read it
right. California State Property. No kids, I didn't see him on Americas Most
Wanted or find him on a pen pal / lonely hearts type of thing. I met him
through another tattooer named Vinnie that Corey and I had worked with. Vinnie
was doing time for robbing people. And me being the "Patron Saint of
Felons" I would go and visit Vinnie once a month.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Well Vinnie was quite
the ladies man. So much so he got thrown in the hole of the prison for having
an ongoing sexual relationship with a pretty, young and blonde - brand
new corrections officer! Nice huh? Got caught dragging a pillow and
blanket from his cell on his way to go make "sweet sweet love" to his
special lady in her prison office...HAHAHAHAHAH....ok, sorry, still makes me
laugh that his balls were THAT BIG.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">As Vinnie was being
dragged to his new accommodations in the bowels of the prison, his cell mate
decided to call me and let me know what had happened to Vinnie. Lets call the
cell mate "Dick." So Dick calls collect and lets me in on all the
dirt about Vinnie getting caught bedding down his blonde guard. Dick
is very worried about Vinnie. Afraid that other corrections officers may beat
the holy hell out of Vinnie for defiling the young miss. ( Due to the
rules of the institution, Dick and Vinnie had no way to communicate.) Dick
asks me to go visit Vinnie in the hole, then to come to the regular visiting
room and have a visit with Dick to let him know how Vinnie is.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Up until the
collect phone call, I had never met Dick. In reality I owed Dick
nothing. However I could tell he was very worried about Vinnie, so I said
"sure I will do as asked." </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"> I drove the 5
hours to Soledad Prison, visiting Vinnie. Spending a few hours looking
at the poor convict Romeo behind glass, all greasy and sad looking,
bemoaning the fact that he was so crazy as to bang a guard. After our
visit was over, I made the short trip over to the regular visiting room
where I would meet Dick face to face. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">SIDE NOTE: Have you ever
visited anyone in prison? Let me tell you, it is one hell of an ordeal just to get
in! Clothing can only be certain colors. No cell phones, purses, gum,
sunglasses, bluejeans - the rules are endless and the whole process takes
hours. Staff of the prison treats you rudely, disdainfully, as if you are
an irritation or inconvenience to their day. Seems like the prison system
wants to make it miserable for loved ones to visit, but thats another whole
topic...</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Any how I made my way
into the ugly, grade school smelling visiting room and found a small vinyl
covered table with two orange plastic chairs near the guards stand. Having
never even seen a picture of Dick I had no idea what I may be in for...my
imagination was churning out all kinds of madness as to what kind of scary
monster may come out and want my attention. A few moments later I got my
surprising answer.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Through the inmate
entrance, in walked a good looking, shaved head, blue eyed - 30 year old bad
boy. I was instantly taken with his looks. His sense of humor, and his
manly gift of gab soon sucked me in totally. Dick had it all! Well, exept for
being locked up for assalt that is....yeah, good thinking on my part huh?</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The visit was over far
too fast, Our mutual concern, Vinnie, that had brought us together in these
strange surrounds, was now long forgotten. Pledging to write and keep in
contact, I drove the five hours home in a new crush daze, all giddy with gooey,
girlie feelings.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Fast forward through the
next 2 years. Falling head over heels, sick with it, crazy kind of love.
Driving 500 miles every single weekend to visit. Paying phone bills in the
hundreds of dollars for collect calls, sending money in for his use, whatever I
could do to bring him a bit of happiness I was all too willing to do. Frankly I
just couldn't do enough for Dick. You ladies know that feeling. Nothing else
like it in the world. Curious thing about dating a man in prison. It's almost
old fashioned, really wholesome. Kissing is only allowed at the start and end
of the visit. All you can do is hold hands. Unless you want to play a beat up
old board game or read a bible, all you can do is talk, eat and entertain each
other. Therefore you must really dig that persons company or you wouldn't
bother to endure these limitations week in week out.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">After 2 years of my
crazy devotion my Dick was getting close to release and parole. In order
for him to be allowed to live in my home we would have to get married. Gee wiz,
he wasn't going to have to twist my arm! I was all for it. Shit, half the time
we sat in that visiting room we would talk about what we would do when he was
released. Getting married, with him paroling straight home with me was a dream
come true! The wedding date was set, just 2 months before his release, the race
was on.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Picture taken on Dick and I's
wedding day. During our divorce Dick Crossed out his own face and our
nameless guest too. He left me and the "best man", my future forth
husband, Russell unscathed by his vicious Sharpie.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Wedding day arrived, my
third time, Dicks' second. Joining us as our guests for our ceremony were a
friend of Dicks' (whose name I cannot remember) and his cell mate , Russell,
who was Dicks' best man. All went as well as you can hope for a prison wedding.
Dick was laughing in a snickering type of way during the actual ceremony, which
I found disconcerting. I figured it was nerves and carried on.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">We finished the
formalities of vows, my new husband kissed his bride, and the four of us in the
wedding party sat down to a vending machine wedding banquet. As I set frozen
burritos and grab bags of chips in front of the guys I realized that the best
man, Russell had not uttered a word to me nor had he even made direct eye
contact . Puzzled by his manor, I started to make an effort to include him in
the conversation the rest of us were carrying on. My best jokes and kidding
went by him with barely a nod of recognition. Hour after hour he picked at his
food and just listened with an intent gaze. Finally, after 5 hours had past,
with just a couple hours of visiting time left, Russell started talking and
didn't stop. Like a dam broke, just spilling non stop paragraphs of his
thoughts on every topic of conversation that had previously been discussed.
Young Russell had quite the brain in him too. Well read, a good
conversationalist on many topics. Unlike many convicts, his launguage was not
peppered with "fuck, "shit" and "asshole" in every
sentence.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Sitting back in my hard
plastic chair, I took this man in. Boy he would make a nice catch for some
young lady in a few years. 25, reddish blonde hair, well over 6 feet tall,
smoking hot body. A blue eyed devil with a brain. I know, how scandalous am I
for taking his "mating inventory" while just marring his home boy
earlier that day! For some damn reason I couldn't help myself....strange....</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Let's jump in our time
machine again, fast forward about ten days after Dick was released from prison.
To put it mildly, the bloom was off the rose. Shriveled and dropped in record
time, and with my heart crushed as it had never been before. Dick didn't
waste any time before he threw me down 2 flights of stairs (for not having sour
cream for his dinner), broke my front tooth, strangled me to unconscious,
crashed up my new truck, cheated on me, (giving me a nasty infection that
required expensive and painful medical treatment - the fun just didn't stop!</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Time to cash in my chips
real early. I can take a lot of things, but physical violence, cheating and
lying can never be tolerated. I disentangled myself as quickly as I could
get rid of him. All the while getting fingers wagged in my face by so called
friends who had advised against marrying a man in prison. Each day my heart
seemed to be smashing all over the dirty ground over and over. How could a
smart and savvy chick like me get sucked down by a vortex of human garbage like
Dick? Devastated doesn't cover what I was feeling. Never did this types of pain
strike me before. Gut wrenching emotional agony of being used - treated like a
mens room urinal. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Russell and I having our first
visit after kicking Dick to the curb.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Now on to the good part,
Russell and I figure "us" out.</span></u></b><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I wanted the divorce
from Dick yesterday, if you know what I mean. Lucky I still had my Nevada proof
of residence AND Mr Dick got himself locked up again for clocking his new
girlfriend in her chops, so he wasn't around to fight me on the legal stuff.
Two weeks after filing, and giving Dick a car, some money, etc I was free! I
love Nevada' s quick divorce. Relief was instant, some hurt still breaking my
heart - mourning the relationship I thought I had. Never one to just stay
single I said to myself "fuck it though, time to get back on the horse, or
at least take a look at what was in the stable."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Shortly after the ink
was dry on the divorce decree I started dating a good guy. For over a year I
had a nice, easygoing relationship with this MUCH younger man, I snatched him
up at 19, celebrating his 21st birthday in Las Vegas with Corey and his new girlfriend
Amber joining us. Alas, the age difference plus not having much in common
brought the match to an expected conclusion. Both of us did get good things
from each other. I received much needed kind and sweet attention in an honest
manner. He got a a cool, older girlfriend who taught him all kinds of
"skills" he had not possessed. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Before the divorce from
Dick was happening I had written to Russell, best man in Dick and I's
wedding ceremony. Dick himself had suggested I might even go visit
Russell. You see, Russell had been locked up since age 18, and was 25 at the
time of the wedding. Most of his friends had drifted away over the years,
the only visitors he still received was his family. Being that I
had liked Russell, and thought him attractive on all levels I happily agreed.
