Craft shows and Boozariums

So the foot fetish studio has started having its parties out in the burbs. Sucks for me, because I certainly am not going to rent a car for a night to drive out into the middle of nowhere suburbia to be groped by old men. That is public transit transportation only. Clearly.

But I have been working hard on my crafty side and have actually started selling my wares at craft shows. I sort of fell into the first show I did a few weeks ago. It was at a go go and whiskey bar in town (seriously, whiskey sours and scantily clad go go dancers for everyone!) and I actually did really well. Not only did I walk away with about $150 more dollars than I started with, I was able to trade with the other craft vendors and get most of my holiday shopping done - WITHOUT HAVING TO SPEND MONEY. How can you not love that?

So when I had the opportunity to do another show last night - one with some bigger vendors and better advertised - I jumped at the chance. I spent all weekend making new inventory and building some pretty kick ass terrariums and I was ready to go.

(side note: I literally do nothing at Real Job© since December started except build terrariums, and teach people how to build terrariums, and break up fights between customers over terrariums, and something something something else terrariums. So I knew building kick ass terrariums was well worth my time)

Ok so yesterday I took a half day at work (unpaid time off, of course) to set up at the show. I am still very new to the whole world of craft shows, so while it took me about ten minutes to unfold a table cloth and put out my portfolio everyone around me was building shelving units and stacking tables and all sorts of crazy craft show support.

So I sat there.

Then the show officially opened.

And I sat there.

And sat there.

And then I got up and stretched my legs by checking out the other vendors.

And then I sat some more.

Because there were no customers. At all.

So with 15 minutes left (after 4.25 hours of SITTING THERE) a little old lady comes over to my stand. She starts looking through my portfolio, we make small talk, she tells me my works is beautiful, blah blah blah. And then the strangest thing happened.

Adorable Grandma: "You know dear, I hesitate to even ask you this [she leans in close to me across the table], but do you have any pressed marijuana?"

Craftitute: "Oh. Yeah. Actually I do."

Adorable Grandma: "Lovely. Where is it?"

Craftitute: "I have it hidden. Do you want it framed or not?"

She then proceeded to ask her daughters who had come over if their brother would like it as a gift.

Adorable Grandma: "You see dear, he gets this magazine about this particular plant...."

Craftitute: "Oh then yeah, I think he will really like it"

After that sale, I sold my boozarium to a seven year old boy. Why? Because out of all of the terrariums I had made, he wanted the one in a Jim Beam bottle. Go figure.

Now at this point, you might be wondering what a boozarium is. It is like a terrarium, but better.

Terrariums. Pretty cool.

Terrariums are pretty awesome. Especially when I got all the glass at good will and the moss off some rocks around the city. But a boozarium is better.

Boozarium. Cooler. Because of the booze.

BECAUSE IT IS A TERRARIUM THAT YOU ONLY GET TO BUILD AFTER YOU GET REALLY DRUNK.

I am not exactly sure why I have been recycling our liquor bottles, when I should clearly be filling them with dirt and selling them to hipsters. And seven year old boys, oddly.

So a few notes of housekeeping. I know some of you are more interested into the crafty things I do and I invite those of you to like my crafty side on facebook. I also got a sweet blog nod from Yinzerella over at Dinner is Served! and will be doing an award post about that soon.

On the mountain top

Oh hi. Remember when I ran away to LA? You know, before some asshole kids punched me in the face. (for those of you playing along at home, I rocked that black eye. But, with the exception of some lump on my orbital bone that wasnt there before, I am fully healed)
I so rarely show you all the fruits of my modeling labors tghtfg t you might enjoy some of the photos from the mountaintops of malibu.

Bastards

So I was mugged last week. Mugged. By three 15 year old punks.

It makes blogging a little harder - currently I have a GIANT black eye from getting clocked in the face and have had to cancel many a photoshoot and personal encounter because I look like a hot mess.

