Strippers Have a Story

I have my homework nest built and I’m ready to settle in for roughly six hours of homework. I knew that the Rogue Mare needed to pour some of her own grammatically incorrect, non-math related words out of her head to be able to proceed with the mind numbing world of “have to do” things.

I recently found myself in the midst of topless dancers. Yes mom, (she reads my blog), I was hanging around strippers. I’m sure that this does not even phase my mother though. If it does, she’d never show it. I would consider mom to be pretty conservative but she knows her daughter is always looking for a story. A person’s story, an animal’s story or her own story.

I’m not really sure how to label the girls that I met. It doesn’t matter to me though because, when I’m not at work, do folks refer to me as my occupation? No, they don’t. I’m just gonna call them “the girls” for the duration of this post. This paragraph caused me to think about how family members would say, “My son brought a stripper to Christmas dinner.” Would that same family member say, “My son brought a library assistant to Thanksgiving dinner?”

I spoke with girls who, for the most part, like their job, some who hated it but needed the money, and some who didn’t think there was anything wrong with what they did. I can identify with all of those feelings in regards to career choices and I’m sure most of you will concur.

Every face has a story. The girls were very open about who they were, if they had children, where they were from, whether they were going to college or merely trying to survive. Some are just trying to stay well enough to make it through the day. When I say well enough, I mean that they have found themselves to be addicted to drugs and they need this job to buy or trade the substance that keeps them functioning.

The girls were very kind. They were telling me how beautiful and sweet I was! No, they weren’t trying to get money from me. That was not the forum in which this meeting took place. They were just happy to talk to someone who was interested in who they were. That, gentlemen readers, is how you get a girl to like you.

The girls are people with beautiful bodies, stunning smiles and tortured souls. Many of us, especially artists, have tortured souls. You may or may not agree with the fashion in which they make their living but that is extraneous. Wait, I take that back, it is of greatest significance. Many career choices have the ability to derive a negative connotation. My first job was at a pizza joint. I seem to recall a pastor asking my parents if they were okay with my working at an establishment that sold alcohol. Really? He had the nerve to ask that while his daughter worked as a checkout girl for a local grocery store! I’m sure that she rang up her share of beer and wine on any given day. Funny thing is, the pizza place I worked at didn’t even serve alcohol.

I’m almost down to the conclusion. The core of my experience is that I respect the girls. We live in a money driven society. It is an animal that most of us have created. These girls pay sales tax and pay  into the economic system just as much, or more, than you and I. Sexuality sells.

“Judgements prevent us from seeing the good that lies beyond appearances.” ~ Wayne Dyer

Peace from the Rogue Mare

Wine is a Woman

People who are in pain do strange things. It’s very difficult, and I might add wrong, to judge someone who is in pain. It doesn’t matter if that pain is physical, mental or both. It doesn’t matter if that person put themselves in that position or not. Pain is just pain. As humans, we should be there to comfort one another when we observe another human’s pain. This doesn’t mean that one should enable negative behavior. Just hold someone’s hand, give them a hug, or just do like I do, tell a raunchy joke or make light of their situation when needed.

I broke a rule. I contacted the one who broke my heart. I didn’t ask my friends if I should do this. I didn’t ask anyone’s permission. I did consult my favorite bottle of red wine and she said, “Go for it.” You know that wine is a woman. She has to be. She’s beautiful to gaze upon through a transparent glass. She’s seductive. She wants to be wanted and enjoyed. Some are full bodied while others are bare bones. Some are sweet and some are like vinegar. My favorite, Apothic Red, has an awesome nose and a fabulous finish. I’m sure that you’d love to meet her, but I digress.

So I contacted the lost love. I could also say that Adele made me do it. Sultry, broken, fierce lyrics pour out of her like lava. I sent a text message. I still have the number memorized. I frequently dream about dialing the number and the numbers don’t work. Maybe I’ve pushed past that dream because the numbers did work. I sent “Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’.” It took a few minutes and I received a reply, ” I listened to the song. Who is this?” Lost love never knew my number. All this time I kept from breaking the rule to ensure that there was no way of contacting me and I kept it that way. I responded, “If you listened to the song then you should know who this is.” Lost love knew and asked how I was doing, how my family was doing. I responded by saying that we were all fine and to forgive me because I wouldn’t ask how he was doing because it would hurt too much. Lost love understood. The interaction lasted for about forty-five minutes. Not once did we lash out, lay blame, or overemphasize how grandiose our lives were now.

I needed to make this painful memory into a human being and I needed to put my feelings in order. This interaction had nothing to do with wanting to return to the life I had before. It had everything with doing what I needed to do to survive my own twisted heart and mind. It was an experiment and I was willing to do anything. I don’t like being angry or confused. I don’t like harboring ill feelings toward anyone.

So far so good. Once again, I’m not perfect. I went against the rules, but I repaired a tear in my heart. I feel relieved. Lost love is a human being and someone I once viewed as a hero. I recalled all the wonderful things that we once shared. I realized and embraced what I already knew, focusing on the negative doesn’t provide any comfort.

I won’t ask for forgiveness for my broken rule. I compare it to a hungry person stealing a piece of bread. It’s about survival and it’s about learning.

Peace from the Rogue Mare