Through our "Dick Sanctioned" correspondence we had become
friends, and he was kept up to date with the awful bullshit that Dick was
subjecting me to. Although, at that point in time, Russell was not sure if I was
really being mistreated by Dick, or if I was putting way too much mustard on
the dog. He had lived with and been close to Dick for 2 years and was still
getting to know me.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">After a couple of visits
Russell was having more faith in my version of the terrible tales I was
telling him. Some of Dick and Russell's mutual friends had backed up my version
of events. Russell was disgusted with the sickening behavior in Dick,
including the violence I was put through. I could tell I was starting to
have cautious feeling for Russell, the same brand of twinges I had for
Dick were coming around, even more intense. The last thing I wanted was another
boyfriend in prison. Holy Hell, WTF am I thinking!!??!! What am I thinking
WITH??!! Am I damaged goods, suffering from some wacky disorder that
makes me attracted to males in state issued periwinkle blues !?! Alas, it all
comes down to rolling the dice or playing it safe, walking away. I decided to
throw them bones and see what may come of my feelings for Russell.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Mr. Russell seemed like
he wanted to bite my bait, yet misguided moral loyalty was holding
him back. You see, even though Dick had done horrble things to me, Russell
still felt some loyalty to Dick. They had been cellies for over 2 years, and
had each others backs through the crazy prison life. At that point,
in Russells' mind I was still viewed as Dicks' Wife. He thought maybe
there was the slight chance I may work it out with Dick. To add to Russells'
concern, Dick wrote Russell a scathing letter, accusing Russell and I of having
an emotional affair behind Dicks' back. This sealed the deal for Russell,
that now was not good timing to snatch me up as his "Old Lady." So
what does this Alpha Male, tough guy do to say goodbye - to make me kick
rocks??? He has his mom call me and say "Russell doesn't want you to visit
or write for the time being."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">To say I was gobsmacked
is a understatement! I could have sworn we were both "feeling it",
that I had proven to Russell my stories about Dick were all true AND I was
divorced and staying clear of Dick and his drama. But in Russell's mind I
wasn't what he wanted, needed, or felt ok about being in his life. Sheesh, talk
about making my self esteem take a dump on my pride! That was a big slap in the
face.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Jump ahead one year.
Kathleen is still thinking about Russell, but dating and getting serious
with a plummer named K.C. Super attractive, good natured and easy going -
a local who I met as a client in Lucky 7. After 5 or 6 months, The plummer
and I start to talk about maybe getting married, building a life together.
Sounded ok, and SAFE. Yet my feelings for the plummer were not what they
should've be. Close friends had concern about my choice of lover,
saying " Don't get serious, you will eat him alive. He is too passive
for you in the long haul of life." And darn it all to hell, my safe bet of
a life partner was a bit of a pushover, and not quite as "alpha"as I
am. The Gods know that me hen pecking K.C. for a lifetime was not healthy for
either of us. Yet I still hung in there, enjoying being around him.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Well who decided to pop
back into my orbit with a well timed greating card? Russell, my uber alpha
male. Locked away in California State Prison at Soledad. He let me
know he would be paroling in 6 months time, and upon release, moving to Montana
to live with his maternal grandfather. He wanted to have some visits, letters,
and catch up before release. Me being the "Patron Saint of Prisoners' and
digging his scene I jumped right on board to being in his life again.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Again, the swirl of
emotions came forth right away and hit me hard. This man was everything I had
asked my gods and godesses for, just in prison doing time. Darn it!
Why hadn't I included 'not locked up" in those prayers and spells?
Sheesh....</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Russell was letting it
be known he was falling for me too, free and clear of stepping on Dicks' toes.
(Dick had been out being A DICK, and caught himself a new 2 years term in
prison.) We made plans for me to pick Russell up on the morning of his release.
The game plan was to hit a hotel for a little beer and nooky, then
for us to drive to San Bernardino to visit his family before flying
to Montana to begin his new life. Once again I rushed about buying him a few
changes of clothing, a cell phone, and booking hotels and an airline ticket.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The morning of his
release came, July 18th 2006. Driving into the prison I was a nervous wreck.
Absessing over the fact we would have just 7 days together before his departure
for Montana. As Russell came out of the prisons gatehouse we both were beaming.
So use to asking guards for permission to go anywhere, he turned to the
guard letting all paroled inmates out and said " Can I just go?"
The guard let out a small laugh and said, 'Yes son, you are free to go."</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">We said our goodbyes to
some of the prison wives who waited at my truck then took off for the
hotel, both of us speachless with excitment, anxiety and thinking about the
naked goodness to come. At the hotel everything went excellent, not
awkward as it had been with Dick. I really enjoyed watching Russell drink his
first Bud Light in 11 years. I have never seen anyone else ever enjoy their
first swallow of beer as much as at that moment. Very cool to share those
first minutes of freedom.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Once we arrived at his
parents home everything was as expected. The usual type of reunion of family.
The next morning we dragged ourselves from the feather bed at Hampton Inn and
went to meet the California Parole officer to finalize Russells'
transfore. To our happy surprise we got some very cool news. Because
of some Montana Parole red tape Russell was not due there for 2 weeks! He
was free to travel with me back to Lake Tahoe! WOW was all I can think!
K.C. was already not too pleased with the situation, now I was bringing
"the situation" back with me for a few weeks! Oh well, fuck it.
Russell was all I was caring about, and I wanted him to see the tattoo shop and
my home before he took off to Montana to swing a hammer and mate with a
cowgirl.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">For the next 2 weeks
life was perfect. We were a wonderful fit, to the point even my ex-husband said
under his breathe " You two are fucking perfect together." I
sure did feel that we were too. Yet I knew he was due to leave, and my heart
was smashing around my chest each time I thought about it. Russell was starting
to drop hints that he too was digging us being together, seeing the life we
would have. The big "BUT" was hanging in the air. He had already made
all the legal arrangments, plus promising his Grandfather he was going out to
try the life of a Montana Mountain Man.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Departure day arrived, I
was so upset I couldn't drive him to the airport. We said our goodbyes and
Amber, Coreys' girlfriend took off with the other half of me. I called K.C. and
made plans to see him later that day, then off to work and mourning the loss of
my alpha partner, Russell.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">7 hours later my phone
rang, Russell calling right after his plane had landed. Delighted, I
picked up and asked "Well, how do you like Montana?" A long pause,
dead air for 5 seconds, then he said " I gave "us' a lot of
thought on the plane, and I hate Montana already because it is keeping us
apart. I know this is over the phone, but will you marry me?" WOW. So I
said "hell yes". Then we started cooking up plans to cancel his transfer
to Montana and bring him home to California.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Two weeks later we were
standing with his family in the San Bernardino County courthouse saying our
vows. For the first time out of four trips to the alter I meant every word I
recited with all my being. My heart was bursting with happiness and well being
of knowing I had a partner who was as down for me as I am for him.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">So that is the story of
my happiness coming along after being beat to smithereens by
another. Finding a man that It seems I custom ordered
from Elysium. We have now been married and worked together for 5
years, longer that any other marriage or relationship I have ever had. Take in
my lesson learned kids. Never lose faith, even after some piece of shit boy or
male drags you through hell and back. If I can find him so can you.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Back seats of cars with
boys...the teen years coming next week, so stay tuned please, and PLEASE click
an ad so this blog keeps going in an upward motion. I welcome e mail comments
from all. ! TA TA Kathleen<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841986739792729011noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7938887023072119954.post-571505137605748012012-12-11T21:49:00.000-08:002012-12-11T21:49:57.040-08:00Part 2 of "Stripping for *#@^ Money in a *#@^ Club."<b><i>*For Sarah B & Vashti W...for always asking "WHEN..?"</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<b><i>Hey hey, I am back with the second part of this blog entry. Undoubtedly you have been on the edge of you seat, waiting for it..if you are late to the party of my checkered past, please read part 1 that was posted right below this entry. Perhaps it will all make more sense.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
Just left my useless boyfriend of the moment- Rich B- at my casa, driving off in my rust bucket of a Subaru wagon-to my first shift of topless dancing at the infamous Pink Pussycat Club......as I got closer to the club my mind is a swirl of "You know you can always turn this car around" or "you ain't got any stripper skills, what are you doing dummy." Tummy doing the twist to the slow hum of " Money money-need money" a considerably louder tune to drown out the other thoughts of steering my little car right around and jamming for home.<br />
<br />
As I pulled on to the pitted asphalt parking lot in the back of the crummy looking Pussycat building, my resolve kicked in full force. No one is going to bail me out of my financial crisis. There isn't family to come to the rescue. You come from a background of adoption, a throw away with no money. To clean things up for a fresh start- dancing is the only job I was going to make quick, fast dollars at. If I let the chicken part of me take over I am going to loose everything that matters to me. Might as well get in there and do what I must.<br />