The thing that is really annoying, though, is that although my neighbors came to my aid (and I got my things back) I am downright terrified of going outside when it gets dark. Which really sucks.

Back to the Feet

So the foot party went well. I was only there for 2 hours and I made a decent amount of money. This is partly, I think, because I was missed. The few regulars I have threw money at me to see me again. I still can't fathom the fact that I GET PAID TO GET MY FEET RUBBED.

And it was good this time. All foot guys, not a single dude secretly there for a blowjob. At least the guys I spoke with. And i got a $50 tip for having awesome feet!

Part of me is interested in my response to foot stimulation in a sexual setting. While I admit that the massages feel good, they don't really work for me in a sexual way. But at the same time, I can understand how it might. I generally don't give too much credence to new age practices but I am beginning to think there is something to reflexology: when certain parts of my feet are touched or caressed I can feel it on different parts of the body. ONE of them has to affect my ladybits.

On the otherhand, what if I do find that  I like it? I think the reason I am so comfortable with the foot fetish work is that to me it is decidedly non-sexual. Maybe it is best to not mess with that...

Oh well, you know what, I shouldn't say there were no creeps. There was one guy there - halitosis man. He was happy to see me again and to tell me that he spent all this time jacking off to me. Gee, thanks. And then he tells me he is going to try to set up a private session for he and I because he really REALLY wants to watch porn with me.

And then he stuck his tongue down my throat before I could dodge him. But he was just a 5 minute blip on a pretty normal (you know, for a fetish club) night.

Feet, the remix

Well, it seems that the Foot club is back up and running. I got an email informing me that although they had run into some undisclosed issues, the bed eggs (both male and female) had been weeded out and they were going to return to their roots: no more lapdance party or "super private" nights.

Phew.

So next week I will be going back to the club for the first time in a long time. Hopefully it will be fun, like it was when I started, and not the "i'm going to pressure you for a blowjob" bullshit it slowly turned into.

We shall see.

Mouth Taped Shut: pressed flowers and viral 'Dragon Tattoo' treasure hunts

Apparently they are making an American film version of Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Ok, nothing too special about that, right? Except someone has made the best viral marketing campaign ever... there is an interactive Tumblr account, Twitter feed, and other creepy websites that lead internet views on a real life treasure hunt. So far there have been clues hidden in vintage movie stills (or what I assume are movie stills) that lead you to a website. That website has a photo of a location and GPS coordinates. Somewhere at that GPS local us the image in the photo and hidden there is a wrapped, framed, dried, pressed flower. Pretty much exactly like the ones I make and sell online.

Mine:

Theirs:

Now to be fair, mine are not reproductions (actual props?) from the movie. And they don't come with the director's signature, although *I* sign them (and I am pretty cool). But there are only 40 flowers in the world of the book... and I bet there are more than 40 people out there who want these. So yes, I will jump on this fad, even though I'm not really because i've been selling these dried pressed flowers for over 2 years. 

But hey, as I am writing this I got a sale and I haven't even changed all my key words to #mouthtapedshut or #GWTDT or Viral Flower Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Treasure Hunt, yet. 

Please, god, keep your pants on: part deux

Hey guys, guess what. Remember that feeling I had yesterday about Capt. Creep? Yeah, I'm pretty good at these things. HE ANSWERED THE FUCKING DOOR IN A FUCKING TOWEL WHEN I SHOWED UP.

A towel that he was not interested in trading in for some pants when I politely requested that he do so. And under ANY other circumstances, I would have thrown the money back at him and booked it out, but rent. What do you do?

Right and then his towel "fell off" as he was shooting.

Have you ever seen a photographer attempting to shoot a model one handed? Because I have. I have, because as I was posed with my face away from him, I noticed that it was taking him longer and longer to snap the shutter. But, it IS really hard to manually focus your camera when you are PLAYING WITH YOUR PENIS WHEN YOU THINK THE MODEL ISN'T LOOKING.

