ziggy, drugs and rolling down hill

He was singing “Why Don't We get Drunk and Screw” and I started dancing with him right up there at the microphone.  He was wild and absolutely hysterical.  He had natural bright red hair, full sleeve tattoos, and he was covered in freckles from head to toe.  I always thought he resembled a certain famous rock star. His name was Ziggy.  I was on call that night.  I got a call to do a show near by so, I intended to come back before last call.  Ziggy asked me for my number, and I wasn't sure, so I said if he was there when I got back, then I would give it to him.  I returned and he was waiting for me.  He became my first rock and roll boyfriend.  We frequented the Fog Bank, Boccis Cellar, the Garage and he also was my bouncer on many occasions.  He was little like a cartoon character, he was great at shows but, I swear sometimes he thought he was the one putting on the performance.  He had been straight edge his whole life until the age of 25.  Which was right before I met him.  He was extremely charismatic at exuded confidence and was sharp as a tack.  He introduced me to Shiloh,  the friend of mine that met Garp and I at the Watering Hole, a year or so later.  Ziggy loved Hot Cinnamon toasts too.  He was a professional BMX rider and lived in Feton, with the owner of the company that sponsored him.  We would go to Monty’s log Cabin, get absolutely hammered, then go to Safeway to get more.  His studio was dark and damp.  It always smelled musty, and like incense.  My first recallable significant black out was in that studio.  He started shooting speed somewhere during the course of our relationship.  I can never get over, how oblivious I was to the effects of that behavior. I still slept with him and didn't think twice about it until he was well into his addiction.  He started asking Shiloh to get him needles, where she worked but she wouldn’t do it.  He never did it in front of me, but I had no idea how dangerous that was at the time.  I think I loved him.  I wrote a song about him. He ended up moving down to San Diego and I never heard from him again.

I met Garp a year later.  And just like Ziggy, I could see that Garp wanted me at an arms length.   One conversation between us, took place in my bed where he told me that typically girls who went out with him and his friends were just ”slumming it” and they would wise up sooner or later.  I tried to tell him that whether I liked it or not I was completely into him.   

He got into some ridiculous fight where he and a friend of his were trying to knock each other of their barstools at the Blue, or so he told me, and he broke his leg.  Three days later one of his friends practically kidnapped him, to bring him to the doctor.  The day they put him in his cast, he invited me to see his band practice at some storage facility on the westside.  I went, and when he could barely stand up from all the vicodin and booze in his system, I took him home to my house. He passed out in my car and when we got home, I had to carry him inside. Looking at him in this state made me uneasy.  I kept checking to make sure he was still breathing.  He woke up in the middle of the night and was shaking pretty badly.  He asked me if we had any alcohol in the house.  Jim had a small stash, that had probably been packed, moved and unpacked 5 times by  now.   I went into the kitchen and brought Garp back a bottle, of god knows what.  When that one was done, I retrieved another and we went back to sleep.  The next morning after he left I found both bottles empty.  I knew that what he had going on, was a little more than a party.

January 26, 2011

Dear Garp,

This is truly the best gift.  I may not ever fully let go of you or what you mean to me whether fantasized or real.  I wish you the very best.  I look back at those times when we were young, and crazy.  I had so much pain around breaking away from you.  With all that has happened I sometimes get over whelmed.  I mean its enough to write a book for god sakes.  Maybe I’m grieving  myself.  Reliving all this stuff is like unraveling a ball of twine, I’m finding it hard to stop.  I need a witness, if I get it down on paper maybe god will see it.  And help the universe see that I’m still here, and I still need help and mercy.  For so long, I tried to do it on my own.  Lonely afraid, rejected by those around me who were never really available anyway.  I realize now, that I too was unavailable.  

love, 

Anahata

I knew that he had a date with some other girl that night and I was on call anyway.  I was feeling lonely and defeated and just wanted to get a drink, maybe,  go out somewhere, I thought maybe I could convince his housemate to go with me.  I went to the house, and his housemate said he wasn't up for it.  I ended up calling Garp, asking him when he would be home, and he seemed a little surprised that I was asking such a question.  I started to get the feeling I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time.  I was so embarrassed.  I felt like he now saw how lonely and pathetic I really was. I went home. I had already had a bottle of wine when the phone rang.  A  couple somewhere over the hill called for a show.  I couldn’t drive so Jim came with me as my driver and bouncer.  He would have had to pry my glass of wine out of my hand, but I made into the car before he could get to it, and finished it there.  I told him that I was completely incapacitated to make any good decisions and that he was to do all my thinking for me.  We got to the place and it was your run- of- the- mill  couple with a mange aux trois fantasy.  A whole lotta bartering and checking in with each other, to see if it was what the other had expected.  I told Jim to come get me when the time was up.  Eventually I felt it had been way to long, and went out to see if I had already gone over time.  I had, and he was clueless as far as what I told him about having to be my brain, and I was pompous and completely annoyed.  My drinking was starting to bring issues more suited for a therapy session up, and I found it necessary to work these issues out  at 2:00 in the morning, when I exhausted and had smoking a whole pack of cigarettes just to stay awake.  I mentioned to Jim that if he couldn’t start doing a better job of being my bouncer than I threatened to stop drinking.  Which didn’t make whole  lot of sense.  I began to confess that I felt that there was something inherently wrong with me.  I got the sense that my family, my history and my past were these festering demons that were standing in the way of my true happiness.  Shortly after that I expired and went to bed.  

sorting it out

  I would occasionally go to Dakota, a gay bar on Pacific Ave, downtown.  I wanted to meet  people, but I was having a hard time penetrating the outer-walls of the lesbian subculture.  At the time, I thought it was because I looked too straight, or no one really wanted to talk to me.  I think now, that it was more reflective of the fact that, the people I really find interesting weren't hanging out in bars. I was completely incapable of pursing interests of my own, with out alcohol because I really didn't know what my interests  were.  I didn’t know myself at all.  I would think about joining some sort of club, but what would I join?  I was a vacant shell of a person.  And I was very busy trying to fill it up with alcohol.  My lack of self-esteem and diluted sense of self affected every relationship I have ever had.  So I would go to Dakota, sip a few lemon drops, at the bar, telling myself that I was sophisticated and waiting to warm up.  Then a couple hours later, I would go home with the intensity of my loneliness, at least subdued by the vodka. One of the bouncers there was named Felicia.  For many years I couldn't figure out why I named myself after a short, stocky, butch-dyke.  Until now,  I needed an alter ego who could defend me.  

