If he were her toy
and she were a god
she would make him whisper
the code to
all the secrets of her divine body.
She would make him say the words
to hear the syllables like silk ties
purring against her wrists.

If he were her toy
and she were a god
she’d have him wrestle her.
He would
hold her, wrangle her, yearn against her
until she,
vibrating faster and
faster
becoming
waves of heat,
would split herself in two
and two again.
She would pin
one on each limb
so he could take it
every way she’d imagined over dinner.

Her breath would play against each of his fingers until they were smooth and slick with moisture.
She would slide him into her,
playing
come
here with his fingers
until she was swollen
and so full there were tears in all her eyes.

(His hands thus occupied)
it wouldn’t be hard for her to hold her toy down
against each part of her body, to see what he would do.

And he was a genius.
Her knees against his shoulders
she would moan to feel his tongue enter her
like the first–he would have no breath for speech
for a long–
time.

And until he begged
she would kiss up his length
and down
licking and drooling and flooding against him
consuming him down to a single
clear
whimper.

Then she would merge
becoming
one
again
finally
remembering what it is like
to die.

xx Ster£ing

Now, usually patrons are not allowed to take a picture inside the club. But, apparently, when one is an eccentric, possibly dangerous, “person of interest,” spy-chic, genius, millionaire, bad boy, with a knack for big tipping, exceptions are made…

Shot as part of his recent interview with the London Sunday Times. Check out the article http://www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/newsreview/features/article1192954.ece

He carried himself like a movie star, and emitted an aura of devilish play. I accepted the tip and politely declined the invitation out for drinks and company later that night. (The list of downsides I was mentally calculating included things like waking from a drugged euphoric haze in international waters with no GPS beacon.) Though anyone with perfect flare for the dramatic, a story of depth and complexity, and a persona that fills a room intrigues me. After all, I can relate in my own way.

What caught me about our brief conversation was the quality he described as being singularly important in his relationships, honesty. Not many men I know could come by a harem of women honestly. Ok, maybe a couple. But he related that at his age, he doesn’t want to worry about the sloppy subjectivity of love and desire, and so he turns to professionals. I appreciate that.

In my short career as a stripper, I’ve encountered many men (and they have all been men who have said this to my face) who have confronted me with accusations of dishonesty. They suggest that I lead men on, or manipulate emotions falsely, or that the only thing I get out of my job is money, that there is nothing real about the hustle. None of these are entirely true. I am a performer. I am a nude entertainer and dancer, a story-teller, and a terribly wonderful flirt. I don’t find my work dishonest. It is true that I am off the clock when my shift is over. It is also true that I am present for my patrons, and that the exchange is genuine, energetic, and real. Many of them are wonderful, honest people themselves, who know exactly the types of relationships that they want and enjoy. I have a livelihood that can be measured in desire and fantasies. It is a subjective arena, but it is not dishonest. Besides, there isn’t much you can hide wearing nothing but a pearl necklace and a pair of thigh-high boots. Not much.

Yours,
Ster£ing

Stripper: One who earns a livelihood by means of dancing, entertaining, gettin’ naked, and hustling.

Bodhisattva: (Buddhist term) One who is motivated by compassion and seeks enlightenment not just for herself, but to be beneficial to all sentient beings by means of developing the paramitas (or perfections: Generosity, Discipline, Patience, Exertion, Meditation, Transcendental Wisdom)

It’s not an industry for normal people. From patron to performer, to drink-slinger, bouncer and tune spinner, stripping is not an industry for any single type at all. For some of us, it’s a goddamn sweet way to spend some time, and an even sweeter way to make a living. Like any type of entertainment or indulgence, I argue we can use it to check out, or relax and plug in. Personally, I like what I do. I’m an introverted exhibitionist. I’m a meditating artist with an addiction to shiny things. I practice the Bodhisattva aspiration to be helpful. I’m a Professional Distraction. I work for tips. I change when you look at me.

***

I.

“Bust a bill!”
“Kiss.”

It’s dark when she walks into the club, smiling. Night. Time to go to work. Game on.

Leaving 2012 and the End of the World as we know it behind… Enter the brand, shiny New Year in the world of the Stripper. There are some resolutions. There are some aspirations to unlock the mystery of the industry, to make money appear out of thin air, to support oneself on wiles and smiles alone–to own the secret of the hustle.
“Hustle.”
That word, disdained by some, revered by others. I’m interested in an expose. I’m interested in a (re)definition.