<br />
I hit the battered back door, holding my little duffel bag of what would have to pass as "dancer costumes." (These little outfits are gleaned from the bottom of my dresser drawers -cheap nighties bought to impress for one night of so so passion, then forgotten about the morning after). Bright sunlight smothers the darkness inside the club. Dust motes dancing in the beams. My eyes squinting, surveying the tattered interior. Crossing the door frame, a silent pep talk creates itself : "everything is going to be okay....." Carry on / Tally-ho!<br />
<br />
Grandma Blondie is all toothy smiles behind the bar when she caught sight of me. "Well look who showed up!" Ugh yeah.....how do I respond to that....? " Yes, yes I am- ready to work." Standing there for a count of three - both of us lost in the awkward moment. Grandma exits the bar and proceeds to a door directly across the room motioning for me to follow.<br />
<br />
Keys appear, knob unlocked and I step forward into what can be best described as a former broom closet. A few beige school lockers leaned forward from the back wall. Enormous cracked mirror with smudged lipstick tacked to crumbling drywall. A few metal folding chairs and a faint scent of cloying perfume mingled with hints of desperation assault my nose.<br />
<br />
"Another few girls will show up soon, they'll explain all the rules and such." Nodding my head in silent agreement, Granny exits the closet. My behind falls into a chair, feel like crying and heaving all wrapped up into one. Yippee.<br />
<br />
The door swings open - in walks a vision of trailer beauty! Size 0 skinny, sucked in cheeks accent a head crowned with a frizzy brown mullet - nervous energy of dubious origins seeping out of pores. Vinyl shopping bags crammed full of clothing are dropped carelessly to the shaggy carpet. Her lips part and out croaks "You are who?"<br />
<br />
What an introduction! Whatever...I can out bitch the biggest bitches walking the earth if that's how they want to get down. " HI!!! My name is KATHLEEN, and YOURS?" I half scream out, all fake nice. She gets my no bullshit vibe right quick and introduces herself by her stage name, Sasha. Shit, a stage name! I had forgotten about that!<br />
<br />
Sasha / 'Miss Trailer Park" perches herself in front of the mirror, dumping the contents of her dirty make up bag into a tiny heap, while kicking her " bum luggage" into the corner. I awkwardly sit in the shitty chair, trying to will this broad to open her mouth and tell me what the fuck to expect. Sadly, my mental commands are ignored-so I am forced to ask...<br />
<br />
" So Sasha, can you tell me how things operate?<br />
<br />
Miss Trailer Park continues to rub way too much blush on bony cheeks as these nuggets fall forth:<br />
<br />
"Well, you gotta dance to 3 songs in a row. Keep your titties covered until the middle of song three. Ask the guys to give ya change for the jukebox. They don't pay, you don't get to dance. Hustle for drinks, club charge the guys $12. You get $2 bucks for every drink they buy you. Always order rum and coke. Of course you ain't gonna get no booze in it. Bartenders put a shot of water and coke in a tall glass, marking it with 2 straws so the guys don't get it served to them by mistake."<br />
<br />
As I absorb this lecture, Miss Trailer Park starts to apply sky blue eye shadow to her droopy lids, then continues:<br />
<br />
"Table dances are $40, club gets $25-you get $15. Booth dances are $60-you get $20. Two songs only, don't let them try to hold ya in there. They can get pretty grab ass in that booth." A little pause as Miss T.P. applies here dark berry lip stick, then she wraps up the speech with "Don't be showing no pussy, it makes the rest of us look bad." God forbid I make any other dancer look bad! I just nod, then start to get dressed.<br />
<br />
Miss T.P. and I hit the door, making our way out to the dimly lit bar. Grandma Blondie hands us each a dollar to start up the jukebox. I amble over the selections available. Lots of KISS, Bon Jovi and hair metal. Ugh, well at least there was a bit of David Bowie. Standing back, Miss T.P. made here memorized selections, then walked up the steps to the stage.<br />
<br />
Some forgettable rock song distorts its way through ancient, dusty speakers mounted above the stage. Miss T.P. drops her overstuffed red "pleather" clutch to the floor and saunters her skinny ass up to the ONE customer along the stage rail. Clasping her hands on poles stationed to each side of her, this withered desert flower begins to lean over, moving slowly and begins talking in a little girl voice to the man. I lean back against the jukebox and think about the whole scene. Jesus, what a sad, shitty scene I have gotten myself into.<br />
<br />
I wander over to the tiny bar " Are Sasha and I the only dancers working tonight?" Grandma gives me a crooked smile "yep, you ladies are it." I walk back to the stage area numbed by this bit of news. What the hell happens when it gets busy in here, and there is only 2 broads showing their goods? Two sets of tits aint a whole lotta tits for a tittie bar!<br />
<br />
Miss Trailer Park finishes here daring set of rocking back and forth for one strange dude, ambles off the stage as I enter in my tunes. Well, I guess luck is working for me right about now. Only have one fella in the bar to make my stripper debut in front of. I drop my little purse to the floor and hit the stage. Finding the wood very waxy and slick I carefully make my way to the middle ask Bowies' "REBEL, REBEL" begins warbling through the speakers above.<br />
<br />
As I start my white girl shimmy, the pudgy, greasy middle aged male, who's spare tire / muffin top is pushing its way up on the tight waste band of corduroy shorts 3 sizes too small - waves me over. I must be doing a pretty good job is he already wants me to come grab a dollar! I do my best "sexy time" stroll over to the stage edge. I grab the poles as I had seen Miss T.P. do, and lean over to say hello. A stubby, half hard penis is poking its way out of the mans shorts to greet me.....ugh, yuck....<br />
<br />
Several moments pass as I can't help but stare at the penis-sadly my smart ass mouth was on mute due to the absolute shock of seeing a unimpressive and flaccid dong being tenderly tugged on by this pig. Smiling as he gives his pitiful cock tug after desperate tug, I rise up to a standing position and march my ass right off the stage, as that shit bag never took his eyes off me.<br />
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I bang my way into the dressing room, sit down on a chair as the other staffers gather around to ask me whats wrong. As I explain what the creep did Miss T.P. cuts me off mid sentence with " He does that all the time-don't let it bother you." Grandma nods her head as if to agree and walks straight back out to the bar. All I can do is stare at Miss T.P. with my mouth open in sheer shock. "So this is a common occurrence, to have customers whacking their bags while we dance?" Miss T.P. smiles wide as she hollers "Yep", skipping out the door.<br />
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My first shift and the night does not get any better. Men stagger in, stay for the 2 drink minimum, maybe throw a dollar or two our way, and get the hell out. At no time is there any more than 10 men in the dump at any one time. With only two dancers, weak and very expensive cocktails, why would they? As the evening drags on for a feet aching 12 hours I learn to hate the racket of asking for money to play the jukebox. With hardly any customers, they same guys have to keep reaching in their pockets. Grandma Blonde catches me using my own change to feed the jukebox-but fuck it. I may be a shitty topless dancer in a shit bag grind joint-yet I still have my manners!<br />
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No one wants any table dances. Yet I do observe that Miss T.P. gets a number of fellas to pony up $60 for the booth dances. This so called booth is really a walk in wooden cabinet with a bench on one side, a small shelf on the other. Most importantly it offers just enough privacy to behave badly. And at this moment of my evening I do believe that my fellow dancer is doing bad girl behavior in the little den of naughtiness. The topless silhouette of Miss T.P.-straddling her customer, moving in a rocking motion, can plainly be seen by anyone who glances in the door way. A foil wrapper crumpled on the booths floor catches my eye. Fucking for a $20 bill huh? Real classy. And this bitch had the nerve to tell me not to show any vag! HA!<br />
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At the end of my shift I had managed to cobble a total of $140. Not great money. Yet it was better than nothing. Which is what it felt like I was earning all night. Never has 12 hours passed so slowly on a job. Exhausted, I peel out of my shoes and dress, splitting for home.<br />
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After arriving home, I spilled my guts to the boyfriend. He was as useless as ever. Not a tender or concerned word passed his lips. Just said "glad your home safe", rolled over, slipping back to dreamland. Mulling over the entire night in my head, I just could not see how I could go back. It really was nothing like I had anticipated. When I broke down how much a made per hour, I knew I had to stick with it if I wanted to keep my home. Yeah, the money wasn't great-however it was my first night (I rationalized) so I better just keep with it. In my minds eye I kept the goal of catching up on the house payments. SO......<br />
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For the next 5 months-6 days a week-12 to 14 hours a shift-I dug myself in and become a hustler. If you had money in your pocket I could smell it. Then I was working you to get it in MY pocket. My attention was all yours, for the price of a drink. Either spend or I walk away to the next guy. Shimming up to you I purred in mens ears about the pleasure they would get from paying for a booth dance-but I never quite delivered. Tugging on my pierced nipples, hinting I may go home with you. Then slipping out before you caught on I had left the building. Shameless I became, hating it. Yet I justified my shitty slut behavior with telling myself these guys deserved to be legally robbed. Just for being piece of shit enough to come in to the bar in the first place.<br />
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After those 5 months I was burned out on the place, the hustle, the unhealthy lifestyle-with a good slice of hate for myself. With what I had done to save my home. I bid good bye to the PINK PUSSY CAT, taking a job as a bartender. Leaving that place felt like I was arriving back on earth. As a strip joint is a place unlike any other. XXXXXXXX end....<br />
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Next time kids, I will be unloading my history of mental illness-at the age of 42, finally finding the causes of "why I am the way I am", how I hate my birth mother and why adoption is terrible. CHEERS!<br />
