An Important Phone Conversation Between Me and My Gay Friend Rick

OK. So, I just got off the phone with my gay friend Rick and I thought I would share a little bit of that convo. Please note, that I didn’t record our convo (I haven’t done that since that cops had to trace one of my exes) – so what follows is not word for word; it’s just way I remember it.

RICK: Heeeeeeeey, Lex!

LEXY: Why did you show up as ‘Restricted?’

RICK: Long story, gurl. Now talk to me… How you be?

LEXY: Down. I’m not feeling like myself.

RICK: Down? That doesn’t sound like you.

LEXY: I know. I just took a Dexatrim, so hopefully I start soaring soon. I hate being depressed.

RICK: What’s got you down?

LEXY: I dunno. Rainey’s, Bob, the blog…

RICK: Your blog got you down?

LEXY: Yeah. I guess I’m just really frustrated that all people ever want to know about me is about stripping.

RICK: Your blog IS called ‘Confessions of a Former Daytime Stripper.’

LEXY: Well, yeah. I know. Stripping is what I did; it’s a part of me. But it’s not like, WHO I am.

RICK: I get that. If you’re embarrassed, you should just shut it down.

LEXY: But, RICK… It’s not that I’m embarrassed. I see nothing wrong with stripping. I loved stripping and I was pretty damn good at it.

RICK: Sorry, Lex. I don’t understand the words that are coming out of your mouth.

LEXY: You’re not Chris Tucker and I wish you’d stop with outdated movie references.

RICK: Sorry.

LEXY: No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. ANYWAY, the thing that bothers me isn’t that I was a stripper. I love talking about it. The thing that bothers me is that people have a whole preconceived notion of WHAT a stripper is.

RICK: I think that Dexatrim’s kicking in.

LEXY: I’m not high…

RICK AND LEXY: … yet!

LEXY: Whatever. It’s 5 o’clock somewhere. And you’re not even listening!

RICK: I am. Lay it on me.

LEXY: Well, it’s like people just immediately judge you. Like: “Oh, I get it. You’re a dumb skank.” And I’m like: “I’m not DUMB. I went to college.” And they’re like: “You did?” And it’s like, yeah, motherfuckers. I went to the University of Wisconsin. I was a Woman Studies major, and had a Spanish minor. You deciding that I must be stupid because I have a great body and can work a pole is really judgmental and really hurtful.

RICK: Yeah. But aren’t most strippers stupid?

LEXY: That’s not the point! This is about me, and I am not stupid. 1 + 1 doesn’t equal 2 in this case.

RICK: I’m not sure what that means.

LEXY: Just listen. So was working last night, and this chick comes into Rainey’s and she’s all: “You should come check out my Burlesque show at Stage Left. It’s just down the street.” And I was like: “OMG. I love burlesque. BTWs, I totally used to be a stripper.” And then this chick gets all pretentious and she's all: “I’m, uh, NOT a stripper. I do burlesque. It’s theatrical. It’s all about beautiful costumes and making the audience want something they can’t get.”

RICK: Sounds like stripping.

LEXY: Right? So, I’m all: “Been there, done that, girlfriend.” And she was all: “No. Burlesque is THEATRE.” As if I am some sort of dumb ass! And I’m like: “Yeah, I get it. It’s all about the tease. All dancey, no touchy.” And she goes: “I don’t think you get it. It’s not like I’m some kind of whore.”

RICK: No, she didn’t…

LEXT: Yes, she did! And I was like: “No you didn’t!” And she was like: “Yes, I did.” So I was all: “Look here, Sasquatch Jones. The only reason you’re in Burlesque instead of stripping is because that Mae West body of yours requires that you cover up in feathers and try to make getting naked into something theatrical. At my club, the owner would have smiled at you, told you to lose 20 pounds, then handed you a mop if you still wanted the work. Let’s face it, you do burlesque at a community theater for free; I used to work a 7 hour shift and come home with enough money to pay my rent and get high.”

RICK: Oh my God. What did she do?

LEXY: She started to cry.

RICK: Well, yeah. That was pretty harsh.

LEXY: I know. I felt really bad about it. She wasn’t even 20 pounds overweight, more like 15. Nothing that a two week fast couldn’t cure.

RICK: You’re not still doing that are you?

LEXY: No, I hit my ideal. If I drop any more weight I’d lose it from my moneymaker.

RICK: Which part exactly is the moneymaker, again?

LEXY: Fuck off. You’re gay… what do you know?

RICK: …

LEXY: You there?

RICK: Yeah.

LEXY: What’s wrong?

RICK: I’m fuming.

LEXY: Don’t you mean flaming?

RICK: …

LEXY: Oh, come on. It’s funny!

RICK: It’s not fucking funny! It really annoys me when you say things like that.

