Hustle Meditations

…and sometimes I allow myself a little vanity.  Especially when I muse forth such gorgeous poetry, which I accept as a cherished review.  Here is an untitled poem, written by a dear reader and patron, who here goes by “Marginal Graffiti” 

Naked, she stands before, joyous
Persephone emerging from the damp underground caverns,
Berry-stained hair catching sunlight,
Around her neck hangs the jewel of a pomegranate seed.
She flashes an inquisitive smile
To transfix the unsuspecting but expecting.
I am the air after the lightning bolt,
The flint after the spark has been struck,
The water’s surface after the slice of the oar,
Black earth pierced by the straining seedling.
I respond to her enlivening disturbance.
All my atoms vibrate faster, align to growth,
My blood sings as
She coaxes the Yes from me,
The first drips of its honey become a tumbling stream.
In a while, we’ve forgotten to dance,
Except in the courante of words tossed to each other, of sparkling eyes,
Spring now concentrated in such little space.
Come Lammas I’ll offer her the first fruits,
And draw myself up to full height to receive her embrace proudly.

I feel my impermanent body.
Lipstick stained and full of flirting words,
and aspirations,
I know myself more
as one with the seasons turning.
I see my face in
ancient spells made fresh on his tiled walls.

Do you like
Cummings? She asks,
full of promises.
I wonder how many ships she has crashed.
Beauty, and a soft earthiness and fuck me eyes  (and dear god fuck me as I take those curves)
I play well with others.  And he is learning to share better.
They let me read them poetry.

Would that these words would rush from
my tongue across her lips.
Breath rushes from lips to air
all too quickly.
We would know ourselves more
as Love.

Later we lay together
and he takes a picture
of the moment after my last long sigh
and I am looking at her.

Last night somehow I realized I was dreaming.
The knowledge came logically, and hit suddenly,
vibrating through my whole being. I thought,
I
am
dreaming
and why don’t I try something other than this
well-worn rut?
I looked up to the dream sky.
The axis of the dream world shook.
The steps I took were unsteady, unready,
but I gathered my dream will and though
it took incredible exertion,

Exertion. The application of a force…also, physical or mental effort.
Exertion, like how she applied makeup to her face, or her presence to
the room. Like how he could see the drop of perspiration glistening
on her upper lip, or trailing down her side, tracing the arcs of her ribs,
the mounds of her hips. Like muscles working to move through the
space, cut through time, seem to suspend, effortless. Like just the right
amount of effort for freedom. Exertion. The application of a force…

The choiceless force. The energy of being that carries me through.
It just carries me through, I ride upon it. I ride upon it.

I leaped.
I jumped higher
than the laws of convention, of intention even.
I leaped and came back to dream Earth.
Then, feeling the ground beneath my dream feet
I gathered a mighty force within me.
Last night I flew.

All it takes is practice.

What did you dream about last night?
Come visit soon!
xx Ster£ing

The rugged terrain of space.
What it must cost
to extend an arm into nothing, carve a pattern through the air.
The cost, some days
of a gesture, of travel across a room, of raising my gaze.

I walk in heels, bare legs moving under me as I sway,
back and forth and back and forth.
I reflect on the journeys I have made–wonder
what journeys you have made–
to get here.

What is your path?
Did you stumble here Darling,
at the end of some trip, some bender, or spree?
Did you come galloping across the rugged terrain, a conqueror, a cowboy?
Were you moved by impulse, some happy mistake, or
did you think about me today? Maybe on your lunch break
you adjusted the tie away from your throat and a smile crossed your face.
Did you come here as ritual, a way to pay homage, a way to trust the moment?
Did you come here to see or be seen?
Did you come here to save or be saved?
Did you flee?

Perhaps you have come here across miles and miles of impassable, impossible mountains, pursued across space, preserving only the Dharma in your heart and a deep, profound need to be of benefit, to help the suffering.
Did you come here to help me know my mind?
Did you come here to help me be kind?
Did you save the last dance for me?

I imagine you came here as a gift.
I imagine myself as the present.
Let me bring you here for an hour of beauty. Please.
Did you come here as part of the hustle?
The choiceless choice, the flow?
I imagine you came here as a way to care. Let me share some.