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Kathleen A. Langley - Fortier<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841986739792729011noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7938887023072119954.post-17723148709967615492011-04-29T20:30:00.001-07:002011-12-12T15:47:20.490-08:00Stripping for Shit Money in a Shit Club or "This is NOT what the Strippers On Jenny Jones Described."<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><i><u>So sorry for the lack of writing, but I have been having troubles with ADSENSE at Google. So I stopped writing until I could be assured that I would get my big $14 a month in ad sales on my BLOG OF PAIN! SO, I am back with the wounds of my life on display for you all to enjoy. Thanks for the great emails. I dig hearing from you. So without further wait lagging</u></i></b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I would like to start this entry by saying clearly - first and foremost - this is MY experience as a Topless Dancer in Reno, Nevada in the mid to late 90's. Many young ladies make great livings and may never have dealt with anything like I did. That is YOUR STORY. More power to you for ripping much cash from men where ever you worked. PLEASE DO NOT WRITE ME HATE E MAIL because I am telling my truth. You can easily create your own blog with your damaged life experience. Thanks for your consideration. Now own with my dirt.....</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Have you had that hopeless moment in your life when you couldn't scrape enough change together for a gallon of gas? Had someone move out of your house and burn you for rent, leaving you fumbling to pay the whole amount yourself? Perhaps you just got fed up with your week in week out paycheck and wanted more, QUICK and easy like? I believe every female reading this has had that moment of thinking " Hey, maybe I could strip for a while, just to make a few thousand to pay for _______." Unless you live by a Book of God I believe this thought has passed through your moral compass, most likely receiving a big VETO. Well I am the one who said "Fuck it, I gotta do something."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In 1997 I made the jump from "wanna" be to being the chick teasing dicks for cash. Sex for money without penetration. Doesn't sound so easy, fun and glamorous when I boil it down to what it ends up being, huh?</span><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">"<i>HERE"S THE STORY, OF A CHUNKY LADY, WHO LOST THE LAST OF HER MORALS ON A POLE" Hum along kids.......</i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">1997 was a year of tough endings. First off my marriage to husband number one, Edward Atkins, was coming to an ugly and expected end. We had met 11 years previously when we were both working at a ski area. Together we had shoved each other through a drunken ringer of drama and immaturity. Dating on and off for 7 years, at the ripe old age of 24 I decided I was getting over the hill in the pursuit of a lifetime partner (AHAHAHAHAHAHAH), so Ed and I had the white wedding with family, set up house together with me issuing a check mark next to "MARRIED" on my life's list of things to do.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">After 4 years of me complaining and Edward ignoring me I cheated with an ex boyfriend, took off to Mexico for a month and left Ed holding down our business, a record store. He was sick of me, I was sick of me so we parted ways. Me keeping the house with large mortgage, the nearly bankrupt record store and my dogs. Him with a dog, 5k one time lump sum payment, a promise of alimony and everything else we had owned together. Oh yeah, and his dignity. Me, not so much in the self respect and dignity department.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Not one to waste time reflecting on what the hell I had just done to fail in my last relationship, I latched on to the ex-boyfriend I had cheated on Edward with (he was way too needy and not so desirable when I was actually free to date him.) Up next, in no particular order were a general contractor, a bartender, another bartender and a guy who just chuckled with a wiry twisted grin when I inquired as to what he did for a living. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As a way to help some youngster musicians who I knew from my record store, my empty garage was turned into a practice space for local bands I booked to perform at downtown bars. Of course one of the many benefits of having younger bands around is they graciously brought booze and more boys. Most nights the guys paraded in front of me were too young and dumb. Then I met Rich B. Deceivingly young looking for his 35 years, he could pass for at least a decade younger. Nice build, had some brains still rolling around his THC soaked skull, and he made me laugh. No baby momma, no psycho ex wives and no job. Me being super smart with fantastic decision making skills I moved Rich right in to my house after 2 weeks of "dating." Those few rendezvous included drinking at bars with extensive micro brews on tap, purchasing booze to suck down all night at home in the hot tub and watching badly overdubbed Bruce Lee movies.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As my new relationship blossomed my record store was tanking. A slow slide had been going on for 2 years. Some of it being me blowing my very low profit margin on video poker, Bud Light and my ex husbands race car hobby. In addition to my "issues" the local mountain community was buying their music in Reno to save a dollar or two. The purchase price of a compact disc at Target was less than I could buy it for wholesale. A great loss leader for these big stores, it brought people in. For us little mom and pop music stores it helped kill us all. I held on as long as possible. Even tried a different location, performing piercings and selling smoking accessories. Still it just wasn't enough to warrant keeping the doors open. With a complete feeling of failure and shame I closed the doors in May of 1997.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Money wasn't a problem for the next 3 months. I was flush from liquidating the fixtures and inventory. Then a temp job piercing in Sacramento fell in my lap that would last all summer for the guy who had taught me to pierce. Mind you, the commute was a bitch each day, but the money was very good. An extra bonus was not having to face any of the locals asking me "what happened to your record store?" Each time some well meaning townie asked me this I wanted to open their throat with my teeth! What the fuck do you think happened! It was a blessing to get the hell off the mountain each day for 12 hours.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">By Autumn my temp job had ended, the bucks from my failed business had been spent and "surprise" Rich wasn't trying to make any money except using his so called green thumb "mad skills" growing pot. Smoking most of his yield meant no money for bills, and let me tell you, he never saw a nice bud that he couldn't dry out and smoke. This he did constantly, providing zero currency towards household bills, but ah shucks, he sure was happy and hungry all the time.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Behind on my mortgage by a month desperation started to take hold. Outright fear evolved when I had no money to fill my propane tank. No fuel equates to no hot water or heat as the days got cool. Bad breeding by my birth parents means I am cursed with straight and fine white girl hair. One day without shampooing makes me look like a crack whore during a busy night on her back. Just does not sound appealing, does it? Spending my evenings drinking, hanging out with the band boys was not an option any longer. Back to work I must go......</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Record store clerk was not going to pay the note on the house, let alone gas, insurance, groceries and life's necessities, therefore I wouldn't bother with those applications. Bar tending locally was okay money. Facing all the questions about my store closing was not a situation I could put myself in to. Swallow my pride while taking dollar tips for cans of Coors? No can do.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As the days passed my monetary situation wasn't improving. The Gods had yet to shower me with money out of nowhere. Prayers were somehow going unanswered. For some damn reason my whole mess wasn't going to fix itself. Getting more and more anxiety ridden, stripping started to enter my mind. Taking baby steps around my thought track. Contemplating the idea of "it" for a moment or two, then stopping quickly - seemingly out of breath at the shock of it. My gut dismissing it as not for me. With reasons like: no dance training, too chubby at the moment, what would people say, whatever. Off to other ideas for a few hours, then once again stripping would come back around for another trip flying through my mind. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Ethics and morals acted as a little church choir in my head. Chanting a soft hymn of "good girls do not lower themselves to these types of perversion for income." Clearly hearing this I would say "There is no way I can do something like stripping." Talking myself out of making the first inquiry was easy with the church choir singing sweetly in my mind. However, as my desperation became panic, morals became something I could no longer afford to have. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Trying to recall what little knowledge I had regarding the business of stripping, brainstorming a list was in order. Formed on binder paper, willing my beer violated mind to summon forth what I had heard on various daytime t.v. programs. Information was freely given by the many balloon busted, teased haired broads I had wasted countless hours watching weekly. Bad t.v. talk shows in the late 80's and early 90's were in their own class of ridiculous not matched in this millennium. Ricki Lake, Susan Powter, Geraldo, Phil Donahue, every one of the dozen talk shows on during that period always had stripper centered show on every month or so. Just like devil worship and satanic sacrifice was hot topic television in the early to mid 80's, topless dancers and strippers were the next sure fire attention grabber for these daytime shows. Before I had to get up and head off to work each day, many of my free hours were wasted on this adult pablum. Completely fascinated by these woman and how much money they claimed to make. Like taking candy from a baby they claimed. Thousands a night, just for dancing! Shit, sign me up!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Rich didn't seem to care what I did, so long as he wasn't going to have to look for a job. With his vote of confidence and half a tank of gas I rambled in my 20 year old Subaru down the mountain towards Reno. A phone book open to the yellow page listings of Gentleman's Clubs, I had decided to aim high and hit the best one first, Fantasy Girls.