LEXY: Like what?

RICK: Like: “You’re gay.” As if me being gay makes it impossible to see things the way other people see them.

LEXY: I just meant because I’m a woman and…

RICK: … and?

LEXY: Well, you know…

RICK: No, Lexy, I don’t know. You seem to be implying that I couldn’t understand a damn thing about a woman because I am gay. You seem to be implying that all of my thoughts have to be filtered through some sort of gay-vision that tints my world view.

LEXY: Well, doesn’t it?

RICK: It does and it doesn’t. I’m just mad because here you are complaining that no one sees you as a full person because you’re a stripper… then all of a sudden you’re coming after me with some antiquated stereotypical bullshit. Weren’t you the one who said it’s a part of you, but it’s not WHO you are?

LEXY: Well… yeah…

RICK: So stop diminishing me based on sex. You of all people should know how annoying it is when people diminish you based on sex.

LEXY: Yeah, like when people constantly refer to you as “My gay friend Rick.”

RICK: Or when people say: “You remember Lexy, the stripper.”

LEXY: You always introduce me that way.

RICK: This is a reminder for me to stop.

LEXY: But, yeah. That makes sense. I guess it’s important for people not to get caught up in what they think about someone else based on some tired old stereotype. Like, thinking you’re some sort of Robin-Williams-Birdcage-esque-queen right now.

RICK: Or thinking you can do nothing more then give a good blow job.

LEXY: Quick! Replace “good” with “great!”

RICK: You’re such a stereotype.

LEXY: Takes one to know one.

RICK: OK, Lex. I gotta run.

LEXY: Why? Is Project Runway on?

RICK: Did you just miss our conversation?

LEXY: It was a joke. And by the way, no I didn’t. I think it was good to talk about how people labeling and judging others without getting to know them is harsh and stupid. Like, just because I’m a stripper doesn’t mean that I’m some sort of dumb nympho, and just ‘cause you’re gay doesn’t mean you’re hot for sex all the time.

RICK: That one’s actually true for me.

LEXY: Ha! Me too. OK Ricks – gotta fly. Love you dearly.

RICK: Peace!

And that’s how that went. But it made me feel better. It made me feel like, fuck it. I don’t have to be depressed because I feel like the only people who read this blog are lascivious perverts who are too cheap to pull out their credit cards and commit to a porn site. Why do people think that just ‘cause ‘Stripper’ is in the title that the content is going to be erotic?

Oh, well. I’m not going to stop blogging, just because I fear what people think of me. I know me. And I know this: I am powerful and beautiful and sexy. I am the best me I can be, and I have a lot to give this world. It took a gay man to show me how to be out and proud… but I AM OUT AND PROUD. I WAS A FORMER DAYTIME STRIPPER, and you CAN’T kiss my ass. It’s all dancey and NO touchy!

xxxLex

Chuck Klosterman is the Poster Boy for The Decline and Fall of Man

I know this blog is about stripping, but I have something else to talk about today.

Let me take a moment to satisfy the people who come to this site to hear things like “I shaved the entirety of my mons pubis” or “As a rule, I never sleep with customers, but there was this one time…” Here you go: 1. I definitely rock the bald eagle. 2. I really didn’t have a rule against sleeping with customers. I slept with plenty. Word to the wise for dudes who want to take home a stripper: eye contact is a turn on.

OKAY, now here’s the real thing I want to talk about today: CHUCK KLOSTERMAN.

I just finished “Killing Yourself to Live” and I gotta tell you – it was the shittiest, self-gratifying-ist, narcissistic first person account I have ever read. And I know from shitty, self-gratifying, narcissistic first person accounts; I just read Lance Bass’ “Out of Sync.” Lance’s book was all about his formative years and realizing he was gay while wearing stupid costumes and thinking he ruled the world when he sang in N*SYNC for all of 5 seconds sometime in the late ‘90s/early aughts. The book was worse than it sounds, Chuck… and it was better than yours!

So let’s take it back just a moment. Just who is Chuck Klosterman? This guy.

Chuck Klosterman is a rock critic from North Dakota who apparently spent the late 80s/early 90s loving Ass Metal, and seems to be the only person in the world who hasn’t gotten over that phase of his life. It is NOT OK to like the same music you liked when you were 15 (especially if you’re a boy.) He seriously mentions rocking out to a ‘Skid Row’ song that wasn’t even ’18 and Life.’ What? CHUCK, liking horrible shit in an unironic way doesn’t make you hip, it makes you twee.