I did meet one girl at Dakota, named Emily.  Oddly enough the first two girls I went out with shared the same names as my two very best friends, in high school.  Kim and Emily. Weird.  Emily was an actual modern dancer, born and raised in Santa Cruz.  She was similar in stature to Kim, but much more innocent.  We went out a couple of times.  We went to the bar and rang in 2002 together.  She was silky and smooth.  Her hair glossy natural, brown hair,  was shoulder length.  She seemed wholesome.  Eventually our relationship ran its course, and petered out, and we lost contact.  Probably because I was really hard to relate to.  I was still trying to pin point where I fell on the Kinsey scale, but when I would get drunk at the bar, I would often go home with a man.  Men were easier, predictable and familiar and a cheap alternative to driving drunk. I followed the same routine, night after night.  Bar..., drink..., back to his house..., sex..., hangover..., walk of shame home.  Day after day, night after night. There were at least 100 nameless faces.  That was an extremely numb period of my life.   I went to a lot of karaoke.  My life was a smattering of margaritas, cosmos and morning after pills. I had a one regular repetitive one night stand, in the neighborhood where I live in now.  I did a lot of bizarre things that I am embarrassed of. I was just starting learning the ropes of my dancing career and was depressed and still mildly suicidal.  I had been prescribed Paxil when I was with Joe, but my drinking was most definitely negating its effectiveness.  I was still working my day job, at a picture framing store and Gallery, on Soquel Avenue.  One day, I was helping a woman who turned out to be a therapist.  It also turned out, that Abby would then be, my therapist on and off for the next seven years.   We worked in circles until she tried to look at my drinking.  She asked me to limit myself to three drinks a night, and see what happened.  I stopped seeing her, thats what happened. I tried to control it, but when I realized that wasn't as fun, I just stopped taking the pills and took a little breather from therapy.  I do have to mention, that the night I met Paul,  my repetitive one one night stand, did change my life.  Paul had just beaten some kind of brain cancer earlier that year, and the night we met, we talked for hours about making it through difficult times.  I think that was the first time, ever in my life, I had had a conversation of that nature.  He made me feel like I wasn't alone in my suffering, and that it would pass.  It could have been my self-medicating or that long night with Paul, but I felt a shift out of my deep, dark depression. Unexpectedly I had the will to live. 

I quit my day job when I started doing the math, and saw that working a nine to five job was clearly a waste of my time.  All of a sudden exotic dancing turned into my career.  I was serious about my music,  make-up, and costumes.  I put a lot of thought into being prepared.  I had underwear that I could string alphabet beads onto, to spell the bachelors name.  This was my passion, not just a way to make a quick buck, to score drugs.  My body really was a commodity at that point.    One time I tripped on a blanket at a show and twisted my ankle.  I remember having concerns about what I would do, if I ever got really injured, what would I do?    I had a personal trainer, and usually ran 4 miles a day and weight trained with weights every other day.  I was on a low carb, whole grain, high protein diet, as well as at least a bottle of wine a day. Felicia was everything that the real me wasn’t.  She didn't’ care what other people thought, she demanded the best, and got it. My life was fancy free.  I would sometimes find $200 cash in a pocket that I had forgotten about.  Jim and I became friends, and eventually we moved in together.  It worked great because I got first dibs on shows, and he could always get a hold of me,  even if I was sleeping.  I always found that routine a little odd. I could get a call at 3:00 in the morning, after having slept for 3 hours, put on make-up, go get naked for an hour, and then come home and go back to bed, like it was all a dream.  The worst part about being on call was being clean shaven at all times.  One of my least favorite parts of the job.  Jim and I usually hung out together at home, watching South Park, or sometimes I would go to the bar alone.

Private shows were a different beast than bachelor parties. There was the guy who wanted me to stay in my street clothes and pretend to kick him in the balls, the guy who wanted me just chat with him, the guy that had me put make-up on him, the guy who had an envelope of 5000 dollars and asked me to keep getting money from it for my tips, as we went along, the husband and wife couple where the wife was disabled so she would treat him to a stripper every so often, the guy who perpetually called to have a girl oil wrestle him for $50, and some that some turned my stomach. There were many men that I thought  I could never possibly forget, but have.   I started to think that I would never see it all. There was always a stranger adventure around the corner just waiting for me.     

grapefruit and fried potatoes

My reflecting upon how I remember my interactions, with my mother, doesn't mean she was a bad person.  The sad fact is she was just re-playing her childhood.  Just as her mother had replayed  hers while raising her children.  Although I think it could be more aptly described as  training. Raising by definition, actually implies caring for, and nurturing, so I think training is more accurate.    In many ways, she did try to change the way she mothered me, from what she grew up with. I was only hit once or twice where as my grandmother resorted to physical violence often. And my grandmother’s mother and father  resorted  daily. Im sure if she could understand how her actions, or lack there of, made me feel, she would tell me that was never her intention.  I know that it wasn’t.  It never ceases to amaze me how the interpretation of someone else's actions, can be so detrimental and sometimes fatal.  When I think about how many situations I have falsely interpreted, I am baffled at how often, it does not reflect the desire of the person sending the original message. I have tried to cover up these misinterpretations with addictions, and repeating painful, instinctive behaviors that don't serve me.  It’s like a very dangerous game of telephone.  Some messages are communicated well and are received the way they were intended.  But so often these generational wounds are conveyed and absorbed sub-consciously, when the message was never really intended for me at all.  Most often it’s just being spewed in my direction, when really in should be entering the ears of  the person at the root of the problem.  Being an especially sensitive being, I internalized  most of the negative happenings in my childhood.  I had no way of separating what was being transferred from my  family’ s deep roots of fear and shame, and what I rightfully brought on myself.  It was all I knew.  As a young child, my mother took me to the library, and sang to me at night to help me fall asleep.  What she was missing, was a genuine interest in me.  Most often, I felt that she saw me more as a refection of herself instead of a separate being with a pure soul of my own.  I think most of what she did was motivated by, and then reinforced by what she thought, other, people would think.  For years I would purpose different ways of trying to get a deeper connection with her.  Mostly by sharing what was happening in my life.  Which was like trying to put out a fire with gasoline.  The more I talked about myself the further away she seemed.  I didn't realize this until I had been attempting this method for at least a decade.  