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Arriving in late afternoon, the parking lot was almost empty, having a few beat up Honda type economy cars and half a dozen work trucks parked near the small entrance. Sitting in my car, I was naturally having second thoughts. Stomach churning and full of anxiety, I swung the car door open - getting out before I turned around and left. Silently giving myself a pep talk of "You can do it girlie" I walked through the door.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Inside was as dark as a cave, the usual set up of neon, tables, stage, bar and such. Bad pop rock music blaring overhead. Walking to the bar the taste of bile started to rise in my throat. Fuck am I nervous! Standing next to the bar, shaking slightly, a skinny dancer approached and asked if I was a new girl. Telling her no, but I was looking to become one, she lead me through the back of the club to a plain office door. Knocking hard, then pushing the door slightly open, skinny dancer gently nudged me inside, then closed the door behind me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The manager was a good looking younger cat with dark brown hair, dressed in casual business attire. His energy was good, so I relaxed just a bit. I sat in the chair he offered and let out a tiny sigh that I know he heard. Embarrassed that he heard my exhale, my eyes fell to my feet for a moment. Then I was asked quite a massive list of questions about my qualifications: 1. "Have I ever danced in a club before?" "No sir, not yet." and number 2. "Do you have any tattoos?" " Yes sir, tons of them."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Mr Manager then rushed through a speech he must have given many times before. There was no way he could hire me if I had a lot of tattoos. Explaining that he ran a more upscale club, and the patrons expected good looking, classy types as topless entertainers. Tattoos, no matter how well done, were considered trashy. Thank you very much, have a nice day. shall I have one of the girls show you out?</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Geez, this isn't a good sign. Seems that there was very few requirements for this profession, but golly gee, tattoos were going to knock me out of the running before I got the chance to embarrass my damn self and fall down on the shitty stage! Could I try and cover up all my ink with make up? How the hell could I put liquid foundation over my entire back? This was the one time my mother was right! Tattoos were ruining my chance to get a job I wanted. Hate it when she is right!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Across the seedy street from Fantasy Girls was a less desirable club named "The Spice House." Many times I had been inside this place when it had been a punk rock club. Thinking about the interior layout of the joint, I couldn't imagine how the new owner had managed to turn the space into a strip club. Upon entering I realized the new owner hadn't done much, just added a terrible looking plywood runway 4 feet tall - jutting out from the center of the old stage. Painted a glossy black, already chipped to hell from cheap stiletto heels - the stage, hell the whole damn place, looked crappy enough to hire a tattooed dancer with no experience! Boy was I wrong.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A 5 months pregnant dancer (yes it was obvious) came from behind the tattered velvet curtain, took me to the dancers dressing room, and gave me the lowdown. Management needed dancers badly (that is why this dancer was still moving and grooving all knocked up) yet management wanted only "clean" girls. The future baby momma dancer was not talking about hygiene, it was her special way to tell me " no dope and no ink." Once again my dreams had been crumbled. After letting this future welfare mother know I had a great deal of tattoos I could see she was as disappointed as I was ( maybe she was hoping she wouldn't have to dance as much if I started to work there?) , she gave me a tip as I started to walk out. "Try the Pink Pussycat over on Wells Avenue. They take anyone."</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Shall I mention that the way this cum dumpster chose to form her parting advice made me feel like the ugliest chick that ever walked the earth? I yearned to slap her fat face! But broke bitches like myself cannot be picky on how they "receive" what they so greatly need. Much as I didn't care for delivery, I needed the lead. So I smiled and said thanks through clenched teeth, making my way outside.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Inside my junk car I considered the tip. Many times I had passed this so called "club" while driving here or there. It looked like any old bar. Made of cinder blocks with a dull tan paint job and half burned out neon signs - I had always given it a "what a shit hole" casual thought then disregarded the place. Now it seemed I had to reconsider what I was willing to deal with to make the money I so desperately needed.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Pulling in to the small rear parking lot of the Pink Pussycat I thought about hanging up this idea of stripping. Talking myself out of it would be easy enough. Having already faced rejection twice, my tattoos keeping me from my goal, heading home would be so easy. Money, needing it so very much, kept me from my easy out. Having my house facing foreclosure kept me walking into that dump on that afternoon. No way was I going to hand my home to the fucking bank. So in the scratched, black painted glass door I went.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Dark as a teenage goths bedroom I had to give my eyes a good 5 seconds to adjust. The entryway went one direction, left to a small wooden bar lined with 6 old vinyl bar stools. I half ran up to the 50-ish blond behind the bar and quickly asked "You hiring dancers?" She grinned and said "Always." Well this is good news!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As "Grandma Blondie" explained how things worked I pretended to listen, yet my eyes roamed around this bar and I couldn't believe what I was taking in. This place looked like the "Titty Bar Time Forgot." Painted an old school crushed velvet red, with black lights thoughtfully placed in no particular fashion. A few small wood laminate tables you should find in an Oklahoma diner. A small "L" shaped stage in the far corner with a jukebox next to the stairs to get on it. A few beat up chairs along the tip rail. WOW, heaven on earth! Oh well, I guess it will do..</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So Grandma Blondie explained she wanted me "to go to the Wal Mart and buy yourself some t-bar panties (WTF?!), a short satin like robe and show up tomorrow at 4pm." Then I replied "Okay, I can do that, but can I stay and watch the girls work for a few minutes and see how things work?" Grandma Blondie rolled her eyes to the heavens and thought to herself for a moment and then replied "Okay honey, but for just the time it takes to finish a draft beer. It makes it harder for the girls to make money on stage if a pretty girl is standing by her lonesome at the bar." Seems logical.....I guess.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A few moments later my eyes were filled with purple, head to toe cheap lingerie in a hue that hurt to look at. Inside all that Target finery was a plump young lady, straight mud brown hair to her shoulder blades, looking at the carpet as she gripped her purple Le Sport Sac purse and made her way to the stage. I was on the edge of my bar stool with wonder and curiosity!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Music suddenly filed the small space, some shitty KISS song called "Lets Put The X in Sex", and "Purple People Eater" stepped onto the tip rail. PPE gripped two dancer poles - keeping herself between them and slowly rocked to and fro looking at the floor with her hair covering her face. All I could think was "Whoa!" The next 3 minutes dragged painfully slow as PPE just kept up the same move, but to her credit she kept the beat. When the song stopped she stayed in place waiting for her next tune. I downed my beer, said my goodbye to Grandma Blondie and made my way out.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">On my way back up the mountain towards home I reflected on what the hell I had just bear witness to. Maybe this girl was drunk? Perhaps she was mentally challenged? Had some type of dancer sprain and needed to take it easy? Most likely she just didn't care or have to do any more than her sorry little sidestep to make her dollars. Shit, I was going to look like Ginger Rogers of the topless world if all I had to work with is this level of dancer! Big money will be coming my way tomorrow night if this PPE is making a living doing nothing on stage!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I gathered my so called "T-bars", packed all the sexy type of clothing I owned (which didn't amount to much) and filled my flask with some $6.99 a quart of Rom Rico rum. Feeling ready to take on my new career in entertainment I got into bed with my bum of a boyfriend and tossed and turned all night with worry and "what ifs ?" Rich was of no help, no comforting words, seeming to be just pleased that money was going to be coming in again, no matter the way. What a guy!</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The next morning and early afternoon went by at a pace that mirrored a Catholic wedding. Looking at the oven clock constantly I seemed to be crawling out of my smoothly shaved skin! By 3 pm I grabbed my bag and hit the road, Rich waving goodbye from the deck with bloodshot eyes and a shit eating grin across his face. An evening of pot smoking, snacking and martial art movies ahead of him. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b><i><u>Because this story is wayyyy long, part 2 will be coming at you in 1 weeks time! Hang in there, it gets worse....hahahahahahahah Kathleen</u></i></b></span><br />
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</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841986739792729011noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7938887023072119954.post-18449494411004546332011-04-28T16:02:00.000-07:002011-04-28T16:02:42.968-07:00Trading with Boys / Sex = Comfort and Attention<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fiC97HLdpuZVUCAnarMvB1rpWTvkWXuQmufZjczIygjz6Xvxu1LqOmk_qYeTgqYh4JuOjJrEQnp6YGLBKi2U7ZzNwDFzgZJCCKz6KsmsZII-Ko21FdTe3kSN7o77TiSuZanSGU4Ratgd/s1600/Kathleen+1st+grade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fiC97HLdpuZVUCAnarMvB1rpWTvkWXuQmufZjczIygjz6Xvxu1LqOmk_qYeTgqYh4JuOjJrEQnp6YGLBKi2U7ZzNwDFzgZJCCKz6KsmsZII-Ko21FdTe3kSN7o77TiSuZanSGU4Ratgd/s320/Kathleen+1st+grade.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><br />
