Welcome to Stripping in Detroit (Or, How I met Fifi the French Poodle and Other Stories)


(Based on excerpts from my journal on 3.17.2004)

My first night at CLUB X (we will call it), I met the bikers who were passing through the city.  One of whom proclaimed that my tat (which is Arabic for “peace and freedom”) said “come to our hotel room.” (I didn’t, but the idea that I “might” could have increased my income.  So I played off of it.  Hey, I was hustler.  It was my job).   As the newbie dancer, I had a task to complete.  Call it an initiation, if you will.  I was told to raffle off myself, basically.  I went around to each table, asking for donations.  Whoever’s name was drawn, would be awarded with the experience of getting to pour chocolate sauce and whipped cream on my body as I laid on the stage.  I laid there, wondering if the whole experience was degrading, or cool, or just kinda weird.  I wasn’t sure.  Then, I went into the glass encased shower on the top of the stage to rinse off as sexily as possible.  This is how I met the bikers.  They were writing silly comments on the outside shower in the steam.

One of the bikers’ friend’s (a seemingly straight-laced guy whom was out of place among them), told me his wife had died- but “not to worry about it because it was awhile ago.” However, his friend, who paid for a lap dance from me for him, told me the widower needed to “get out more and talk to women.”  The friend also informed me that the wife had died four months ago.

With this knowledge, I took the new widower to the VIP room.  This was a room upstairs with black leather couches arranged in a living-room type setting, complete with a glass-top coffee table.  This is where customers could receive a more private (read: more expensive) dance than on the floor.  However, it felt safe, as all the dancers took their customers there simultaneously, while the DJ nearby watched out for the dancers.    Before the dance, the guy told me he hadn’t touched a woman in four months.  This was simultaneously weird and sad and sweet.  I tried to give him a lighter, softer dance.

Then there was Fifi.  The French poodle.  He was actually a sixty-something lawyer who paid me to bounce up and down on his lap as well as dominate him.  I was his Mistress, or Princess Jade (Jade was my stage name here in Detroit).  He was my slave, or Fifi; or rather, Mistress Jade’s slave, I should say, since I feel like I took on a new persona in the club (especially with Fifi!). He offered to pay me $100 to take me shopping as well as wanted me to watch “domination videos” with him (neither of which I took him up on). I met him and danced for him the first night on the job; little did I know at the time he would become one of my repeat customers.  Maybe mostly because the other dancers thought he was weird (kinda true); or rather, what he wanted during the dance-the domme stuff-was weird.  Personally, I would rather domme someone (and get paid) than have an over-touchy customer who tried to rip me off.  Basically, I didn’t think domination was weird!!!!!!!!!!!!!  (However, privately I giggled about the Fifi part).

Although, I learned that all of this was just a taste of things to come…


BDSM Lifestyle Submission

At first in my journey into the BDSM lifestyle, I did not consider myself a submissive. I liked submission in the bedroom; but outside of sex, I think I subconsciously viewed it as “weak.” Being a feminist, I struggled with being submissive to a man. For other women, it was fine, as long as it was of their choosing. But it was not for me. It was not until my fiance came along, did I change my mind. Also, it was not until after quite some time of being together did I realize that I wanted to be submissive to him outside of the bedroom. This is a huge change for me and signifies a lot of growth in the BDSM lifestyle for me. To some, perhaps submission comes easily and naturally; but for me, I had to develop a deep relationship with him before I could even consider submission outside of the bedroom.

I consider service to be a big part of my submission to him. I feel like it is my duty to keep the house clean, do our laundry, and have dinner ready by 6pm every weeknight (He likes to cook, so he is excited to cook for me on the weekends). I feel satisfied when Sir comes home and everything is in order and he compliments me. Especially when he tells me I am a good girl! I can be teasingly “bratty” in a fun way every now and then, but mostly I want to be a good girl.

Outside of service to Sir and submission in the bedroom, I am becoming more open to his influence. Sir tells me what he thinks about decisions that involve me, but most of the time gives me the choice of what to do. More and more, I feel compelled to follow his advice; however, he does not force me to do anything. I willingly give him my submission. This makes me feel lighter and happier, especially because I know it pleases him. And to see him happy and stress-free makes me happy and stress-free. Of course, we have a few rules that I am to follow and I do. Sir does not believe in tons of rules in a Dom/sub relationship (nor does he in polyamorous relationships, but that is another writing).

I feel like my submission is a giving of myself over to him, and that makes me feel closer and more connected to him than I have felt to anyone. But it is only him that I feel I could be this way with; he has earned my submission, truly. And for that I feel grateful. Because to change and grow and challenge yourself in this lifestyle is what makes it important.

