Picking The "Bad Boy" - My Adolescent Choice (that has lasted a lifetime) Vol 1.

*Very import!

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.   !*

"GOODFELLAS" 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?

Russell Fortier, high school bad boy AND my husband!

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. 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!

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!

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.

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. 

Kathleen Burke, High School punker
with my main punk squeeze, Steve Dyson

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.

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....

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".

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

Even though I look like a BOY
with this awful pixie haircut (thanks mother)
it was around this age
I started digging "Bad Boys".

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.

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!) 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 high school years have nothing to do with high school! 

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!

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.

"Shame Does Not Serve Me"

"Where would we be without our painful childhoods."  

                        Dr Finch in the movie "Running With Scissors"

Never let anyone shame you.

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.

8th grade yearbook photo for Kathleen Burke
Kennedy Junior High...Farrah Fawcett
eat your heart out!

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.

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.

Here is what you need to say to yourself when these situations present themselves:

Living the dream in 1980, my first year of Junior High. Hair
is feathered and sprayed, no warm hat for me!
Bet you North Tahoe Locals can figure out
what chair lift / Resort this is?

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.

Puberty is never kind to anyone.

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.

Boys and drinking came in handy for lots of shame of myself. Here is one example of my stupidity:

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.

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 ?!?"

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.

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.

All the verbal shaming never did me a lick of good. The issues were much larger and deeper than these people could imagine.

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.

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.

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!

The Best Man who Became the Next Husband. A California State Prison Love Story

The Best Man who Became the Next Husband. A California State Prison Love Story

 My title sure does say a mouthful, don't it ?!? 

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.....

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...

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.

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.

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.

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."  

 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. 

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...

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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....

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!

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. 

Russell and I having our first visit after kicking Dick to the curb.

Now on to the good part, Russell and I figure "us" out.

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."

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. 

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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....

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Part 2 of "Stripping for *#@^ Money in a *#@^ Club."

*For Sarah B & Vashti W...for always asking "WHEN..?"

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.

  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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

"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.

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?"

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!

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...

" So Sasha, can you tell me how things operate?

Miss Trailer Park continues to rub way too much blush on bony cheeks as these nuggets fall forth:

"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."

As I absorb this lecture, Miss Trailer Park starts to apply sky blue eye shadow to her droopy lids, then continues:

"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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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....

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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......

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.

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....

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!

Kathleen A. Langley - Fortier

Stripping for Shit Money in a Shit Club or "This is NOT what the Strippers On Jenny Jones Described."

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




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.....

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."

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?



"HERE"S THE STORY, OF A CHUNKY LADY, WHO LOST THE LAST OF HER MORALS ON A POLE"  Hum along kids.......

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.


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.


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. 


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.


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.


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.


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.


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......


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.


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. 


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. 


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!


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.


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.


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.


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."


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?


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!


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.


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."


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.


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.


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.


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!


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..


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.


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!


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.


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!


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!


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. 


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