(Me at age 5, kindergarden school picture day. I hated this "pixie" haircut. My adoptive mother thought it was "so cute and stylish." Daily I cried when strangers would remark on what a cute little boy I was. It does prove that at one time I was just a sweet, innocent soul.)<br />
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<br />
In 1973 my adoptive mother went in to the hospital for some "womans"surgery. At age 5 this was super scary. My adoptive father was never too hands on with me, only with my brother Ken - their natural child - who is 8 years older than I am.<br />
<br />
The second night my mother was gone, Ken - my so called brother - came into my room, sat on the little bed where I was already tucked in, and announced the following statement: " Did you know that mom and dad found you floating in a toliet and decided to keep you?" Already a jumble of "missing my mommy nerves" I asked him to explain this awful news. He went on to explain. "Well, your adopted. That means you had another mommy and daddy, but they didn't want to keep you, too ugly I guess. They flushed you down their toilet and MY mom and Dad decided to fish you out and keep you."<br />
<br />
Instantly I was bellowing for my mommy, not believing these terrible lies Ken was spewing. Screaming, wailing and heartsick, Ken grinned ear to ear, enjoying my misery. After a minute my father came in, doing his best to awkwardly try to comfort me, asking Ken "What the hell did you say to her?" Ken, trying to hide his glee said " I told her the truth about being adopted." Ken then scurried from my room as my father slowly turned to me, completely unsure of what to say. Through sobs I asked him if what Ken said was true? My father replied the best way he knew how, saying softly "yes, you are adopted. But you are super special. We chose you. Your mommy and I wanted a little girl so bad. We found you and decided you were just the little girl we wanted."<br />
Trying to wrap my 5 year old brain around this was quite a challenge. In 1973 I barely knew what adoption was, having known one girl in school who said she was adopted. That her parents had picked her out. Still, the whole concept was very vague to a 5 year old.<br />
<br />
When my mother came home from the hospital she did her best to explain, using the same type of language my father had used. About them wanting me, I was special, picking me out, etc. What was on my mind was "why had my real mommy and daddy given me away?" To this my adoptive parents had no answer. Just that maybe they couldn't keep me because they were young...not knowing the truth themselves. None of the reasons they could come up with made me feel any better. Suddenly I was saddled with a lot of unknowns I was not ready to accept or understand. My 5 years old brain just decided I must not be worth much to my real family if they just gave me away. The "adoptive" brother must not like me if he wanted to hurt me so much. That my adoptive parents couldn't love me as much as their birth child Ken. A hole opened in my heart and the start of a shell grew around the rest of me instantly. One that lasts until this day. Now that you have the backstory, let us move on to the boys.<br />
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In grammer school most of the girls in my "Click" were "going steady." This entailed the boy asking you to go steady with him, then giving you his colored glass St. Christopher necklace. Other students could tell who you were going steady with by the color of the glass on the front of the medle. These relationships usually lasted a number of weeks. Then a form of "boyfriend Twister" would take place as everyone switched up who they were going steady with. All the drama you could expect from a 5th grade soap opera! <br />
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By junior high the stakes were greater. Who you went steady with made a major difference as to what girl click you became a member of. Grammer school click placement had no bering on junior high worthiness. The better, most desirable pimple faced little bastards of "good" breeding only wanted the Farrah Fawcitt wanna bes, pale skin, blued eyed, b cups with skin tight Calvin Klein jeans. Once I arrived at my new school I was no longer 'top click" material. I did my best to try and buy the right preppy clothes that my parents couldn't afford, to feather my hair like every other girl, all to no avail. I was dropped quickly from my old group of friends, for what seemed to be nothing more than my olive skin, shyness and adoptive family background. That HURT. Daily I found myself in the school nurse office, feigning ailments so I could go home. What little self worth I possesed in grade school now completely gone.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSdNdYIVUSgj5KqEzK_xQlzdVUBmMfADD9_04Pw5AiJYniFfq8lE9ghCTiqnyzceg_O5Ef3Y7ZjrshvN2AKbzzoiXHcOrTOVpXk47CMRUHSU1vmAeANiUbL5dzYxM-Kd5-ZMpVL85qzk3q/s1600/7th+grade+Farrah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSdNdYIVUSgj5KqEzK_xQlzdVUBmMfADD9_04Pw5AiJYniFfq8lE9ghCTiqnyzceg_O5Ef3Y7ZjrshvN2AKbzzoiXHcOrTOVpXk47CMRUHSU1vmAeANiUbL5dzYxM-Kd5-ZMpVL85qzk3q/s320/7th+grade+Farrah.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">7th grade, trying to look like everyone else, with little luck. So awkward, so shiny skinned and very unhappy.</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>After about a month of drifting, hiding and leaving the closed campus the one crowd that I managed to find a spot in was the misfit stoners. As long as you "partied", smoked cigarettes during free time between classes and acted tough you could be warped into their universe. Being that I didn't rank with any other groups, and I had no self worth at this point, being a stoner / party kid was good enough for me. I was grateful I just had a place to go during lunch!<br />
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Very few young females of John F Kennedy Jr High wanted to be labeled a bad girl. Hell, at first I didn't even want it! But with self esteem in short supply plus not feeling a part of my family or previous group of girlfriends this seemed like the best fit. Including myself there was 4 of us. For each one of us girls there was at least 3 greasy boys in hard rock t shirts, dirty bell bottom jeans with a large plastic comb hanging out of the back pocket and hiking boots. None of them would have been considered good looking. Or even be gifted with any skills outside or rolling joints or pilfering booze from Thrifty Drugs.<br />
<br />
Scott M was the 8th grader who I set my sights on. In my eyes he was the best choice for boyfriend material for one reason only. The other girls hadn't smeared their signature Bonnie Bell lip gloss all over him. Too tall for his young age, bone thin with a big blonde stoner fro. He lived with his wanna be biker dad in a house that hadn't scene a female touch in many moons. Mom was long gone, and didn't seemed to be missed.<br />
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The courtship was pretty lackluster. Sitting in the designated stoner area named CHINA GROVE, Scott would light my cigarettes and tell dirty jokes I never understood. Between classes we would search each other out to complain about the next class. After school we would sit at a park and do more of the same. Night time meant a few phone calls with lots of dead air as I struggled to find a topic. Scott didn't seem to care about holding up his end of it. So there I would hang, asking exciting questions like "what did you have for dinner?"<br />
<br />
After about a week Scott started putting the moves on me. Going in for a peck between classes. Sloppy tongue kisses wet with spittle when saying goodbye for the day. AND when we would find ourselves at a friends house with parents at work hands starting roaming. I never said no, hitting certain "bases" was expected in this group of kids. Yet none of the physical "affections" of Scott ever made me swoon with delight, or even made me feel very good. It always felt like I was putting up with his touch, never enjoying it. I just wanted it over with.<br />
<br />
Why did I even allow him to touch me? 13 year old Kathleen let Scott touch her because that is what her friends did with their boyfriends. Jr High Kathleen wanted someone to show her she was wanted, and at that point it didn't really matter how he showed it. Funny thing really. Even though I thought I wanted Scott to show me how much he liked me, when it came down to the actual physical acts, I wasn't ready and I should have stopped. Yet like the mixed up little girl I was, I just kept going. Happy to trade my body for some attention from this icky boy. Just to belong to someone, anyone. To fit in with the others.<br />
<br />
After about 3 months of "dating"- Scott and I broke up. The reason long forgotten, however I do remember feeling rejected. That was the emotion that was painful. I was still a part of the group, and I never was really caught up in a pure and true emotion of digging this boy. Yet having someone no longer a daily part of my life was a loss I couldn't put into words. Girls of the group sat with me as I faked a sadness I didn't feel and we picked my breakup apart. Smoking cigarettes one after another and talking about how much fun I would have now that I was single. But I wouldn't be single long........<br />
<br />
The next school year I met Steve P. He was new to the school, having just moved from his mothers home to his dads. One of the other girls named Becky had tried to use her slutty persona to lure him in, never the less this boy didn't seem to want what so many had already had. Steve hung around China Grove simply because his younger sister Shelly did No smoking of any kind, beers when he could steal them from his dad and brother - jock vibe mostly. This time around I got some butterfly goodness rolling around in me.Steve was on my mind all day. Constantly he would catch me looking out the side of my sunglasses, smiling at him in all my toothy lameness.<br />
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One morning after much awkward flirting on my part Steve asked me to go have pizza with him after school. Let me tell you, I was sweating and blushing like a fool! Yes flew from my mouth and I rushed to share my good fortune with the other chicks. Giddy with the news I ran up on the group and practically yelled "Guess who has a date with Steve P after school today!!?!!" As the girls looked toward me I could tell by the scowls some one wasn't going to be happy. That person being the previously rejected Becky.<br />
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Now knowing I had violated a rule I had not known was in place, I started to stumble all over my words, half apologizing to Becky, not having a clue as to what to say. Backing up because I knew she was a brawler, and I didn't want to face my very first beat down in front of half the school. Becky proceeded to call me a "white trash hooker bitch" that stole her man and to get the fuck away from her before she socked me up." Being that she already intimidated me daily I sprinted to the nearest girls bathroom and hid in a stall, shaking with anxiety and fear.<br />