Look, I knew I was engaging in a type of prostitution when I took this gig. His photos are shit. He doesn't know how to light (hell, he didn't even HAVE a lighting set up) and the photos are not creative. In the business he is what we call a GWC or Guy With Camera. He likes pretty girls and bought himself a fancy camera so he has a reason to be in the company of pretty girls. In exchange, the pretty girls give him some model time in exchange for his money. Because let's be honest, if you are an amazing photographer, I am not going to charge you because we are going to make some art. But if your photos are shitty, I am there to take you money, and then I'm done. Model prostitution.

NOT ACTUAL PROSTITUTION.


And what gets me is that if you get off on touching yourself while you take photos of a naked girl, then why don't you hire an actual prostitute?
1) I happen to know girls in this city that charge less than $100/hr to actually perform sex acts, so why not pay a girl that will actually do things to you?
2) If you don't want the sex and really do just want to touch yourself with a pretty girl around IT WOULD BE EVEN CHEAPER TO HIRE A HOOKER.
3) Why on Earth would you think that is ok? If you plan on being naked and touching yourself, those are terms that need to be set BEFORE the photoshoot. He complained to me that off of his models look uncomfortable in photos. WELL NO SHIT.

Please, god, keep your pants on

Readers,

In 12 hours I will be meeting a "photographer" at a hotel in town to take photos. I will be nude in said photos. I am charging said man $100/hr to have this privilege. I also made sure to inform him he will be paying me cash, upfront, before a single stitch of my clothing comes off.

But the email exchange we have been having leads me to think I am heading into a disaster.

Here are some email highlights!

Capt. Creep to me

Sep 28

Oh, sorry :).   But that sounds good.  By the way, do you have any full nude samples?  Your mm port is partial only.  Thanks!

Craftitute to Capt. Creep

Sep 28

Really? Even with workmode off? But I can send you a trial to []....that is the site I publish on. Give me a minute and then check your spam folder if it doesn't show

For the record, there are photos of me nude on my MM port. I have no idea why he couldn't see that. He has his own MM portfolio, so I am thinking he is aware how the site works.

Capt. Creep to me

Sep 28

I just saw that...thanks.  I'll take a look later since I am at work and can't access [] from here....they frown upon naked pictures of women at work :)

Capt. Creep to me

Sep 28

Yeah, they're pretty strict at my office and I can't get in to anything.

Oh, so you still tried to look at them at work anyway. That's a great idea. Nothing is better than trying to look at porn at work.

Capt. Creep to me

Sep 29

ok i was finally able to view some of the pics....very hot!  can't wait to shoot with you, it will be fun, and maybe you can even take a few of me! :)  (Don't worry...i do some modeling too, so I'm not too bad to look at) 

What? No! NO NO NO! I am a MODEL. YOU take photos of ME. I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE. I am not interested in taking pictures of you.

Capt. Creep to me

Oct 17 (6 days ago)

Can you do 9?  Also, with regards to location...I need to figure that out still, but it will be at a nice hotel in Center City.  I'm looking forward to it too...I'm finally meeting someone else that likes being nude as much as I do! :)

Uh... WTF? Are you planning on taking your pants off, because I will mace your ass. I do not "like" being nude. I don't dislike it, but the reason you are going to be in the room with me while I am naked is because you are HIRING ME to DO THAT. This is not a social gathering.

I have a feeling this will go totally wrong. And if it wasn't for the fact that I literally will not make my November rent without this $200 payment, I would cancel in a heartbeat as I am getting a BAD. VIBE.

The one where she cut off her hair

So as I mentioned in this post I recently cut off my hair with a knife. Don't worry though, it was all for a good cause. Er, no, cause isn't the right word, but I did benefit from it... so maybe the cause could be considered me. And I am a good cause. So, nevermind, I did do it for a good cause.