I don’t need to know the regular stories.
Leave those clamoring beasts at the door; they cost far too much.
Reach inside and find the most quiet, the most secret,
the most awe-full.
We can make it all up if we want.
What if we told a story that was completely new?
Is it even possible?

We might meet for a moment.
We may fall in love, so fortunate.
We may wonder if we will ever meet again
Walking our paths.
I walk my path some days in six-inch heels.

I walk upstairs where you are waiting.
Climbing the stairs from the dark underground, I feel the air getting warmer. Climbing the stairs through the dark tunnel, there is the whir of the fan, the pumped in music of the afternoon–voices flirting and ice settling and jukebox interpretations– coming to a shaky pause, suspended. I bow invisibly.

The beginning.
Satin slippers with six inch heels. Rhinestones and bows. A painting on the canvas of features, a face. A pretty decoration for this package of parts. A beautiful, empty, package.
Memory combines with force to move my body through space.
Tender, soft skin meeting the rugged terrain of red light and air, and stage.
The rugged terrain of space. Of space. Of space.

I offer you the present.
Unwrapping obscuration, pretense and decoration.
All I have, this dance of becoming, this vibrating moment.
I offer you the present.
Buttons leave buttonholes. Garments become formless.
I untie the bow, stepping out, revealed.
My eyes sparkle with it. Sometimes I look right at you. I am scared. I am delighted. Sometimes I close my eyes. I close my eyes and make a gesture. The middle. The middle. The middle.

Here, bare
I watch a stream of sweat running down my arm, to settle at my wrist.
The moment stretches
I imagine
all the water in my body evaporating into steam, filling the room with fog.
I see this wrinkled canvas dry and brittle fall away, gathering in folds around turquoise satin and rhinestones,
falling away to expose the fat of once-plentiful, juicy thighs and cheeky cheeks
falling away to expose the dried-up length of muscles once straining under beauty and form
falling away to expose steaming entrails and the precious heart now pumping dry
falling away to expose these bones, these bones, these bones
bowing over, crumbing, falling away.

What remains
of this priceless life
What remains of the smile we shared
the care
the love possible
the hustle
the flickering hope and despair
and cessation of all
What remains here, here, here

The End

It was sexy in the spotlight of that dingy, quiet dive.
She was way overqualified for her line of work, but she didn’t think so.
Performance, Dharma, and sex (work), these threads wove around her, intersecting in her body, which she showed. She was the crossroad.
She didn’t need a degree to get naked, but she had one.
She moved to the music coming in unsteady, sometimes loud.
More often than not she wasn’t sober, but she was taking notes.
Red light. Eye contact. Transcendence. Razor burn. Bruises. Eye liner.

Even on her days off she had long hair with at least five different colors swirling though it. She made pinks and purples look natural. Glitter fell out of her pockets.
At the wedding she made a speech about a lineage of awakened hearts, led a warrior cry. She wore pearls, like she loved. She congratulated the brides and thought about fearlessness and culture and change. To some people she mentioned what she “did.” To others she just smiled and remained a little odd, a little anonymous, like the pseudonym she gave at work only…opposite. Which was more true, she wondered.

We build boundaries to help us be strong, but what are we protecting? Who is this I? Who is this we? We wear rings on our fingers and lock the doors to our hearts, all we think we have gained. We show our souls and then run when we are seen.

At night she scribbled furiously, making up stories about what could be. She built wild worlds with her words that were really mirrors. The stories were her own. They were made out of her body, out of her mind, no less true because they were fantasies.
No less true than She.

“Professional Distraction,” reads my business card.

To some, this may seem at odds with what I describe as my Bodhisattva aspiration to be of genuine benefit to sentient beings.
One of my Hustle Meditations was featured recently on a Buddhist blog called The Under 35 Project (featuring young Buddhist and Buddhist-inspired voices; check it out at www.under35project) One reader left a rather scathing comment, which included his shock

“…that the author considers her work to bring ‘genuine benefit to … others in all [her] interactions.’ While her work might bring momentary sensual arousal, I was under the impression that in buddhism we do not consider this a genuine benefit. To me she seems to be feeding people’s cycles of craving and desire, perpetuating their unhealthy habits of thought and feeling, causing the kleshas to burrow further into their beings.”