I thought that maybe if I told her about my dancing and she didn't tell anyone (like I had asked) that maybe I could, trust her. Doubting myself as usual, I thought maybe my pervious subject matter just wasn't important enough.  And clearly her daughter being a stripper would surly  evoke some interest. That logic seems so incredibly backwards.  Of course, she ended up telling my brother and my aunt.  Once again I thought to myself, “what is wrong with me?, and “why can’t she be the mother I wanted”.  What’s interesting to me is that I had a great relationship with her mother, my grandmother.  Grandma was actually my safe haven during my early teenage years.  When my parents fighting got to be too much, or my dads temper got out of control, I could walk to her house.  Sometimes I’d go in the middle of the night saying Hail Mary’s the whole way, in hopes that I wouldn’t get attacked as I made my way down the street in the dark. My grandma was second generation, Italian. Sicilian.  When I came over we would paint our nails, play piano, and she would section me grapefruit or make me fried potatoes.  I always found the gap between my aunts and uncles experience of her, and mine to be sad and in some ways uncomfortable.  I know my mom was intimidated by the bond I had with my grandma. She could listen to me.  She did things for me that she knew I liked.  I was so insecure at that time, I could never ever ask for what I wanted but she could always tell when I was hungry.  She was available emotionally to me in a way my mother wasn't.  The greatest thing about her, was her sense of humor.   No matter what we said, we spoke the same language.  She could see the way things just didn't make sense in the world. When someone did something she didn't like she would say “off with their heads!”.  She had the best laugh.  We would talk and laugh.  She may not have ever rid herself of all her demons, but she went through a lot of therapy as a result of two nervous breakdowns, when her kids were little.  She had seven.  My mom was third in the birth order.  Later on my grandma told me that she never wanted that many kids, but birth control was not an option.  She was completely overwhelmed and her family was no help to her either.  The difference between my mother and my grandma is that her defenses could be penetrated. Just like mine.  My mothers defenses were like The Great Wall of China, they could be seen from space.           

mommy dearest

On some level I felt that Garp cared about me, whether he was willing to admit it or not.  And at that time, I thought I could drag his true feelings out of him.  I have this mental picture of me, trying to physically stretch the love right out of him, like silly putty.  I thought if I pulled it slow, the piece would just surrender, give in, to my forcefully drawing it toward me, and wouldn't snap.  That was my hook. I had an uncanny ability to be attracted to men who could love me on the inside, but could never expose that love, in a way that convinced me I was worth it.  I  know now that I was just carrying out the program. I was still sick from the neglect and abuse that infected me as a child.  I wish I could have saved myself a lot of pain and strife by perhaps being an entirely different person to begin with.  

At the age of sixteen, I was so devastatingly lonely in that house.  There was no family anymore.  The two bedroom condo, in a well groomed complex, where I lived with my mother and brother, was simply a place where we kept our stuff and slept.  Like a motel room that we paid for with our emotional welfare.  My mom was often gone until seven or eight at night.  We made dinner for ourselves.  She was gone in more ways than one.  My brother spent all his time in the basement (which was his room),  anesthetizing himself with bags of Dorittos.   When my mom would come home, she’d take him to Wendy's.  He was over 250 pounds at the age of fourteen. I would hang out in my room and listen to music, write, and pretend that I was in a different world from hers. I could find a way of  being content and quiet until there came the knock on the door.  My stomach would knot up and I knew my peaceful disposition was saying goodnight for the evening.  That was her chance to drag me into her disfunction, like a circus animal that was paraded around for her sick entertainment.  If I forgot to flush the toilet she would harass me until I got up and flushed it, shaming me telling me I was a slob, and inconsiderate.  When I had just gotten comfortable again she would find something else for me to do.  Put a dish in the sink.  Move my backpack,  or she would continuously try to interrupt and talk to me about nonsense.    It wasn't about the simplicity of keeping up with my chores. It was a way for her to control and belittle me.  I always felt worth less.  I felt like I was a big waste of space.  Like if only could just disappear into thin air, she wouldn't have anyone to pull around by their heart dragging me,  until I would completely leave my body and go through the motions.  After hours of getting up and down I would cry myself to sleep.  Thinking someday I could leave and be free of her.  During one particular episode,  she was going on about god knows what, and I tried leaving my room, she followed me to the living room. Then she followed me into the basement.  Continuing to yell and cut me into little pieces with her words. When I finally tried to leave the house she said she would call the police and have me arrested.  I knew that they might not really arrest me, but I was sure that that kind of incident would fuel her insane antics for longer than I was willing to endure, so I went back into the house defeated, trapped. I was to young to be out on my own.  I had made pros and cons lists of running away, but I had no where to go, and I figured if I could just hold out until I was 18, I’d have a much better chance of survival.  There were times when she would accuse me of being a slut just because I had a boyfriend, accusing me of having sex on the kitchen table because, she had found a scratch in the varnish. She was a monster.  I tried my best to do the right things, but it was never enough.  No matter what I did I would never get a connection with my mother.  She was either jealous of me for having friends, taking credit for my achievements, or accusing me of being too wild.  I never had the kind of mother I could trust.  I know there where times when she said she loved me, but how could I believe her when she did what she did.  She stayed with my dad for way too long.  She continued to expose us to violence, verbal and physical abuse and never once did she try and protect us.  She could never acknowledge the light, inside of me.  She was obsessed with herself, and her all consuming self-image and ego.  My mother was the kind of person who could look me straight in the eye while I was talking, and never hear a word I was saying.  It didn't matter if I was talking about homework, sports events that I was involved with at school, my friends, youth group, whatever she didn't care.  What she did care about, was herself. 

