Amidst all my pining for Un, I’ve been asked out on three dates and have gotten very insistent invites from two Daddies in NYC to come visit. And everyone has been caking on the sweet compliments and texting/emailing/calling back almost immediately, of course. All of this in the last few DAYS. I mean… Really?
Just call me the queen of forever wanting what I can’t have. But don’t bow or anything; that would just be rubbing it in.
SO MAYBE I AM IN TOO DEEP.
I really like this guy. There: I said it. But The Roommate spoke some dangerous words earlier, and it’s got me thinking (even more than I was before). She said, “I don’t know why you’re still with him. The penis can’t be THAT good.”
Okay, ladies and gentlemen, if any of your friends ever say this to your face, you should probably examine, or immediately run, from your relationship. In my case I am examining, because the penis IS that good. I live in a small town… do you know how hard it is to find quality penis? I digress.
Un and I used to have this really simple relationship that went like this: I came over to his house and rocked the bed a lot, maybe watched a movie, fell asleep, and went to work/home the next morning. We had lots of interesting pillow talk, but we never hung out outside of the bedroom. (He had invited me out a couple times in the very beginning, but I wasn’t ready then.)
Then, BAM! Six months were gone! We were lying in bed after sex like any other night, talking. Un said something that merited the response “You don’t know anything about me at all though,” which was meant to be a bit of a joke, but things got serious. He said that hurt his feelings, and he wanted to know me. Wanted to ask me on a date but had always thought I’d reject him (which is fucking ridiculous, as I have been the only one rejected in this relationship). And in that moment, I did something I don’t normally do: I let my guard down.
**Queue. I mean queue. It’s late and I went brain dead thinking of the English word. I have to sleep now, obviously.
Anonymous asked: Do you or have you ever worked at hooters? If so do you have any tips on how to get hired?
Look hot with some cleavage when you go in to apply. Nails done, hair done… everything did.
-Sorry, I had to.-
Anyway, the Hooters handbook says they want you to be the ultimate cheerleader/surfer girl/girl next door kind of gal that is also camera ready at all times… And that should give you an idea of what you’re trying to get into. Read: tan, pretty face, hot body, “natural”-ish makeup, and it kudos for boobies. Franchise Hooters aren’t as picky as the corporate Hooters, I hear.
Welcome, new people! Allow me to tell you what you’re getting into.
My name is Trouble. I’m a stripper. I like stripping. I hold no *current* exciting relations with sugar daddies… but I do have a regular that comes in and spends no less than $700 on me every time. That counts as something, right? You should expect to see pictures possibly involving some or all of the following: boobs, legs, panties, heels, poles, empty strip clubs, food, sexy stuff, the beach (because I live there), cats, and maybe even some beard action because I like that shit.
Anyway, I regularly have incredisex with a man I have dubbed “The Unboyfriend”, but you will frequently hear me refer him to as “Un” for short. We currently seem to be venturing into Relationship Land, and the weather has been absolute shit for the past few weeks. To my not-so-new followers: I swear I’m going to make a post about it… it’s already half written!
Another soon to be frequent guest I suppose I should mention is The Roommate. She moved in a couple weeks ago and knows pretty much everything about me. And loves me all the same. She cooks me breakfast when I roll in at 4, 5, or 6AM after eight hours of work and two hours of driving back home.
I’m also really fucking weird. Heads up.
Sometimes, when I’ve had too much to drink, I go for a walk. I wander the route that takes me past your house, so I can pause in front of it and imagine myself in your bed.
After one more glance over my shoulder, I jog back home, barely remembering my little trek the next morning.
My roommate’s parents paid a visit to our apartment. Roommate had the BRILLIANT idea to invite them over the day after Cinco de Mayo… before cleaning up. So her parents saw all the alcohol in the freezer, and immediately her father thinks I am a “bad influence.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa. I wasn’t even drinking. Hell, I wasn’t even HERE.
Nonetheless, he is now, after months of telling me how great a friend I am to his daughter, convinced that I am some form of antichrist. He is suspicious of what I do for a living (no thanks to Roommate who had another BRILLIANT idea to reveal that I drive two hours to work, wtfwereyouthinking?!).
“How much is this place? What does she do to afford this place? It’s really nice. She must make a lot of money to drive all that way. What do you mean you don’t know what she does? When does she work? I bet she works in a strip club.”
I’m currently questioning Roommate’s intelligence because she did not handle this situation well AT ALL.
But wait! There’s more!
Roommate spoke to her mother later that night to check and see if her father was angry, and instead of an “Oh yeah, he’s mad, but it’s whatever,” she gets this:
Her father said he’s going to follow me to work just to see where I work!!
When I heard this, nerves in my body exploded. THE CREEP LINE: YOU SPRINTED RIGHT OVER IT. I mean, really? You don’t think that it’s kind of weird you want to follow me for TWO HOURS to see where I work? You realize that has “pervert” written all over it, right? Especially if you’re already convinced that an attractive girl more than half your age is working at a strip club. I forgot which part of my life is your business… oh yeah, none of it! And I do NOT take threats like that kindly. Heaven help this man if I ever look in my rearview mirror and see his little turquoise car—because I will call the cops and raise hell. This poor man does not know what he’s dealing with.
Hell, if I ever even had to be in the same ROOM with this man again, I’d better be gagged because I cannot hold back my disgust. (I’m known for my words. The sharp ones.)
Should I call Un… or not? Maybe I should take another shot and think about it. That bitch.
David knows I like whiskey, and he likes to introduce me to people as his fiancé. He asks me what we will name our children and to which countries I will take him. His voice is deep, attitude laid back; anyone can get along with him.
David keeps count of the lines I keep. I think he knows. I think he knows which lines are good to cross and which ones need permission before coming in for a closer look.
He even knows I’m a stripper. One night I opened my trunk to reveal a heap of costumes and G-strings, my stripper heels and black stockings. He didn’t ask “Do you like it?” because he knows I only do things I like. Instead he asks if I do pole tricks and tells me I should try Playboy. “—— did it and made like, three grand. I think you’d like it.”
I think I would too.
David always slips his hands under my shirt to feel my skin and squeeze my breasts when we’re alone. And once he finds a comfortable spot for his hands, he asks, “Do you mind if I touch them?”
To which I always giggle and say it’s a little late for asking permission—his hands are already rubbing back and forth while he rests his face in the cradle of my neck.
I’ll never forget the night he leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, unlike any other guy who has walked me to my car. It was the same night I confessed my stripperdom and even confessed my feelings about Un (I’m known around the town for my lack of emotion). David is a rare one: an actual nice guy in the flesh.
Anonymous asked: how was thetalk with un?
Ah, well, the short version of this story is we took our clothes off and had incredisex instead. Longer version to come. I’ve yet to finish the talk, too, because our schedules are so conflicting.