Additionally, I had a teacher recently who summed the entire first turning (teaching) of the Dharma as “training in not being distracted,” in using the practice of meditation to tame the mind so that one can focus, and eventually rest in the present moment. Without buying into patterns of craving and aversion, we might even experience ourselves on the spot as awake, and luminous.

How could one be helpful in waking people up to their own goodness, while billing herself as a distraction?
I concede that at first glance my self-created title may be a little misleading. Even as I smile at the cries of “blasphemy,” I’d like to clarify my intention and share some of my experience.

Plenty of my clients are coming to the club already rolling in kleshas (negative emotions or mental states that cloud the natural wakefulness of the mind) which could very well manifest in negative actions. I take the very fact that they have come to visit me as indication that they would rather not go and drive their fists into a wall, or pace grooves into their carpets, or scream at members of their family out of frustration at their day. They would rather not act out their mental stories of inadequacy or overwhelming emotion in harmful, possibly violent, ways. I see this when I look into their eyes. They would rather change their minds, connect with someone not quite so invested, be seen.

What if I were indeed a distraction, but what if I could distract one from the wearisome mental chatter left over from the week and day, giving one something lovely to engage with in the present moment? What if my smile, the movement of my dance, the delightful naked canvas of my body, could invite one to relax, soften, and even possibly let it go? What if our play could wake us up? From this perspective, perhaps these late night sessions might not be considered so harmful. Perhaps they could even be described as “therapeutic.” It wouldn’t be the first time I have heard that word in connection with what I do.

I strive to give my clients something present and delightful with which to engage. I try to see their goodness, which is often more than what anyone has done for them all day or week or month. I love talking about what is going on our lives, encouraging a perspective of gentleness and kindness. Certainly I am a story teller and a performer, but in my work I try not to lie or lead my clients to expect something I am not offering. We have interactions that have a clear beginning, middle, and end. On the spot. Many times, radiant.

“How special,” I murmur. “I love being the first,” I purr.

For the fourth time tonight I stand in front of a young man, barely 21, experiencing his initiation into the adult world. For the fourth time tonight I am someone’s first. It’s amazing, even to me. Tonight my name should be Cherry Pop.

I do love being the first. Maybe it’s because there are very little expectations from someone who hasn’t experienced something before. Or perhaps it’s the sweet wide-eyed stare and fresh expression on their faces. Or the thrill of excitement I can feel running along the current between us. It’s honest and raw, and reminds me that even though I have done this hundreds of times before, there is still something new to be had here.

Absolutely anything can become the object of meditation. Breath. Body sensations. The taste of that drink, the sounds of the space– the laughter, the music, the curve of one’s lips. The meditative mind can perceive that everything is arising and passing away, that really everything is new.

I have learned the discipline of the hustle, the effortless effort it takes to give and receive, to know that everything and nothing is happening at the same time. Yes, even in six-inch heels and a string bikini, I can ride the present moment flow. And hopping on, I can relax. The dance is a dance.

I am present. And knowing I’m not going anywhere, I can relax. I can listen. I can enjoy it. I take in the composition of the room, see where I am needed. Entering the space, I change it. I explore. I am curious. I watch the feedback I get. I see how I balance the system.

Yes, I am at work to make money. That is not a question; this is a livelihood. Yet, bringing a quiet and supple mind to my work changes everything.

Suddenly this arena becomes fresh. All along it has been new. Crazy enlightened things become possible when we ride the energy of the present moment, follow it without agenda or expectation. Lust. Play. Love. All arising and passing away, like for the first time. I give something special, and I receive something special in return.

Or maybe I just love being the favorite. There’s that, too.