dancing for my life

I wasn’t always as one client put it, the “Goddess of Erotica”.  It took some time, hard mental gymnastics and hefty dose of  disassociation.  At first I was doing it solely for the money. My first show was at Seascape. In one of those big houses, it was a gated community.  Jim came with me as my driver, and a guy in his mid 50‘s opened the door.   He walked me up the stairs to his bedroom (one of five) and Jim waited down stairs.  At this time my rules had not been established yet.  He laid down on his bed and I started my music.  He said that wasn't necessary.  I was confused. Well if I wasn't going to dance what, was, I going to do? I thought.  He reached for my breasts, and asked me for a hand job.  I refused.  Trying to skirt the issue I said I would prefer to dance, and turned on the music.  In the end he ended up fondling me for the better part of the hour and then I finally gave in and gave him what he wanted.  At least for a little while.  Finally the hour was up and I gathered my things and went back down stairs.  He showed us to the door and said good night .  When we got back to the car I told Jim that that guy didn't even tip me and I even gave him a hand job.  Jim looked shocked, he said “you did what?”.   “I thought thats what I was supposed to do” I said.  He was flabbergasted.  Apparently there was some sort of misunderstanding.  I interpreted the polices incorrectly, and he actually, really didn't want me doing that stuff.  Well phew, that was a relief.  After that experience I could tell I needed a lot more training in the field.  I inquired to Jim about what I was supposed to do, and he was useless.  I had to learn the ropes myself.  The building of Felicia was one of trail and error.  What it took for me to have guy after guy lick whipped cream off my boobs, is absolutely boggling to me now.  But it was only a matter of time, before it became about as personal to me, as shaking hands. Bitter sweet.  These days when I fall in love with a particularly awesome song, I miss that time in my life. Sometimes I just miss using dance to expel my shadow spirits. I miss being idolized.  I realize now that those men became just as captivated by me, as I had once, been captivated by Kim.  It was a very powerful feeling.  Being powerful, was especially healing.  I was in charge, and they looked at me like I was to good to be true, and in their minds I was.  

After a couple of two girl shows and acquiring a little more confidence, I began learning tricks to make more money, become less self-conscious, and make sure I left with a smile on my face. I discovered what kind of props I needed to accomplish this.  I was shlepping a huge duffle bag with a cd player, whipped cream, lotion, baby-wipes, chocolate syrup, a multitude of outfits, extra shoes, prosthetic penis, vibrator, a strobe light, candles (mexican in glass) and a sheet to every show.   I would often frequent the Safeway across the street from my house, 3 times during the weekend to restock my whipped cream.  I’m sure at some point they began to wonder what I was using it for.

Remembering those songs, how I moved.  Feeling like my movement was finally revealing a space for me to breathe, beneath the the pounds of emotions that kept me buried for my whole life.  I loved to dance.  Not the kinda dancing you do with friends, the interruptive kind unobstructed, unadulterated dance.  I loved to let my self hang on the the notes, to emphasize where the next move was going.  I could get lost in the momentum and let go a any self-criticism.  Dancing was saving my soul. Little by little, the child in me was being protected by this new found warrior I possessed, named Felicia.  But as Felicia became stronger the child inside just got more timid, as now she had someone to shelter her. 

I ofter referred to it as interactive movement because most of the time I was straddling or about to straddle a guy sitting on a chair, laying on the floor, or laying in a bed.  I could do backwards summersaults off their laps, and suspend in mid- air with just my feet hooked on their chair.  I would walk around them and they became somewhat of a center piece or a focal point of my dance.  The music I picked was completely representational of my art.  My audience didn't care what kind of music it was, as long as it was genuine.  It was beautiful.  I think thats what the guys liked about me.  I meant it.  I know it sounds like Im just trying to desexualize what most people consider to be equitable to prostitution,  but its true.  Once I got in the zone, the only thing that I cared about was  captivating their attention and being compensated for my efforts. 

One trick was having chocolate syrup races.  I would lay on the floor naked and draw two lines from my toes up to my nipples, then two guys one on each side of me on their knees, would race liking off the syrup until one reached the top.  Whoever won got to race the next guy free, and the new contestant would pay $20 to participate.  That was the trick, to keep the money flowing like some kind of indecent pulley system.  I did it with lap dances too.  I would tell the first guy that some one had anonymously bought him a lap dance, and when it was over suggest he buy one for someone else.  Peer pressure was one of my greatest tools. If problems arose with one of the guys,  all I had to do was make him look like he was cheep, disrespectful or a party-pooper in-front of his friends, and he would always fall back into line. These mind tricks were like some form of brainwashing, where everybody won.  I would leave the show feeling like super-woman. I experienced a sense of fullness and it appealed to my extreme nature.  I would work super hard for hours starting at seven pm and sometimes not get home till 3am of for or, even as the sun was coming up. I could pull in $1000 in one night.  Typical Saturdays were $400 -$800 dollars.  And then a few shows during the week nights for spending money.  I was ALWAYS on call.  But it was feast or famine. Summers were often the busy season, with most people getting married in the summer.  Holidays were often a buzz kill for most people. as they spent them with family. The winter was considered the off season.  

I needed to find the balance between what I was comfortable giving up, and what I kept to myself. For me my neck was the sacred space.  No neck kissing touching or licking ...ever.  That place was saved for me. My feet, legs, butt, thighs, stomach, ribs, boobs, chest, arms, head, shoulders, knees and toes were all fair game, as long as they made a payment.   Thats usually why I brought a driver to the bigger parties.  I needed someone I could trust who could be my banker and keep track of my money.   

I had would state the rules and once every one was clear. My bouncer would turn off the lights.  The strobe light made every motion look dramatic and overstated.  Often the guys would just stare in awe. I would often walk with pride and strength like I was puffing out my feathers to show them my confidence. I  approached the bachelor crossing one leg over the other until I reached his knees.   Just at the right moment I would jump onto the bachelors lap straddling him slowly going up and down. I then would wrap my arms around his neck, lean back and circle right up to his face.  Step off, straddle them backwards and somersault off their lapp.  The first 3 songs were all about the bachelor, he got every thing free.  Although, I would, try to convince his friends to stuff bills in his pants, shirt, socks, whatever. 