Performance star, and activist King Lexie Honiotes of The Leading Edge defines it thusly:

hus·tle |’hǝsǝl|
non-adverb
1.[trans.] [intrans.] the choiceless choice, flow, do nothing and everything is done: Somewhere, and then somewhere again, in the midst of her ride… she let go the reins completely; and everything was exactly as she’d meant it to be. Except it was more magnificent than she fathomed in her toil. So utterly unexpected, so colossal in scope. Perpetually given.

Hawt. Now, let’s break it down for those who would be in the Hustle Association. It’s that invisible edge, the aura of confidence, the game played, and that sweet player who plays for everyone’s win. She gives it all, and by the time you notice it’s happening, you don’t care anymore. The meditating mind meets the hustle of the floor. Let me tell you though, no faint hearts. Hustle is for Lovers.

Hustle
the choiceless choice, the flow.
That synchronized moment, perfect, the hit the ground and hover.
She uses all her training, the “yes, and…” from improv class, the extensions from ballet and inversions from yoga, those jeditricks, and that face she made last night when–

Hustle
the flow, and the know.
The overflowing, the give it all for a dollar or a couple hundred.
She’s rich. She’s taken care of.
She’s practicing her paramitas.
Anything can become the object of meditation. Breath. Body sensation.
The smile, oh that smile.

She smiles as if it could work.
Smiles even before the music starts. Smiles even afterward.

It’s just the right amount of effort
She watches the moment unfold
Relaxed, aware
She’s the perfect canvas for your fantasy
That tall drink
confident
She cuts through time and space
Suspended
Tiptoeing through fear
filling the whole of space with the prosperity of the
Bodhisattvas.
Mock her, adore her,
She is
Available
Ready
Glistening
Getting
She is—

Yours,
Ster£ing

I can’t help it, I’m a Lover.
I think a beautiful moment is a sign that we are ready to love.

I look for the beautiful moments, the small signs that love is ready to manifest.
Some days
my job is to build ethereal bridges—channels through which love can pass,
if for only a moment, the space of a smile, or the duration of a song.
A fantasy born out of the air.
A laugh.
An expression of love, intimacy, connection.
Some days
I am the beautiful moment.

I pray I am creating new pathways.
Hoping to forge a new rut of kindness in the Brain,
when we feel so much pain, and there is violence
that doesn’t make sense.
My heart goes out to the human family
and I do my work.

I like when you visit me.
I like when you make up a new name for yourself.
I like being your canvas.
I like seeing you as you are, what colors of conversational cadence
you might choose to paint upon me with.
I like to take the brush and paint a few strokes myself.
It is a beautiful composition we are creating, here, now.
I like when you let your imagination dance
with mine.
Yes, even I am entertained.

These likes are preferences.
But finally even these preferences fall away leaving us
as we are.
As we are, we play a game.
We are phenomenon playing.
As we are, we explore what exists between us, what we can discover through the senses. As we are. Flavors of our day fall away, and we are left with the now. As we are.
As we are, laughing, pondering, sharing, unfurling. Loving perhaps. Yes, loving even then.

Hustle, the choice-less choice, the flow. The wisdom of letting you be as you are. When I step onto the stage, I have no preference. I want you. I have no “type,” I want it all.
I want all of you.

Some days
even in the middle of winter
I am a gardener.
I plant seeds for smiles to blossom and grow
flowing so easily from lips to air.

…hi there.

Thanks for stopping by, for participating… by looking.

I’m trying out an experiment on this reality dream-ship, following a hypothesis, a hunch, an attempt at living truthfully under all these imagined circumstances  (my training is showing…)  How about this:  Living AS IF

I could be helpful

to you

to your path, your liberation, your inhalation-exhalation

inspiration.

This is just a showcase of nature meeting fantasy here

up on this (virtual) stage

engage, all systems go

the hustle, the flow, the reach and the know.

In those lonely moments, I just lean back and do the dance, prance, take the chance for myself

AS IF it could still help–

carving cathedral ceilings with my

feelings (they change when I look at them.)

I smile, to be of benefit

Smile without preference.  Without defense.  It’s a jedi Warrior trick, mind training, practice makes it easier, makes it even possible to remember

Smile as if it would help

Smile even before the music starts.  Smile even after it has ended…

xx Ster£ing