But in either case, I did cut off my hair with a knife, and I put it to use: I had a photographer there documenting the whole crazy process. It is now posted online, and I am making money from it. Not a ton. But at this writing I have made $44 whole dollars from my emotional distress! AMAZING.

Also, my hair? Red now.

I am hoping that I get some sympathy cash for said emotional distress. I mean, really... who cheats on me with a Jeresy girl?

What do you call a girl who can't make it as a stripper?

Poor. Very. Very. Poor.

Yeah so as it turns out, stripping is WAY more emotionally taxing than I thought it would be. I admit that dancing is hard work, but I've been taking pole classes and I find it very enjoyable. And what better way to use your newfound pole dance skills than to take it to the club and shake your ass for some dollar bills? Really, the whole thing seemed to make sense.

And then I walked into the club.

Good lord. Those girls. It was like, not a single one could look you in the eye. Not for shame; I mean not one was sober enough to be able to actually look you in the eye. I went back into the dressing room and watched a girl try to put on lipstick for over 15 minutes because she kept missing her mouth she was so out of it. But as I walked onto the floor, I saw why. The ass grabbing and titty groping, yeah, that I expected. But i watched guys restrain the girls heads and shove their tongues in their mouths. I saw them take their dollars and reach around, burying their hands in the crotch of the g string, and not the string that was offered. How do you tactfully handle that?

And then the dancing. God. My issue is that I am a dancer. So I got up on that pole and I danced. I moved to the music. What i did not do was lay on the ground, spread my legs, and smack my labia over and over. Listen, I am a healthy twentysomething with, what some might say, is a overly healthy sex drive. And in my entire existence - from the moment I discovered masturbation till RIGHT NOW - I haven't touched my own vagina as much as those girls touched themselves in one song. Also, that thing every stripper can do where they can clap their ass cheeks together? I can't do that.

And even after all that, I was still like, ok, well, I can learn to love my labia, maybe I can work here one night a week. But I inquired and was pretty much told, yeah honey, you don't have what it takes.

Can I just say how humiliating it feels to be told "you are not good enough to be a stripper." I mean, let's be honest, I think in the back of every girl's mind there is the thought, lurking, that well, if it ever comes down to it, i can rub my tits in a guys face for money'. But no, Craftitute, you can't. YOU ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR STRIPPING.

This on the heels of being turned down by a grocery store for a cashier position because I didn't "have the skills or qualifications" they were looking for. Uh what? You just make change and press buttons! I HAVE A DEGREE. I CAN DO BASIC MATH. It's really enough to make you want to jump off a bridge. Or go occupy something.

What totally sucks though is that I had come up with a plan. I was going to work two or three nights a week somewhere (like a strip club) make as much as I do at my stupid job now (only $300! Surely you can make $100 a night a strip club) and use my free days to volunteer at one of the museums in town and the zoo. Because I realized I miss working in museums. And I can't get a job because I have no network. So if I had the time to spend a year volunteering, then they would know me and I would know when jobs are open and I could at least get an interview. But without working for free, I think I'm screwed. And I can't afford to work for free unless I can work off hours somewhere else.

Or I will find my tent and go occupy wall street.

greetings from la

oh right. this blog. just when I had a good idea my life became somewhat normal, no more fetish clubs or creepy modeling gigs.

dont worry though, that era of normal is over.

I am writing now from a starbucks in malibu. (fact: a week ago I had no idea malibu was a real place) why? you may ask. well I found out my loving boyfriend was in fact sleeping with a girl from Jersey (as if the cheating wasn't bad enough), I cut my hair off with a kitchen knife, and booked it west.