There was a couple of times Garp came with me, when I went to dance.  Once he came in and another time he waited outside.  He was pretty concerned about me going alone, so he said he would go with me if I ever needed it.  I had other drivers as well, but there were often times the calls came in late at night and on short notice, so if it was just a single guy or a small number I would usually go on my own.

when do i start

 The company I worked for used to offer many different forms entertainment, but when Jim took over, it ended up funneling into exclusively exotic dancing for bachelor parties and private shows.   I found the number for Entertainment California, in the phone book under adult entertainment. I called and Jim answered. He seemed nice on the phone, so I went to his house for an audition. Jim was completely harmless. He was in his early thirties, dirty blonde hair with a cheap looking hair cut, and stood about 5’9” 200 lbs.  He was very chatty but also straight forward and relatable at the same time.  We walked into his substantially large living room with small couch.  There was no other furniture, and the room was cold.  The walls were painted creme and the lights were dimmed.  We sat down on the couch and he went over some general information about who the company served, how the shows were booked, and what I would make from the booking.  After my first audition at the club, this seemed like it would be a piece of cake.  He was pretty straight forward and to the point.  He made reference to what the law considered “lewd acts” and how anything falling into that category was illegal.  He said, that what I did, in the name of the business, was exotic dancing was not against the law.  So as far as he was concerned stick to the contract and interpret it as I liked.   After we finished chatting he asked me for my music and I got myself prepared for my chance to show him what I could do.  This time I chose a song much more down to earth, Cellophane by Amanda Ghost. It was kind of  a folky rock tune, with a nice back beat.  To my surprise, I was nervous.  I started to feel conscious of my movements, and realized how the words of the song were telling a story.  My story.  The cool air of the room made the beginning a little stiff.  My limbs cut through space somewhat sloppily, because I hadn't yet learned how to punctuate my movements.  I felt hurried and off beat.  The music seemed to go on forever, as I tried to sway a little differently.  I was not yet attuned to use his energy and his body to play off of.  Later on in my career, I learned how to use eye contact, or a slight gentle touch on the shoulder to add intrigue.  Despite the fact that I finished feeling a little was a little disoriented, I was hired on the spot.  

hi, my name is......

My stage name was Felicia Fearless.  Living vicariously through her cheeky and dauntless essence, was therapeutic for me.  Being Felicia, taught me how to have boundaries.  At the  beginning of every show, before the music, I had to set the rules. No taking pictures,  no touching without permission, and no touching with out paying for it. They were clear, simple, and concise.  I discovered my worth. Sure, I had equated myself to a salable good, but a valuable commodity none the less.  I felt that if they wanted what I had, then they had to pay for it.  Twenty dollars per lap dance, per song. $200 extra for my XXX show. And, that was on-top of the one-hundred  dollars I got just for walking through the door. 

Heres a tip, if you want a stripper to like you, pay her. Pay her a lot.  In my mind, the more they paid me, the higher my self-appraisal was. Luckily for me, I almost always had good shows, and very rarely had occasions, where I felt that I was not getting payed what I deserved.  The best clients were blue collar workers.  Those guys worked hard for their money, but were often the most generous. They knew how to have a good time and didn't take themselves too seriously.  The worst, were the wealthy, upper class, country club, types.  Once a monetary transaction occurred, they boasted a sense of of entitlement. They acted like they owned me, and that never faired for good energy during the show.  I was always having to repeat the rules, over and over again, until sometimes I just had to leave.  Drugs were often present, especially at  late night appearances, but I kept my nose clean of that stuff.  The funny thing about guys high on coke, is that they would pay me $300 to watch me tie my shoelaces.  Sometimes I felt a little bad about taking huge sums of money from them, but hey, that was how I made a living. I had to be firm and stay in control.  My safety and the profitableness of the show depended on it.  I think the reason I never had anything bad happen to me, was because I  always assumed authority.  For that single hour, I could have men pay me what I could have made in a 40 hour week, at Starbucks.  I could convince them that they were in for a surprise, and then whip them with their own belt. If I felt the reigns slipping away, and could not pull them back in, I left without hesitation. Although, there were a couple of close calls.

The Hollister show.  It was a three girl show.  We had two bouncers, Jim (the owner and my housemate) and Pete.  Angel and I arrived first.  We went to the bathroom to start getting ready, and wait for the third girl, who was meeting us there.  While we were in the bathroom, the energy in the house seemed to intensify and swell, like a bottle of soda pop falling down the stairs.  It was loud out there. They were becoming impatient.  They started knocking on the door and yelling for us to come out. It was a huge group of about 50 young men between the ages of 20 and 22.  The house was packed. Testosterone was buzzing through that place like yellow neon through a sign.  The third girl showed up and was getting ready.  I started to get a bad feeling about it.  Angel and I agreed that this show was about to end before it even started.  There were too many guys, too out of control already, and putting ourselves out there, would have been like throwing ourselves to the lions.  It was time to go.  Sometimes the flight in me would kick in, and when I felt that, it meant we had to leave fast.  Pete made up some excuse why we had to go back to our car, and we quickly made it out the door.  As we approached the drive way, a sea of guys came running out on to the lawn.  Jim stopped to talk with them (which was dumb), and some of them started chasing us.  Angel and I started sprinting for the car.  Not so easily done in platform heels and a g-string.  We made it into the car unscathed and locked the doors.  Pete went back for Jim.  A minute later Pete came back, knocked on our window and said  “get my bat”. Good grief, it was not going well.  Apparently a mob was outside and wouldn’t let Jim leave, without  getting their money back. So while Pete was trying to get Jim to make a break for it, Jim gave the guy ALL of the money in his pocket  (including the couple hundred dollars I had made from the previous show).  Pete had to come back to the car, drive up to where Jim was, and we opened the door, yelling for him to get in.  He finally got back to the car and we were all pretty shaken up.  We had to call the police, because my car was still parked directly in-front of their house.  We got an escort from a policeman, and made it safely home.  I guess there is some clothing store called Hollister now, and any time I see a shirt with that name on it, I remember that incident.  

on again, off again, jigity jig

Jim was not a fan of Garp, and the feeling was mutual.  Jim was protective of me, and felt the way Garp initially blew me off was unforgivable.  He, also wasn't all that keen on Garps drinking habits either, but as far as I was concerned it was none of his business. 

 When I arrived at Garps house, he acted as if I had just seen him yesterday.  Our reuniting felt like slipping into a pair of old jeans, worn in all the right places.  Of course he already had a few beers in him, but he seemed genuinely happy to see me. I guessed he was on a break from Maggie.   He and Maggie had split up right before I met him, but started seeing each-other again, shortly after I was out of the picture.  We didn't talk about what had happened.  I was afraid that if I brought it up, he might realize that he didn't really want me around. I don't recall if  I danced for him and his friends that night, or if he had just called me for a sexual release, but I saw an open space for myself, and quickly snuck into his altered state of reality. 