BDSM Scene

bdsm-dom-coaching-bright-1024x512He pushed me up against the wall.  The red light pulsated overhead in the dungeon. I felt some fear as he pressed his body up against mine and bit my neck.  He had placed a marker under my chin, and if I moved and dropped the marker, I would be “hit really hard with the big wooden paddle.”  Therefore, I stayed still, even though it was harder to maintain my breathing this way. I gasped, as he began a rhythm of smacking my ass, legs, and thighs in time with the hard beats of the music.  He stopped and presumably went to his bag to pull out a toy.  I was oblivious to it all, as I was facing the wall.  I realized he had pulled out a whip, and I thought, Oh no, not now, this is too much so early on.  The snap of the whip brought me out of my head, and I shuddered in pain when the tip of it struck me.  Next, he relived me of the marker under my chin, and turned me around to face the dungeon.  “we are going to play a game,” he said with a wicked smile.  I am going to hit your cunt or your tits, and you are going to tell me to switch when you want me to hit the other.  Ok, which do you want?  The cunt or the tits?”  I struggled to come up with an answer.  “you took too long,’ He said, and began hitting my tits with the implement.  The implement was both heavy and stingy on my breasts.  He hit my nipples in time with the music.  I winced, and began squirming in pain.  “Switch,” I said breathlessly.  “No,” he said.  “say ‘hit my cunt’ ” “Hit my cunt, please, sir”  I mustered.  “Stick your cunt out,” he said.  I obliged him and stuck out my pussy.  He began to whip my cunt with the handle of the whip.  I laughed, deliriously, already high in my pain.  “oh, you like that, do you, cuntie?”  “You like to have your cunt hit, huh?”  “yes, sir” I stammered.  With each smack to my pussy, he hit harder, until I said “hit my tits, please, sir.”  He switched to my tits, until he decided to stop the game.  But the scene wasn’t over yet.  He turned me back around, and I nervously pressed up against the wall again.  Then, I felt the rough wood of a large bamboo cane pressed between my legs.  “you like that, cuntie?” he asked.  “No, sir” I said, a bit unsure of whether I liked it or not.  He began thumping the large wooden cane on my legs and ass.  He hit me so hard, I gasped, unable to maintain the proper breathing necessary to process my pain.  I slowed my brain down, and reminded myself to breathe deep, in and out, in and out.  I hard a friend say something that made me laugh, and Sir said to the half-preoccupied audience, “You are distracting her.”  Someone said, “she shouldn’t be paying attention to us,” and Sir said, “you are right.”  “Cuntie, you pay attention to me, only.”  Then he turned me around again and said, “Kneel.”  I Kneeled in slave position, with my legs splayed open.  “good, cuntie,” he said.  “Now, look at them, and don’t let them distract you.”  I was facing a guy and girl on the couch, and the girl was writhing in either pain, or ecstasy, but probably both. “Is that, hot, cuntie?” He asked.  “Yes, sir.”  Sir pulled out a thin cane and began snapping it repeatedly on my legs.  I  in whimpered my own pain, and arched my back, involuntarily trying to get away. Soon he had me giggling in pain again, mentally, flying high against reality.   Then, he leaned down and whispered in my ear, “You are done.  You are a good girl, cuntie.  I love you.”  He stood me up and said, “What do you need?”  “A drink of water,” i replied.  “Ok, but I want you to stay naked,” he said.  “yes, sir.”  Afterwards, in the car, I could feel the love in his fingertips, as he traced the marks on my upper thighs on the drive home.  I felt spacey and high and sleepy. “you are so strong and brave,” he said.  When we got home, I collapsed into bed, satisfied, relaxed, and happy. 

I Am Strung Out on Wellbutrin

download But not on purpose, it’s just that this dosage of Wellbutrin is like crack. Not that I would know………(I have been sober nearly 7 years).

Anyway, I can’t sleep and I can’t eat and I can’t come.  You heard me, I can’t have orgasms.  Well, not without some crazy fucking effort.

This is unacceptable.  At least the orgasm part is. 

WHY ORGASMS, WHY?  where have you gone?

Mentally, though, I feel great.  Back to normal, not depressed.  Physically, I feel like I am a zombie from lack of sleep, or I am crawling out of my skin.

Mentally, I am going, what was I worried about with the fiance? (See previous posts: “I lost a Piece of Him,” and “I Smoke & I Don’t Eat & I Lament”)

It’s just that the weight of the depression becomes so immense that I am deprived of perspective. Reality becomes distorted, and all that exists is my feelings, which range from intense sadness to anger to literally numb.

This is all because I quit my job, thereby losing my insurance to not-as-good insurance (cause my cobra was $800/month just for the medical for me alone!).  This took me far down the scale of antidepressants to those that are affordable – generic Wellbutrin – and, well, here I am. 

A cracked out zombie girl.  To be clear, it’s not the Wellbutrin, per say, it’s the side effects of th max dose of it that my brain needs to fucking be normal.  

So, I am trying to lower the crack-head-ness feeling.  I listen to Miles Davis, but mistakenly think  the “Birth of the Cool” album is actually what I consider “cool” jazz, but it is not. 

WTF MILES?  Why have you betrayed me?