All she can think about is how he stayed hard, and how he felt in her mouth as she caressed him with the length of her tongue, taking him once more.  He came again.
The thought passes.
Her mind clear, she straddles the man in front of her and smiles. 
She smiles more broadly to feel his breath change as he swells forward to meet her, to take her in.  She leans back, way back, and senses his gaze as it moves up her body, from the muscle of her thighs trapping him on either side,
up from the cradle of her sex,
up from her navel,
up between her full breasts,
up her throat to where her lips are just parted,
her eyes closed in some internal play.  Play.  Play, she had said, is her favorite word.  She is very, very good at play.
She places her hands on his shoulders and hovers above him, feeling the slight tremor of electricity running through him.  It excites her.  She is very careful of the live current flowing between them.  She strokes it and it purrs like a kitten.  Even she loses track sometimes, thinking about swelling and straining.
“I respond to desire.  To someone wanting me,” the words echo.
The thought passes. She is brought back to the moment.
She is a mirror.
Ecstasy even can become familiar.
A moment is technically made up of 90 seconds. Someone said that recently and it intrigues her.
So often we let the moments pass, thinking of them like instants, like a blur. 
But really a moment is the measure of something much more—
A dance, a glance,
enough light to catch the reflection of that ethereal bridge between hearts, light bouncing off of a gesture of play,
a fantasy, or–
a poem.
The thought passes. The song ends.
She smiles at him again.  They linger a moment.

Lounging on my couch naked, sipping tea with rollers in my hair (I know, it’s a rough life) and I am in a contemplative sort of mood. I have spent the afternoon with the incredibly talented Siouxsie Q who is a San Francisco based performance artist, activist, sex worker, and co-creator of brilliant new podcast called This American Whore.

You have to check it out. The podcast follows Siouxsie Q as she provides us all with a glimpse into her world of sex work. Even her blurb is amazing, “Whore, Sexworker, Harlot, Camgirl, Hooker, Pornstar, Stripper, Dominatrix, Strumpet or whatever name you prefer, Siouxsie strives to humanize people in the sex industry by sharing their stories, art, and voices. Tackling issues from politics to comic books, Siouxsie charms her way into your heart with her personal brand of pinup, mermaid superhero, ukulele and glitter that will make your inner fanboy fall head over heels in love.”

My inner fanboy was tickled, and now I’m thinking about the politics of whoredom.

Sitting, teetering some days, on the legal end of the sex work spectrum as a stripper, I wonder about the place of my voice in this important social discussion.

Given the fact that the very word “whore” has been used to shame, condemn, and deny access to women since, well, since the oldest profession began, what does it mean in this day and age to identify as a whore?

The services I provide are legal, and billed as entertainment but I personally have a very difficult time believing I am not participating in sex work, as many strippers legitimately claim. But what does sex work even mean? A sex “act” is so blurry. If I send someone home with a boner, was it a sex act? If someone tells me he got off last night thinking about me, and then tips me for dancing, was it a sex act? I could argue I am more of a mental/fantasy player, but I am a player nonetheless in the world of sexuality, desire, and gettin’ paid.

Personally, I think this generation has a lot of work to do to move through the fear that we have inherited as part of our cultural program around intimacy and sex in general. If more of us could practice fearlessness in the face of authority, we could begin to acknowledge the benefits and potential for awakening that sexual relationships provide, beyond the marriage myth. It could explode our hetero and monogamy-normative ideas of when, where and how sex is appropriate and beneficial adult behavior. Ok, Love-Geek moment, but this is why I love this new podcast, and the conversations that will surely spring up in its wake.

A final thought…
I meet a lot of men who tell me they would be in “trouble” if their wife or girlfriend found out they had been to a strip club. Imbedded in this taboo is the idea that many women hold that, HOW could he choose that WHORE over ME?
Ladies, he is not choosing anyone over you (except, of course, those genius men who do love dating and loving and committing to strippers and whores).
In discussing this women-hating-whores phenomenon with Siouxie Q, we got down to the hard fact that it is often the variety of sexual stimulation provided in these cases, that makes it possible for men to continue to stay with their girlfriends or wives. This whore is making your partnership work for you Girl!

This and so much more about whoredom at the new podcast www.ThisAmericanWhore.com
I know I will be tuning in, and writing more soon. Would love to hear your comments in the comment section.
Thanks Lovelies!

xxx Ster£ing