 I took a night off work to go watch his band play at the Jury Room, a dive bar across from the Santa Cruz County Court.  The guys in his band had been hanging out for hours, and by the time they started to play, they were pretty smashed. Garp had to lean against a pool table just to keep from falling over. I  had a lot to drink that night too. My hair was black and down past my shoulders. I wore a red sleeveless shirt, with a fishnet pattern in the shape of a heart on my chest, a pleated black, knee length skirt, and black pointy heels.  I felt like I was starting to appear more like a regular girlfriend, instead of a on-the-spot call in the night.  We left the Jury Room, and went to the Poet, another bar to close out the night. I was late and we barely had time to finish our Guiness before they kicked us out.  Luckily we made it back to his house, together and in one piece.    

We made our way into his room and instead of nestling under the covers, he sat up on the bed leaning against wall.   He began confessing to me how messed up he was.  He explained that I didn’t really know him, and if I did, I wouldn’t like him anyway.  His words were slurred and his sentences were incomplete. He was barely making any sense at all.  Fragmented pieces  of things he was ashamed of, his insecurities, and malignant spirits poured out of his lips and spilled down the front of his shirt.  I tried to mop them up as best I could but there was no stopping him.  I just listened until he drifted out of consciousness.  I lay there awake beside him, wondering what he meant. I stared to believe these were the thoughts that those “crazy pills” were supposed to suppress.   They served as a restraint, barring them from ever leaving the perverse cage of his own mind.  But there was something he said, that I was hoping wasn't so crazy.  He said, that he would love me, if only he wasn't so messed up.  Circling round and round, over and over in my head like a compass, was the hope that he would  realize that it was too late, and that he had, in fact, already fallen in love with me. 

The next morning we woke up to a beautiful, January, sunny day. He had described himself as not liking the outdoors, but somehow I managed to convince him to come with me to the beach.  After the usual routine, beer, shower-sex, we decided to  go to the beach, Natural Bridges.  As we were driving down Bay Street he finished his beer, and thew the bottle out the window. We got down to the sand, and we walked out towards the waters edge. Then unexpectedly, he just took off running.  He jumped into the ocean with wild abandon.  I couldn't believe it. Out of all the things I had witnessed him do, that was the most surprising of all.  That was the thing about Garp, his sweet and playful nature was  so attractive to me.  We walked up to the butterfly haven, half dressed, like a couple of curious kids.  I was so happy, but I knew I was living on borrowed time.  

On and off for the next few weeks he would call, and I’d come over.   I met his friends, went to see his band play, and hung out at his house.  Then he my borrowed time ran out.  Sober.  He wanted to be sober. He was aware of his alter ego and even had a name for it,  and once again, he pushed me away.  He told me that it was to risky to his sobriety to have contact with me.  Again I was crushed. 

I loved him too much. I went back on what I had promised to myself.  I had even changed my number, because I knew as soon as he got drunk again, he would call me, and I was powerless over saying no to him.  I still think to this day if he called me, it would be exactly the same way.  And that is the kind of permanent etching I mean when I say “the one”.  It kills me to say that, because it sounds like a fucking death sentence, to have this kinda unresolved longing forever.     

Our relationship was starting to resemble that of a cat with 9 lives. Soon, we  were once again reveling in our push and pull romance. Eventually we came to some sort of understanding.  I realized that he was never going to be interested in real relationship with me, and I would take what I could get.  He would occasionally get back together with Maggie and depending on how honest he felt like being, he would tell me that he hadn't talked to her in days.  So there we were, ensconced in a sanctified love affair, until it was her turn again.  I told him I loved him.  He said, I had better not because the people that he loved, and that loved him were always put through the ringer.

taking risks and liberated

This premature-coming out was due to my confusing childhood experiences, and fears accrued and fed during my teenage years. I questioned the origin of my deviant desires, and  I expected my family to disown me if I ever made these attractions known.  I was muddling through a lot of murky emotions.  I moved to Santa Cruz in 2000 and was still in the early stages of  disentanglement  from my family.  I had just turned 21, and was learning how to sustain living on my own, in one of the most expensive areas in the country.  I realized that if  wanted to make it in this town, I needed to supplement my income.  Kim suggested I go audition at the club.  I have no idea what gave me the courage to do it, other than the severity and depth of my lunacy, was significantly below my radar. The auditions took place during regular business hours and were advertised as amateur night.   That evening, I would dance to atop that very same stage, I was sitting at just a week earlier.  In preparation,  I must have tossed my feminist roots, my pants, and any sense of modesty right out the window, because the song I chose to dance to was, Prodigy’s Smack My Bitch Up. I don't know what I was thinking.  But I remember feeling pretty confident.   Even back then I could throw caution to the wind.  Yet, on many different levels, I was still so naive and innocent.  Coming from an extremely conservative, Italian-Catholic family from the mid-west, I have always described myself as the blackest, black sheep in my family, for at least three generations.  I can’t explain where my imprudent willingness to take risks came from.  Its as much a part me, as my love for spaghetti.  

When my music started, I got up on stage and the adrenaline kicked in.  Im sure I looked excruciatingly awkward, but guys were throwing money up on stage and the music transmitted my consciousness to alternate dimension. As I moved about the stage, my dominant senses blurred.  My body was on auto-pilot and I  surrendered  myself to its free-flowing movement.  I felt liberated.  I made $40 in 4 minutes.  That seemed worth it and I thought it was fun.  The club was owned by a couple of Eastern European brothers, and they regretfully informed me that I had not been hired.  I don't think I saw Kim again after that.  It turned out, she had boyfriend and I was not on the market for being a third wheel.   I decided that I would look for work locally.  And that’s when I met Jim.   

intro Jim and Kim

I lived in a house on Morrissey Blvd with Jim, the owner of the company I worked for.  He graduated from UCSC, with a degree in computer science, but  he found running an exotic dancing service to be more lucrative.  Go figure.  I started working as an exotic dancer for Jim in 2001, a few months after breaking up with my ex-boyfriend Joe.  Joe moved  to the east coast to re-unite with his lost love.  Our break up was amicable. I had been severely depressed for most of the time we were together, and we both felt we needed to move on. 