The premise of Chuck Klosterman’s ricockulous book is that he takes a road trip across the US for three weeks stopping off at all the places where dead rockers met their maker. (There are poor people in China who don't even have road trips!) Aside from the road trip aspect in a stupid car he names his 'Tauntaun', it sounds like it could be cool, right? Everyone loves dead rockers! But it wasn’t cool, not even for a moment. The book was about 3 women that Chuck Klosterman pines away for in exactly the same manner rendering them into mere symbols of some sort of fleeting femininity that Chuck Klosterman finds appealing. He loves beautiful quirky women with huge brains and big opinions about random stupid pop culture tidbits. OH! How he gets high and creates banal scenarios in which he tries to decide which woman is for him. If he chooses one, will he be forever lost to a world without ancillary beautiful women who can climb on rooftops in North Dakota in the middle of the night?

I’m about to go batshit just thinking about it. Chuck Klosterman is such a virgin that he thinks that all women will swoon over some randomly quoted Radiohead song! Chuck Klosterman spends pages wondering about a kiss. A KISS! Jesus, Mary and Joe Cocker. I can’t take a grown man seriously who’s singular obsession in life is women, who can’t even fantasize beyond a kiss. It’s so ridiculous; I ended up wondering if it was some sort of game. Like – is he writing like a douchbag because he thinks that women reading this book will think that it’s romantic? Well, Chuck – I don’t think it’s romantic; I think it’s cloying. I think you’re a bigger cheater for spooning that woman all night and loving every minute of it, while some poor retarded woman who pretends to like listening to you opine about Ace Frehly sits on the other side of the country believing she has your undivided romantic attention. If a guy I was dating told me that he messed up and bagged some chick he didn’t care about after a long night of shooters at Rainey’s, I would be pissed, but I would get over it. If my guy told me that he spooned some bitch all night and it made him think of the opening sequence of “Purple Rain” and he somehow felt complete… well, he better take a running start, because I am coming for his junk with the biggest knife I can find.

Here’s the thing I hated most about this book – it’s not actually about dead rock stars at all. Chuck Klosterman actually goes to these places that could be compelling (Chelsea Hotel, plane crash sites, The South) and only tells stories about himself. Is there really a market for people wanting to know the soundtrack of some rando guy’s life who was born in 1972. That’s not enough time to believe your opinion to be the second coming; I mean, I read Madeline Albright’s book and thought to myself: “Give it some time, Maddy. Time gives some perspective.” Also, is it really necessary to get Chuck Klosterman’s opinion on why people love “Led Zeppelin.” (Let me give you a hint, Chuck: Jimmy Page’s guitar make you want to take your clothes off and Robert Plant’s orgiastic voice makes you want to pursue the fastest, most animalistic, back-arching path to climax.) Chuck Klosterman thinks it’s because of Jimmy Page’s obsession with Alistair Crowley. Seriously? Once again, you can file Chuck Klosterman’s inability to get anything worth getting on the fact that he has the sexual maturity of a freshman in high school.

I do want to point out that “Killing Yourself to Live” came out in 2005. As of today, that was three years ago. I mention this, because I have been railing against Chuck Klosterman for being irrelevant and out of touch, et cetera… and while those things are true, it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t mention that fact that I am three years late to the “This is the Worst Book Ever” dinner table. I do understand that criticizing something so entirely off the American Pop Radar is worse than Chuck Klosterman writing the original piece that got my thong in a twist. This trend, however, of digestible, media fast food that must be consumed the moment the microwave oven dings causes me alarm. It makes me wonder: if this book was going to be irrelevant a mere three years after publication, doesn’t that mean by its very essence, it was irrelevant at it's point of conception? I can’t accept that people can get away with saying stupid shit like: “Oh, that song. That was the jam of 2006. No one likes that song any more.” Bullshit that I don’t like “Hips Don’t Lie” anymore! I like it even more now because I’m not supposed to. (By the way – when will hip-hop artists ever learn that putting the year in your song is like putting a “Best Used By” date on your art? It’s like ‘Naughty by Nature’ and that damn ‘Nineteen Naughty One’ title. That said, OPP is still my jam.)

To sum up: Chuck Klosterman is a douche, pop culture cycles through at laser light speed, and I used to be a stripper. No, I didn’t forget that’s the premise of this blog. I used to be a stripper. I used to work the pole. I once made a $1200 tip. I wore high heels for 7 hours a day, changed my costume 6 times a day, and toyed with every Tom, Dick, and Sally who walked in the door. I was good at my job, and unlike Chuck Klosterman, I never took it for something that it never was. I took my clothes off to Motley Crue. You won’t find me spending pages upon pages expounding on the merits of “Theater of Pain” simply because I gave a lap dance to a Saudi Prince. That, Chuck Klosterman, is giving meaning to the meaningless, and I refuse to do it.

I gotta go. I’m still fucking pissed about this stupid book. The next book on my list is “The Spoils of Poynton” by Henry James.

Don’t worry – I’ll write soon about being a friggin’ stripper.

Until then… stay sexy!
xxxLex