Wednesday, November 29, 2006

ain't goin no place

Nothing could have gotten me to work tonight, and I was supposed to go. I need to go. There's plenty to motivate me if I were open to motivation: the Vanagon is in the shop for costly repairs, my computer is not nearly as fixed as I thought it was, my boyfriend is pretty and has expensive tastes, and so on. But every night for the last three nights, when it's time to hustle my dance things into their special bag, I get cold and queasy like a middle-schooler on algebra-test morning.

I am such a puss.

I don't know what all the dread is about. I figure I'm pretty thick-skinned by now about being groped, slobbered on, dicked around, cheated out of money, and turned down. I know how to charm and connive and pout and nod my head and winkle the money out Ben by Ben and Jackson by Jackson. When I'm in stripper mode, when I'm on, when I'm really and truly Grace, it's easy. But I just don't feel like it right now. It's hard to summon Grace up on command. Right now it's just me, and I feel like hanging out with the cats in my sweatshorts, reading and drinking tea and biting my nails.

Just the act of picking out which frilly, see-thru number I'll be sporting that night makes me feel like a dumbtard, the last few days. Lessee, I've got a so-tiny-you-can-see-both-ass-cheeks black sequined satin skirt with matching bra...I could wear it with a black thong, in case I start my period tonight, but it makes my boobs look small(er.) Or, if I wear a schoolgirl skirt, I can get away with knee-socks so I wouldn't have to shave my legs right now. Slut-tastic pink salsa dress with spangly flower applique? White booty shorts and matching bikini top? Did I really buy this shit?

(To be fair to myself, not all of it. Quite a few things were given to me in moments of mysterious kindness by co-workers who were probably drunk. One or two were gifts from infatuated customers whose sartorial taste did not match their generosity. Or whose ideal pin-up was a redheaded girl in a signal-orange, dark-light responsive fishnet tube-dress. Whatever. I think my point stands, regardless.)

I'd feel as dumb dressed like this right now as I did being crammed into a tutu and shoved on stage at the fucking Elk's Lodge for the fucking ballet recital when I was eight. Smile, they say, and give you a push and then you're out there and you have to smile. Eesh.

I think I could even pull the whole act off -- the Hey, how are you, sweetie and the falsh eye lashes batting and the chit-chat and the Boy, I'd love to get naked for you now -- if I could just do it in the comfort of pajama pants and reading glasses and french-braids. You don't know. Maybe you'd love it. You'd feel like you were over at my house and we were renting movies and any minute I'm going to start yawning and telling you how sleepy I am and suggest going to bed and there's slim chance you might get to feel me up, but most likely you will just be shifting around in bed all night with your raging boner listening to me breathe. Is that sexy?

No?

Well, good thing I didn't go to work then.

NB: This is my hundredth post. Hoist a beverage of your choice for me.

3 comments:

Brad K. said...

Grace,

How about this? Think of what you bring with you, as you go to work. You have time and attention to share, think of how your club and customers enjoy that time. Think of the gifts you make, of your time, your smile, and the fantasy's you help your customers experience. Accentuate the (gag me with spoon) positive!

You might stop by the drugstore and talk to a pharmacist, about winter depression and reduced sunlight effects due to the shorter days. There are some particular lights, and a pattern for using them, that help some people through the holiday seasons.

Or perhaps it is just time for a change, maybe into politics, bar tending, Merchant Marine, or open your own club.

Blessed be!

Chet said...

"...pajama pants and reading glasses and french-braids... shifting around in bed all night with your raging boner listening to me breathe. Is that sexy?"

Yes. Yes it is. It evokes that beautiful soothing tension you felt in your teens, when you knew this was just a brief intersection but there was another time or place or dimension where it wasn't, and just seeing the possibility of being connected to someone with casual profoundness gave you a vicarious oneness with the universe.

And if you do find your own life partner and fall into a rut of many such pajama-pantsed evenings, after what feels like one too many of them you'll suddenly remember the promise of that brief intersection, and behind those reading glasses you'll recognize the sexiest person in the universe. And you'll relish the challenge of convincing them anew.

Thanks for the lightning-bolt to my past. Again.

Audrey said...

I know that feeling. Where you just don't WANT to go to that place where you will sit (or dance) and think about all of the better things you could be doing with your time. I call in sick on those mornings.

That is the same reason why I'm at home on a Saturday night, reading your blog. I'd much rather spend all day in my pajamas than comb my hair and meet my friends.