Since I was out of a committed relationship, and had been bi-curious since high school, I decided it was time to begin exploring what my fantasies had been telling me all along.  Somewhere deep inside me, were homosexual tendencies that frightened me when I thought about them bubbling to the surface.  One night, shortly before Joe left town. I asked him if he would humor me, and accompany me to a fully nude stripping establishment called the Kit Cat Club, in San Jose. In addition to breaking the ice that was surrounding my sexual orientation, I also considered the gesture some kind of peace offering to him.  The Kit Cat Club was relatively small, with some tables and chairs to sit at, while innocently drinking cokes or ginger ale.  California State law forbid the sale or consumption of alcohol where the dancers bared all.  There was bar seating around a  small stage in the middle of the club.  The stage had a pole apparatus that reminded me of a gymnastics high-bar, but lower.

Thin, scantily clad, girls in 6 inch heels, who smelled like sex and candy were working the room.   Joe and I took our seats front and center, and bent one dollar bills over the brass rim circling the edge of the stage.  My eyes were fixated on her. Her body gravitated toward those bills, like they were markers in a game of three-dimensional connect-the-dots. Joe bought me a lap dance and I went and sat down in a little alcove area reserved for private dances. Her name was Kim. She was a petite brunette, with alabaster skin, an eyebrow piercing, and a pirate smile.  She teased me like an erotic, anthropomorphic serpent, slithering up and down my body without making any physical contact.

When the dance was over, I bashfully thanked her for torturing me, and I went back to the stage where Joe was sitting.  He had  also gotten a lap dance. In hind sight, we certainly had an original method off smoothing out the edges of our break up.   Kim eventually made her way back over to us again and solicited another private dance from me at $40 a pop. I guess she must have liked the way I was captivated by her, because when she finished pushing me to the edge of my desire, she discreetly asked me for my number.  Now, I know what your thinking, but this really happened.  She called me later that week, she lived in San Jose and and we decided she would meet me here. We went to Gabriella’s downtown for dinner.  She paid.  I remember feeling like I didn't quite know how to act.  This was my first romantic encounter  with a woman ever, let alone a first date.  I was pretty sure that the ratio was the following: one butch to one femme, and I was confused as to which one I was supposed to be.  A couple glasses of wine later, we were off to Kiva, a local spa with outdoor community hot tubs.  She obviously had no qualms about being naked in public, and we sat amongst the other patrons, in a big community pool under the stars.  She reached her hand  under the foaming, bubbles of hot water and and began caressing my thighs.  I felt a drop inside my stomach that was both arousing and uncomfortable.  We needed more privacy.  So we went back to this somewhat removed picnic table area. She lay down on top of me. The heat from her dripping wet body radiated through mine, then dissipated as it met the cool and dewy, wooden picnic table we were laying on. I remember the lightness of her body as she was only about 5’2” without the heels.  Her kiss was disorganized and rapacious.  I felt a tornado of thoughts swirl around us.  We were unobsturcted.  I felt exposed. In more ways than one.  

week 1

At the young tender age of 22, I had carved quite a life for myself.  I was committed to not follow in my mothers footsteps and I refused to go into debt.  I skipped that whole college thing, and went straight to makin the big bucks.  Unfortunately, the only way to make the big bucks with a high school diploma, and no other specialized skills is to be either a drug dealer or a stripper.  And as you know, I choose the latter. I had a lot of free time on my hands.  I had no schedule to keep, no alarm to set and  I certainly did not have a slue of colleagues to to advise me, when my placement on the beam of reality, was drifting off balance. 

I began engaging in what I would now consider to be ridiculous, codependent and pathetic behaviors, such as doing Garps laundry, trying to play nurse when he was sick, and filling my every waking moment with thoughts and dreams of him. And that was just within the first 24 hours of our first date.  

Over the course of the next few days, we spent every night together, and he began every morning with beer and pills.  The pills he took were some sort of anti-anxiety, anti depressant, but at that point they were more probably more like an anti-liver.  My memories of that time, are like tiny photographic glimpses of what happened. They encapsulate the moments that defined our rock and roll lifestyles. Each picture is like a page in one of those flip books, where if you thumb through too fast, you’ll miss the whole thing.  We thought we were so cool,  so tough. We were  rebels.  Only immature youth can pull off that kinda shenanigans, and believe it to be desirable and glamourous.  We played music  together.  He would play his guitar, and I would sing the words to his songs.  We would sit on the couch in his apartment for hours. I reach that scared, meditative, musical zone, that made me feel like I was untouchable.  It made me feel like everything in my world was perfect.  There was a lot of drinking.    Upon meeting him my drinking increased because if he drank, I drank.  Which is not to say I didn't do my share of daily wine drinking before meeting him.    Drinking beer and  having sex in the shower was as customary as using soap.  The money I spent on condoms during that time went down the drain as fast as the soapy water.  His house never had toilet paper.  

We would wake up, he would crack a beer, put on the Deftones and we would hop in the shower and the party had just begun.  

There was something powerful and cathartic about that kind of entanglement.  I surrendered my reality to the segregated nature of such raw sex, yet, I was quite comfortable with whom I was relinquishing my reality to.  I didn't mind being a sex object.  At that time, it was practically the only thing I could see about myself, that was worth anything anyway. I didn't have any awareness of how the relationship was not sustainable.  I felt like he wanted a fun, crazy, low maintenance partner who wouldn't judge or criticize him.  So thats what I was.  It worked for both of us.  I felt like I was special, and he, didn't have to control his drinking.  Sometimes it was hard to keep up with the pace.  His house mate had started a change basket specifically for when Garp ran out of beer money.  They lived right across the street from a liquor store. Coincidently, when he moved out of that house, that store went out of business. 

From the corner of Bay and mission we walked all the way to the Ye old Watering Hole, at Swift Street to meet my friend for a drink (obviously), and drank many of this foo foo drink called hot cinnamon toast. It was her favorite drink, 151 with cinnamon and it was set on fire. He and I couldn't seem to get enough of each other.  Any location was fair game for on-the-spot physical displays of passion, including that bars bathroom. On the way home,we made our way down Mission, which at that time was perpetually under construction, kicking and thrashing orange cones as we stubbled home.  It seemed like when we were together, we released some sort of pressure valve, that let all that angst, and love, and wild human energy just pour out of us.  That tiny alcove under Larrys Photography sign, yeah we did it there too. We got to his drive way and laid down right on the concrete. He got his guitar and played music until we retired to his bed.  