<br />
How can this be? Steve should be fair game if he wasn't biting Becky's sex hook by now. Why can't I have him if he likes me? Will the other girls shut me out like Becky has? Should I cancel my date with Steve so I can still have girlfriends? After giving myself some time to calm down, I decided a few things. No one was going to tell me who I could and couldn't go out with. Becky scared me but I knew if I didn't fake some toughness back, Becky would have a power over me I didn't want any female to have. To hell with her and the rest of the girls, I am going out with Steve!<br />
<br />
For the next 9 months I was as happy as I could ever recall being. Steve and I became inseperable after out first date. Either he was at my house or I was at his. Walking hand in hand the 4 blocks between homes, we must have looked like straight fools in love. My mother started to bitch that Steve and I spent too much time with each other. As far as I was concerned, my mother could keep her opinions to her damn self! Never had I been so sick with it...all the emotions I read about in SEVENTEEN magazine were coming true for me. I had my guy, I was sure we belonged together "forever" , all that drag you believe during your first real love relationship. BARF. "Someday we will get married" BARF "He's my soul mate" BARF - you get my drift.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi64pTNSyD-7KwaCkADidt23rRTxr6mGij-FuB6kngygRNn4Ipfiy890OZIks9vaxrgpP0mNieY8YWF6zAX4YSljlbPGNl_WEY7Qa-ncu7VSVmkYfqFm0CwAlMImoUTSCTPkQhezC5q2Jzf/s1600/MyEndless+luv+1982.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi64pTNSyD-7KwaCkADidt23rRTxr6mGij-FuB6kngygRNn4Ipfiy890OZIks9vaxrgpP0mNieY8YWF6zAX4YSljlbPGNl_WEY7Qa-ncu7VSVmkYfqFm0CwAlMImoUTSCTPkQhezC5q2Jzf/s320/MyEndless+luv+1982.jpg" width="230" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Steve and I at Homecoming early my freshman year. Wearing the snazzy white dress was a big stretch for my sinning, hymen-less soul!</td></tr>
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At the start of my freshman year, Steve and I had hit all the heavy petting "base"s. This was accomplished by hooking up at night (after my mandatory family dinners) at various seedy locations like the local bowling alley. Or sneaking out after our parents went to bed. Getting trashed at lame kegger parties somewhere in the woods. Each time I would get a little bit tipsy and go just a bit farther down the sinners trail of lust. Steve never forced himself on me or made me do anything I didn't have the primal urge to do, and with his smooth moves he sure was persuasive. My emotions were absolutely overwhelming as we explored one another. By October, Steve could sense the time had come to hit the home run. My "sick in love" pathetically needy way made me ripe for the picking. Shit I was over ripe!<br />
<br />
The chosen night of my deflowering, Steve's dad and step mother were out getting hammered at their favorite dive. All siblings were gone, and we had his house alone. Prince Charming put some music on and then led me to the water bed. Starting with the usual slow seduction , Steve knew how to get me where he wanted to go. After a few minutes, we both got all worked up, the Levis slowly started to shimmy off. Under the covers I was frightened witless, unsure if this was the right thing to be doing with the right guy at the right time? As questions swirled, my panties slid down one ankle and the moment arrived. Things went quick and somewhat painful from there, with my mind running off and away from the moment. Ultimate male conclusion occurred, while I wondered if this was really all that was to it??? Sure, I felt guilty, and hoped my parents wouldn't find out what nasty sins Steve and I were partaking in. I was sure scared of that info getting out to them or anyone else for that matter! Yet what bugged and bothered me batty was how UNSATISFACTORY this intimate giving of my purity had ended up. No closer or bonded did we seem. Zero pleasure, and I was all slimy to boot!<br />
<br />
Steve parents arrived loudly and very drunk, moments after the deed was done. Being a gentleman, he walked my sore sad ass home (all bowlegged and drippy.) Practically running threw the front door, I was so petrified my mother would look in my eyes and see I had lost my virginity, or wonder why my 501's seemed damp at the croch! Thankfully she herself was smashed and passed out from wine in a box, therefore I could slink away to my bathroom and bed without complication. I pondered what I did and reflected on my growing bad decision making when it came to boys.<br />
<br />
Change came quickly to my steady relationship after "giving it up." For a few days Steve teased me with playful come ons and promises as to what he would do to me next time. But now that I had gone all the way, Steve felt there was no valid excuse to deny him full on sex. Every situation and each time we were kissing or making out, he wanted intercourse, not just the lead up, and the foreplay-which is what I actually enjoyed! Now I felt obligated to give him what he pouted for. This new ritual made me mad, and I played my own pouty little games to get any other type of attention I could get from him that didn't involve my panties coming off my hips.<br />
<br />
A mere 3 weeks later it was plain as day that Steve was pulling away. No longer did he put me first, or even seem to care where I was. My calls didn't get returned as fast. When I asked what he had been up to, his answers became vague, indifference pushing through his expression when actually bothering to meet my eyes. The end was near. Woman's instinct told me this and I was terrified of losing my first love! I felt I was nothing without him! No identity of my own, he was all that mattered in my 14 year old mind! Were we not meant to be? Together forever?!?!<br />
<br />
Steve pulled the plug 1 month after declaring his undying love for me. What cheap currency my virginity was. Yet again I felt alone, worthless and ugly in every way. My days had been all about Steve, my orbit was programmed to his planets! days and evenings - life as a whole was US. Now WHAT???!!!!! Immediately, intensely the stalker in me came rushing to the forefront. Nightly my phone line was busy with me blowing up the phone of anyone who hung out with Steve, begging for information as to if he had mentioned me? Who he had been hanging around, or the worst, most painful question, who was he flirting with? Shortly after starting my detective work I found out Steve had been pursuing a rich sophmore named Mimi.<br />
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News of this cocksucker moving on this fast made my guts twist with pain, sorrow and hate! How could he do this? So this is love? Getting convinced to give up everything about yourself mentally and physically to get shit upon? That sure doesn't seem very fair to me! And I sure let Steve, and his new sweetheart Mimi, know I wasn't too thrilled with this type of treatment!<br />
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Paint jobs on their vehicles were ruined in days. Shit was talked to any and every female on campus as to the inferior cock size of my ex. Loose morals of "girls who flirt with taken guys" was turned in to Mimi being called a whore in the halls. Crank calls sleepily dialed from pay phones at 2 am woke up entire households. Sugar in gas tanks. Graffiti a drunken sailor would blush about was littering restroom walls. Whatever I could think up to disrupt Steve and Mimi's courtship was done with glee!<br />
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However, at the end of the day, I was still alone and hurting. Didn't matter how many pats on the back I got from others. Once the initial high of fucking them over was gone I was still wounded. Hurting them didn't cure my ills. Eventually I got bored and stopped. My pain decided that what I most needed was another guy to take Steve's place. Why work on my personal issues of low self esteem, not liking myself, having no tight friendships based on mutual affection. Getting lost in the rush of a new romance seemed like an easier and much more enjoyable journey.<br />
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The next year was a series of brief relationships that burned hot and fast, yet got smothered under my blanket of neediness. Once these guys would say they dug me, or feigned interest I was all over them. Calling constantly. Showing up at band practices when I was not invited. Buying them gifts they didn't deserve. All too much too quick. These boys would get some pussy, and go on their merry way. Lord knows that after my experience with Steve, I wouldn't even stand back and take an inventory of what I may have done wrong, I just picked out a new target. Not liking myself at all added to me giving up my body to just about every guy I dated. My body, my vagina, turned into a cheap currency that held no value to myself, so why should I bother to say no to these guys? If I got some attention and affection then I guess we both got something we wanted. Sadly I was always the one getting the worst end of our "deal."<br />
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By my junior year I had transfered to a private school for fuck ups called Mid Peninsula. My welcome at my old high school was long worn out, (a topic for a future blog entry) I wanted a new start with new faces. Different kids than the ones I had been around for more than a decade. My general look, demeanor and beliefs had evolved over the previous few years since popping my cherry. Punk rock filed my ears with fast beats and angry lyrics that I fell in love with. This music was my soundtrack! The look of punk fit me too. Never was I fond of, or could afford, the whole early preppy look. Junior high had proven that scene wasn't for me, nor did it want my lower middle class ass! Putting together and affording my punk look was easy, with numerous locations of Salvation Army and St Vincent De Paul - thrift store chic was cheap and fun. My adoptive mother would act like she was going to retch every time I brought home a smelly paper sack of used clothing! Bless her heart though, she would always peg my 'bell bottom 70's finds" into stove pipe skin tight trousers any punk chick would have died for.<br />
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My boyfriend through my Mid Pen Years, Steve Dyson. We are too punk for the camera!</td></tr>
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</span><br />
I loved Mid Pen (as much as I could love any school) when I started. Only 130 students, smoking on campus, calling teachers by their first names, and 6 punks, 3 of them guys! Woo hoo!! The 2 other girl punks I got along with from the git go. The curriculum was more to my tastes, like creative writing and psychology, Subjects that I had an actual interest in. What a concept! School was more than a place to meet guys and plan my next drinking binge.<br />
