I am obsessed with love. I’m interested in how people fall in love, what sustains love, why things are magnified with love and loneliness. I have a hard time falling in love. All the stupids tell me how great I am, how soft my skin be, how “not pepperoni” my tits are, how in love they are. Completely drunk, yet intensely serious.
Scrambled porn is great. You can hear these noises and imagine it to be authentic. Who knows what it is. It’s bleary blues, purples, flashes of red and green. Sometimes you see a grey hand grabbing girl flesh. There are no commercials.
The first time I ever took my clothes off, I took my best friend with me. She drove to a very wretched strip joint in a nuclear town. “They don’t ask for a licence.” Perfect. I had a borrowed bikini top and my own thong. I really wanted to wear my big panties. My girlfriend took a seat on the floor. We were the only non-white people there. I went to change in the washroom and emerged totally grossed out. I paid the DJ and thanked him for sparing me a stage show. I sat with my friend on my newly re-christened “pussy towel”, formerly “face towel”. We looked around. We looked at each other. I was sitting in front of her in my skivvies, preparing to talk to and fake-fuck the room at large. She reassured me. I was going to charge double what the other girls did because I’m fucking Asian. I talked to a group of men. They were young men attending a crap college. I danced for one at the table; he was completely forgettable. I danced for an old guy who looked like an old fashioned sheriff in polar fleece. I danced for a dad. I danced for your teacher. My dancing consisted of sitting on one knee while kicking out my legs and grabbing my feet. Then I would stand and wriggle a bit. There’s not a lot of flesh to me, and definitely not wobbly bits. I can’t remember what I talked about. I think I lied a lot. After two hours, I grabbed my girlfriend, my money and split for civilization.
I kept my clothes on for a decade. I returned, less scared, more neurotic. My life looks like scrambled porn and fake-love.
I’m baking a cake in my stripper oven. Whatever the fuck that means.
Fyre Crotch
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Teeny Slut
When I was twelve my best friend's big sister was fifteen. She wanted to go to Daytona for spring break. She had no cash, so she decided to go to amateur night at the strip club next to the car paint foundry in our town. She came home with the two hundred dollars she needed for the twelve hour bus ride and her quarter of the cost of three nights at the Quality Inn motel. And she had extra cash to order us a pizza, since she was supposed to be baby sitting.
We listened to the Insane Clown Posse and danced around, head banging when she got home. She joined us, a tan 9th grader with big round tits, wearing a wife beater and no bra, throwing twenty dollar bills in the air. I had never seen so much cash in my life. We ate our pizza hut. We slept under the ping-pong table in the basement, naked in our sleeping bags. The darkness of the unfinished basement, the grey concrete cold, was exciting, it was the first time I wasn't scared of sleeping in the basement, I was horny. Horny for cash, and big high-school titties. That summer I got my first pair of denim short shorts, they weren't cut-offs. My mother wouldn't let me go that far, into the hemless territory. I used to walk around in them and my only sleeveless shirt, a loose purple Walmart tank top. My friends and I would trudge through the humid air to far away convenience stores to buy penny candy, keeping a running tally of how many cars would honk. I didn't win. I developed a crush on my friend's dad, who looked a lot like Uncle Jesse from Full House. I wondered if it would be hard to seduce him. I dreamed of being a stripper. Whenever we drove past the neighbourhood strip club, Pure Platinum, on our way to the public pool I would peer into the tinted windows. Once I saw a pin curled blonde with a gym bag, wearing a baby pink sweat suit standing out front looking annoyed. She was perfect, I wanted to be her. In the fall, I got into music theatre. I wanted to write the score for the next Les Miserables, it would be based on The Three Musketeers, the boy in my class I had a crush on would be offered the role of D'Artagnan. One of the old ladies at our church gave me free piano lessons. My mother bought me Composing: For Dummies and a metronome. I would be the next Andrew Lloyd Webber.
In High School I grew beautiful tits, and a whore mouth that is always a little bit open. I write stories in the middle of the night, my mouth agape, my armpits damp, no one has published them. I became a stripper when I was twenty-one years old in 2007, broke and unwilling to take out student loans, it has been nearly three years. I am twenty three.
Panties Butane
We listened to the Insane Clown Posse and danced around, head banging when she got home. She joined us, a tan 9th grader with big round tits, wearing a wife beater and no bra, throwing twenty dollar bills in the air. I had never seen so much cash in my life. We ate our pizza hut. We slept under the ping-pong table in the basement, naked in our sleeping bags. The darkness of the unfinished basement, the grey concrete cold, was exciting, it was the first time I wasn't scared of sleeping in the basement, I was horny. Horny for cash, and big high-school titties. That summer I got my first pair of denim short shorts, they weren't cut-offs. My mother wouldn't let me go that far, into the hemless territory. I used to walk around in them and my only sleeveless shirt, a loose purple Walmart tank top. My friends and I would trudge through the humid air to far away convenience stores to buy penny candy, keeping a running tally of how many cars would honk. I didn't win. I developed a crush on my friend's dad, who looked a lot like Uncle Jesse from Full House. I wondered if it would be hard to seduce him. I dreamed of being a stripper. Whenever we drove past the neighbourhood strip club, Pure Platinum, on our way to the public pool I would peer into the tinted windows. Once I saw a pin curled blonde with a gym bag, wearing a baby pink sweat suit standing out front looking annoyed. She was perfect, I wanted to be her. In the fall, I got into music theatre. I wanted to write the score for the next Les Miserables, it would be based on The Three Musketeers, the boy in my class I had a crush on would be offered the role of D'Artagnan. One of the old ladies at our church gave me free piano lessons. My mother bought me Composing: For Dummies and a metronome. I would be the next Andrew Lloyd Webber.
In High School I grew beautiful tits, and a whore mouth that is always a little bit open. I write stories in the middle of the night, my mouth agape, my armpits damp, no one has published them. I became a stripper when I was twenty-one years old in 2007, broke and unwilling to take out student loans, it has been nearly three years. I am twenty three.
Panties Butane
Hello
We are two lazy strippers, named Fire Crotch and Panties Butane. We walk a lot, and pretend to ride stationary bicycles while watching TV, to stay in shape. Other Lazy Stripper Exercise Tips include: walking in heels, swiveling in place, ass jiggling, and doing drugs. We have a desperate crush on Philip Seymour Hoffman. If you are out there in the blogosphere P.S.H, we would love to hole up with you for a weekend in a hotel eating caviar and blinis, while you do the commentary naked along to your entire catalogue, and then we want to fuck your brains out. Your freckles, and the boyish swoop of your hair, drive us crazy. Please call us.
Toronto, Canada is a grey and humid city where we hustle twenty, fifty and one hundred dollar bills from the clammy hands of all kinds of horny men: fat ones, skinny ones, young ones, old ones, famous ones and felons. We have perched naked on the knees of thousands of men. Arching our backs, shaking our manes and our asses, we have built muscles in unusual places from climbing the pole, and we have gained unusual insight into the seediest enclaves of the human mind.
Yours,
Fire Crotch and Panties Butane
Toronto, Canada is a grey and humid city where we hustle twenty, fifty and one hundred dollar bills from the clammy hands of all kinds of horny men: fat ones, skinny ones, young ones, old ones, famous ones and felons. We have perched naked on the knees of thousands of men. Arching our backs, shaking our manes and our asses, we have built muscles in unusual places from climbing the pole, and we have gained unusual insight into the seediest enclaves of the human mind.
Yours,
Fire Crotch and Panties Butane
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