So I've recently been on my second date with a gorgeous and driven city type, and whilst it was in many ways a success - he's been texting me since, he looked me in the eye and said he liked me (!), and we had a kiss or two - the experience has left me confused and wanting.
Firstly, a bit of backstory. I'm fairly inexperienced in the world of dating. I tend to meet guys when drunk or high at one of the myriad of house parties and club nights that I find myself at, then take them home with me that night. I have no time to fanny around (excuse the pun) with the first-dates-lets-meet-for-coffee-malarky, as my free evenings are sacred to me as a lapdancer who works nights. On top of this, as a hustler, if I see a man I want, I get him, right there, right then. It's in my DNA now.
And when I have a man I like, I've always embarked on an intense relationship, where we are practically joined at the hip, our two souls and bodies deeply intertwined, our dreams shared.
However, a couple of months ago I got my heart broken, in one of those unexpected moments that life throws at you - one day we were planning Valentine's, the next he'd come round to tell me that it was over.
Just like that.
The feelings of depth and abandonment overwhelmed me so completely I felt like I had just stepped into the pages of a Twilight novel - suddenly I was Bella Swan, alone, abandoned, and utterly rejected, staring into space and all food and pleasure turning to ashes in my mouth. I drank, I cried, then I drank some more, until eventually my friends and family pulled me out of it and I returned to normalcy.
Several months have passed now, and so I've begun to look at men again, feel the familiar stirring in my loins, flutters in my stomach - my capacity for love has returned. So I've been on a couple of dates with the one guy in London I currently find even a little bit cute - with unexpected results.
Well, that was fairly cathartic just writing that post - a spot of self analysis can be good sometimes. This is is obviously one of the perks of being me - I can blog and write about my experiences and life under the veil of anonymity, and use the process so that both I and current and future readers can perhaps get a better grasp on what's going through that lapdancer's head. I've dedicated the past month to posts about dating a lapdancer, chatting up a lapdancer, and our love lives - please explore and comment.
Firstly, a bit of backstory. I'm fairly inexperienced in the world of dating. I tend to meet guys when drunk or high at one of the myriad of house parties and club nights that I find myself at, then take them home with me that night. I have no time to fanny around (excuse the pun) with the first-dates-lets-meet-for-coffee-malarky, as my free evenings are sacred to me as a lapdancer who works nights. On top of this, as a hustler, if I see a man I want, I get him, right there, right then. It's in my DNA now.
And when I have a man I like, I've always embarked on an intense relationship, where we are practically joined at the hip, our two souls and bodies deeply intertwined, our dreams shared.
However, a couple of months ago I got my heart broken, in one of those unexpected moments that life throws at you - one day we were planning Valentine's, the next he'd come round to tell me that it was over.
Just like that.
The feelings of depth and abandonment overwhelmed me so completely I felt like I had just stepped into the pages of a Twilight novel - suddenly I was Bella Swan, alone, abandoned, and utterly rejected, staring into space and all food and pleasure turning to ashes in my mouth. I drank, I cried, then I drank some more, until eventually my friends and family pulled me out of it and I returned to normalcy.
Several months have passed now, and so I've begun to look at men again, feel the familiar stirring in my loins, flutters in my stomach - my capacity for love has returned. So I've been on a couple of dates with the one guy in London I currently find even a little bit cute - with unexpected results.
- Age and Experience has made me picky; I don't seem to fancy anyone. At all. Even though I meet lots of guys at the club, many of them hot, rich and successful, and we have brief erotic experiences together. I get chatted up everyday too - by the guys working in my local cafes, people in the pub - I even got chatted up in Waterstone's bookshop the other day. But whilst I'm flattered by the attention, nobody excites me - whereas before many of them would of.
- I'm horny, but want it on my own terms. I've been reading the Fifty Shades of Grey
trilogy, and totally empathise with one of the main characters. No, not the lily-livered Anastasia Steele virginial type, but the dark and tortured Christian Grey. He doesn't like to be touched - a boundary I have to keep to every night I stride into a booth to give a lapdance. He wants to fit his sexual experiences into alloted time slots - as a busy working girl myself, I would love to slot 'sex time' into my diary. He wants to control and manipulate the situation so that he doesn't get hurt or abandoned again - feelings which mirror my own so exactly, so perfectly, yet still push the spine-tingling sex scenes to excess. - I'm a bit of a nut that try's too hard. My work personality is only so many shades of grey, if you will, from my normal persona. The thing is, I do try hard to make sure the person, or people I am with, are happy - I'm a naturally generous and sociable young lady. However, put me in a situation that I feel uncomfortable in, and I will start over-compensating in order to hide my nerves. Imagine you are at a dinner party, and the conversation moves out of your depth by a person you are trying to impress. Your voice might rise a few octaves, you start slavishly insisting on a moot point - you generally become a loud, crazy bore. That's basically me. On our first date, I chatted about wine with the waiter, thinking that my few grains of vinery knowledge would impress the guy - who simply smiled, as he casually mentioned that he liked wine too - his family owed some vineyards....
- I drink way more than the average person. It's very hard to match your drinking to the other, especially when you are nervous. Especially when they are on beer and you are on Martini's. Either I need to switch drink preferences or I just accept that at heart I am a Geordie Shore lass on the lash.
- I must be careful not to fall under the 'damaged stripper' stereotype. Yes, I'm currently damaged goods, and yes, I'm an exotic dancer, but I must be careful that I do not come across as the embodiment of that old Hollywood favourite - the damaged stripper. See the Spearmint Rhino chapter in How To Be a Woman
by Caitlan Moran, a brilliant modern feminist writer who documents a visit to the megalithic temple of nudity; Spearmint Rhino on Tottenham Court Road, and whilst she has a good time, leaves feeling that many dancers come from abusive backgrounds. I certainly don't, but I've just had my heart broken, so until it mends itself or new-found love heals the tear with a warm and fuzzy sticking plaster, I have to keep in mind that my real inner feelings may be taken out of context.
It's a fairly difficult time for me at the moment, with a sense of my myriad identities being in a state of flux. I sometimes fear that I have too many faces that are simultaneously on show; my dancer self, my blogging self, my real self.
But that doesn't mean that I am not happy, and in many ways I am doing well at the moment - work is steady, I have lots of friends at the club, more readers on my blog, and another date on the cards......
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