What happened next was something I never expected.  Devastating, confusing and absolutely heart breaking. A few days later, I went over to his house and right as I walked in the door, he clear out of the blue, said that he didn't want to see me anymore.  He said that for past week, he was just on a complete bender and he barely remembered it anyway.  I didn’t know what to say.  I was in shock.  He said he needed to put the plug in the jug for a while and pull himself back together.  What could I do? What could I say? I felt as if I just blindly sat down and  didn't realize that instead of sitting on the chair I was expecting, I actually just sat down right off the edge of a 100 story building.  I had never been so confused in my life.  I was dumbfounded.  How could I have been so wrong?    How could I have been so taken by a compete farce? I was so deeply hurt, and I made a pact with myself that I would not contact him. The truth was, that regardless of what he remembered, he inspired me.  He brought out a piece of me that I had never experienced before.  I bought a the piano at Goodwill and began writing some of my own songs, and they were all about him.

Two weeks later he called me asking if I wanted to come over.  And before I could even catch my breath, I was out the door. 

first date

You see, I usually had a pretty strict rule about not dating clients, mostly cause it was bad for business.  However, I was also completely addicted to excitement.  It was as if I felt, that if I were to pass up any opportunity, no matter how unconventional, I was afraid that I would regret having missed it.  Granted, it doesn't take much to fall in lust with a stripper, and I am a sucker for a guy with a sense of humor and tattoos. So when Garps friend asked me out on his behalf, (and he wasn’t taking no for an answer), it seemed to me, that if he could make me laugh, I would give it a shot.   Garp overhearing this conversation, which at this point was starting to resemble that which is usually takes place in a used car lot, suddenly said, “oh, I’ll make you laugh” and that was what convinced me to say yes. I was hooked, filled with giddy school girl energy, whose outfit, coincidentally, was also packed in my duffle bag of tricks. Upon my departure, I gave him my personal number and made my way to my chiropractor appointment.  I was driving up Graham Hill Road, when his friend called to make sure the number was legitimate.  I answered.  It was.  

Garp called me later that evening, and we made a date to go out for dinner.  We went to that pasta place over on Seabright.  The owner was this crazy Italian guy, who looks like Einstein.  I wore a pink, flowing, silky skirt. I wanted to present a more romantic appearance to try and override the “Pretty Woman” image in my mind.  We shared a bottle of wine.  I have no idea what we talked about.  After dinner we went to a little dive bar, JJ’s and had a beer.  He asked me what I thought about people’s behavior when they were drunk.  He said that acting under the influence was not a reflection of who they really were, and that most people drank to cover up some kinda inner asshole.  He clearly did not believe that idea drinking was vehicle for unveiling ones true self.  I thought that was an interesting topic for a first date, but really didn’t have an opinion on the issue.  

He asked if he could take me home to his house.  I was thinking, if he took me home, the chances of him calling me again were about as good as, never.  He said “i’ll call you again”.  I trusted him from the moment I saw him.  We went back to his house and crept into his room.  It was small with white walls.  Inside was a small desk and  in the corner, below a small window was mattress on the floor.  The bed was nicely made with light blue sheets and a navy comforter.  His skin smelt of sweet vanilla.  The room was dark and we crawled into his bed like an old married couple.  He held me.  Like two pillows filled with soft down nestled, against one another, we fit.  His skin was smooth and soft. His short hair gently prickled my nose. His heart was loud.  Pounding like a drum.  He kissed me soft and slow.  The confidence in his hands was surprising. Sheets tucked up to our heads; breathing close in the dark.  The world was in slow motion.  I was so present.  I could inhale and feel his essence flow right inside me filling my lungs.  With my exhale, he inhaled himself right back in again, with the essence of me still lingering on his recycled breath.  Could this be happening?  Peas and carrots?  Two seemingly misfit kids fitting together. He felt like my missing puzzle piece.  It hurts to remember it.  Waking up.  He popped a couple of what he called his “crazy pills”, and went to the kitchen to make coffee.   

here i go

So I figure that if what I think is as interesting to you, as it is to me, then I'll have a pretty good following pretty soon.  Todays latest quandary is that of "the lost love".  A timeless and relatively common dilemma of the "one that got away".  In the past, I would have said that if they got away with less than your bank account numbers, and credit cards; or hell, with out impregnating you, then consider yourself lucky.  But today, I experienced a longing for not necessarily the person that I loved, but the lost love itself. I was passionately in love.  I abandoned myself to the intoxicating, romance that for some reason made me look over my shoulder, paranoid, like I must have been doing something almost criminal.  To be so all consumed by the awe and wonderment of some other human being felt dangerous.  Over the years I have played it off as "love addiction" but now coming from a place of authenticity and wonderment I am curious what exactly was so wrong about that "I got your back" kinda love anyway?  Other than, that kind of vulnerability can leave me sobbing on the floor, wishing I could some how trade that pain for something more tolerable like a say, a heard of elephants stampeding accross my back.

 Now back to the "got away" part, as if I had some choice or say in the matter.  I met him Martin Luther King Day, 2002.  His name was Garp.  For the purpose of clarity, I wont go into how it was that I received phone calls at my house, in the middle of the day, from strange bored or lonely men (in this case they were bored, lonely AND drunk; making the best of MLK Day) so that I could come and keep them company, by shakin my money maker, and, well...makin money doing it.   But I digress.  They called.  I got my stuff together and drove over to the westside where Cafe Lola once stood and made my way inside the apartment of the address they had given me.  Garp was chillin on the couch and his house- mate had one of those Dr. reflector thingys on his head. As I recall, Garp also had dotted lines in marker circling his head.  It looked as if they were about to perform some kind of  improve- drunken-amateur- brain-surgery comedy sketch.  I can only imagine what could have happened had they not decided to call a stripper to entertain them for the afternoon.  Who knew that I would find myself in such circumstances, soon to be swept off my 7 inch platforms by a fellow by all appearances was a drunken, barely launched, garage band bassist who stole my heart like some ridiculous character in a nursery rhyme........to be continued.