<br />
Steve Dyson was the guy who won my attention and devotion from day I met him. He went out of his way to make each date fun. Flowers and candy would appear in the front seat of my hatchback Mustang. Plans were made for each weekend with both of us deciding what WE would like to do. Best yet, sex did not have to happen right away. Developing a natural rhythm of dating, no longer did I obsess on my boyfriend 24/7. Female friends were now important to me. Steve was healthy in his dating style, therefore bringing me along and teaching me a healthy way to be together. Life was humming along in a way I dug. So of course I had to ruin it with a slutty and shitty move....<br />
<br />
After being together a year I fucked around on Steve. There is no "reason." that can justify what I did. Steve hadn't treated me poorly. No revenge was intended by my sleazy move. everything was good, not boring. I just acted out in a self destructive manor. Putting a huge hole in my good love life. Just to feel desirable, to feed my own ego.<br />
<br />
Here is what happened. It was a weekday night, an old friend from my previous high school called and asked if I wanted to go to the drive in. Not having to work that night at the record store, and wanting to catch up with her I said yes. On the way, we picked up some beer with my fake i d and started to get buzzed. By the time the sun set and the movie hit the screen I was drunk. Not gross stinking drunk, yet plenty liquored up to let my inhibitions and morals fall to the ground.<br />
<br />
3 guys who knew my friend were also at the drive in. Sauntering up to the car my eyes fixed on one tall, brown haired 19 year old named Greg. Currently he was in the Navy - stationed at Alamada Navel Base, and assigned to an aircraft carrier. He offered me more beers, I drank them fast like I had something to prove about my stamina for alcohol. By the second movie, I was in the backseat of his car, going way too far with someone I just met, not giving two shits that I had a fantastic boyfriend. All I cared about was being desirable to this other stranger. Having sex with this random guy just made me hit another type of high in my body chemistry. Be damn giving my word to Steve D. Getting my sleazy heavy petting on in that car, at that moment, in that drive in, shitting all over my promises, was what I wanted in that moment.<br />
<br />
Waking up the next morning, guilt washed over me like a shit shower. Never had I felt this bad about my behavior. What the hell had I done last night??? All for some instant gratification at the expensive price of degrading myself physically and morally. No answers I had within myself were satisfactory. Something is very wrong with me, I knew it then, but it would take another decade to put it all together and explain it all to myself and others.<br />
<br />
Never knowing when to keep my mouth shut, Steve found out most of the truth within a week. Tears dripped from both our eyes as I told him 95% of the evenings events. 5% of the information would have just lead to more questions and more pain I didn't have the ovaries to fess up to at that time in my teen life. Explanations of " I was drunk" felt hollow. Alcohol wasn't to blame. Beer just helped lube me up for trouble. It made it easier to be a slutty, no good, lying dirty dick troll. Hate for myself crept forward again.<br />
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Bless Steve D's heart, he did give me a second chance. After much talk, many promises from me, and snide comments from him we went forward with just a few days break. And so it goes after that kind of betrayal, nothing was the same or could be the same no matter how much I wished and prayed it would snap back to how it was before that night. No trust was left and communication between us was stifled.<br />
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Senior year was near its end, so too was Steve and I's bond. Limping to a sad but expected conclusion we broke up for good in March. The previous November my adoptive parents had moved to the Sierra Mountains. Staying behind for my cool record store job and to finish high school just didn't seem to matter anymore without Steve. My self worth was wrapped around winning him back, fixing what I had broken. I failed in making things right for us. I had fucked it all up.<br />
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Short by about 30 credits, my councilor informed me I would have to attend summer school for a diploma. Instead of planning for summer school I cashed in all my chips. Quitting my beloved job, dropping out of school, I loaded my truck and ran away from the destruction I had created in my life. Truckee, California here I come! New life, new people here I come! Bye Bye wreckage of my life! What I need is a clean slate and a new start.....funny how you can move away from your old life, yet the old you is still there in your new location.....ugh.......<br />
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So that is part 1 of my life with males. In the next couple of months we will pick up the story from ages 19 until 37...all the husbands and such...and how I came to realize why I did what i did when being slutty, not keeping my word, and being a general piece of shit to the men in my life until the age of 28. So stay tuned for more of that. Next topic will be "<u style="font-style: italic;"> STRIPPING for SHIT MONEY in SHIT CLUBS or THIS IS NOT WHAT THE STRIPPERS ON JENNY JONES DESCRIBED!!!" </u>this will be an eye opener for you young ladies thinking about stripping for some quick bucks! A couple of more quick notes. Please click an ad if any interest you to help drive my blog. If you have any thoughts e mail or comment them. Feedback is great! Final note, you can stay informed on new entries to my blog a few easy ways. On the top right of the blog is an "email sign up" or use your Google log in information to become a follower" My goal is to gain 100 followers in the next 100 days, so pass my blog on if you dug my story. Thanks ! Kathleen...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15841986739792729011noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7938887023072119954.post-90098942233169223202011-04-17T13:10:00.000-07:002013-11-08T13:37:21.828-08:00Remember the bad girl in high school?Ever wonder what became of the "bad girls" you went to school with? When you think back to those clicks - made up of "those type of girls", do you remember them for the fun you could find in their company? How they dressed to titillate or scare their peers? Perhaps the thought of their slutty ways making you wince with moral pride? I do not know if you think of them at all-but I myself was one of those girls...all grown up and in my 40's. What I so desperately want to achieve in this blog is to examine my brain and heart, and all the experiences in my life that lead me to who I am today. Why I chose, and still choose to this day, to be one of those girls your mom said you couldn't hang out with. To help in holding your attention in a sea of blogs I am going ahead and giving you a list of the topics and stories I am going to weave into my blog in the foreseeable future. So if you choose to follow my humble blog, you'll know what lurid tales of debauchery, craziness, fun and pain you may find. Here is my "Bad Girl List of Topics:" <br />
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<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none;">Trading with Boys / Sex for Comfort and Attention</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;">.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; color: black;"></span>Drinking, Druggin and Fightin for what?</li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span">Becoming a Junior High Punk Rocker in 1980</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span">Stripping for Shit Money in Shit Clubs or "This Is Not What The Strippers on Jenny Jones Described, Where is the Big Money and Glamorous Life!"</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">Why
Violent Felons are my choice in Fellas</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span">Never believe in the fairy tale of "A Knight in Shining Armour"</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span">Blood is the Bond I Never Had - What Impact Being Adopted Had on My Vida Loca.</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span">Boyfriends, Fiancee's</span> and Husbands or " I Just Can't Get Enough"</li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">Tattooing, Convicts and The Outlaw Life.</span></span></li>
</ol>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdv4pt-DI9M6S3V06acf5foLDqiTbNuynSftpstfAQRR3_AbHK-DpFZ5tcEoXZOGltqR63EMtt5dDWgpZZxEVLFQU6QDmfZaoN7PQZCwaQmDFXNISs1SrL_KfuJW1IPXMYggLWG6lLTMv1/s1600/kat+and+rus.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596651676642354498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdv4pt-DI9M6S3V06acf5foLDqiTbNuynSftpstfAQRR3_AbHK-DpFZ5tcEoXZOGltqR63EMtt5dDWgpZZxEVLFQU6QDmfZaoN7PQZCwaQmDFXNISs1SrL_KfuJW1IPXMYggLWG6lLTMv1/s320/kat+and+rus.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 61px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left; width: 90px;" /></a></span></span> These are the areas of my life I see the most potential in storytelling for both of us dear reader. Topics for me to pick apart - for baring my soul, healing my head and letting you benefit from the fun/pain.<br />
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All memories, dialog and whimsy will be drawn from my own opiate soaked brain. Therefore it will be a bit spotty and one sided. So if I know or have known you personally don't get pissy if I have times, dates, names and events a bit sideways. Also, NO names will be changed to protect anyone who didn't have my best interest at heart when they said they did. Husband number threes' scurrilous treatment of me will not be glossed over. No cock sizes will be embellished to porn star size and I shall be no ones whipping boy in my own blog. So there!</div>
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At the end of the day my blog is about helping myself. Dare I say even liking myself and being happy after making many mistakes, sometimes the same one, over and over. For the last 10 years I actually like living in my own skin! That I never thought would happen. All of this self help achieved with no so called" professional intervention or treatment" involved.<br />
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The photo is of me and hubby that we snapped at Prosser Lake, near Truckee, California a few years back. Notice the lack of smiles? Folks like to say "Smile honey! What's so bad, be happy!" Just because we are absent of toothy grins does not mean we were not happy in that moment. Hubby and I are two like minded people, who hate being fake, even for a snapshot taken by ourselves. So let us go through our" love story" as the next blog entry....it is a doozy.....</div>
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