 

now I am waiting to meet a photographer with whom I have been talking online since I started modeling all those years ago. does malibu have nudity laws? lets hope not, because all I have with me is my makeup kit. I am excited.

however, dear readers, I know that is not why you are reading. and I wont disappoint. Friday  I am dancing in an amateur night competition at a local  strip club. because the prize is 500. and mamma needs that. I went in to fill out paperwork before I headed west and everyone told me what a great look I had. What I am saying here is that there is a real chance I will be a stripper before the month is out. and... I think I am excited by this fact.

in other news the owner of the foot fetish club emailed us this past week. suddenly we are no longer able to have parties in his space. also he "cannot talk about it." I smell a prostitution bust.  i knew it had been close at hand for some time. I am just so happy I got skeeved out enough to stop working there before ut went down.

American Education Services can go to hell

Let's chat about student loans, shall we. I have never missed a payment. Never ever ever. Why? Well, because unlike half of the people I know who have student loans, I actually was serious when I signed that little piece of paper promising that I intended to pay back my loan.

So now I'm out of school, struggling, and I'm supposed to be making these monthly payments. If you've been following along at home you'll notice that my $233 minimum monthly student loan payment is significantly more than my food stamp allowance. So it's been fun on those months when my cups have run dry deciding between food and making my student loan payment. Especially when I look around at my friends who have all simply not paid. Funny thing about not paying... nothing bad seems to happen to you. I've not seen their assets seized. I've not seen them smote down. Hell, no one even calls them asking for money. So why not just tell AES to screw off?

Well, I have good credit, for one. Selfish? Totally. But true. I have good credit and I don't want that fucked up. But also, there has been this little promise they have dangled in front of me. When you log into the AES website, you see all your different loans, how much you have left, what the APR is, etc. And there, down at the bottom are these little countdown clocks: "rate reduction in 36 consecutive payments" or "reimbursement in 24 payments."

The thing is, they never said what the actual "prize" was. It was just there, all enigmatic, counting down each month. And so long as  you never missed the payment, you won the prize! What a great way to get poor twentysomethings to actually make all those pesky payments: if you don't screw up, young grasshopper, you will be rewarded with less debt!

So yes, I accepted the challenge, I went without food and fun to make those payments. And now it is May, 24 months later and  I have won the first round - I have made all 24 consecutive payments. Winning! Let me collect my hard earned reward:

Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me!? That? That is your BIG REBATE. A rebate you dangled in front of me for   TWENTY FOUR MONTHS OF UNINTERRUPTED PAYMENT? You convinced me to not eat for THIRTEEN FUCKING DOLLARS AND SEVENTY FIVE CENTS?

Color me a little miffed. I mean, it's like rubbing salt into the wound of being poor. I still would have paid you. You didn't have to give me a "break" on $13.75 as though you are some benevolent master. Honestly, that makes me feel more shitty than the fetish club. I mean at least there I get $20 for getting manhandled. AES can't even put out a 20.

I mean do that math. $13.75/$2,750 = .005. Ok, so my 24 payments was worth .5% of my loan?

Fuck you, AES.

It turns out I'm terrified

So once the flower show gig ended, I decided to go back to fetish club. I didn't want to. In fact, the night before I woke up in a cold sweat dreaming about the groping and the men and just the entire disgusting process. But you know, gotta pay the bills.

I had also gone into overdrive making my flower art. Partly because it was spring and I finally had some flowers and partly because I needed something to calm myself down. I was quickly heading towards a nervous breakdown.

And then something happened. I posted on an Etsy forum and caught the eye of an administrator. I was going to be featured! Finally, I was going to sell some art.

I called out of working at the club. I was so excited to not get pawed at and instead ran home after work to make as much art as possible so that I could sell it. I think I didn't sleep that whole weekend. And then the feature went up. And I didn't have a single sale. Awesome. So the next week found me at the fetish club in my best "sexy spring fling" attire, feeling like a piece of meat. Look, I don't give a good lapdance, okay? So why can't you just be happy sucking on my toes. Good god. I just can't.

I can't decide if the reason I can't do it anymore is because I'm getting older and therefore it is less appealing or if it is because I've just been at it so long I've run out of patience. I got an email this week from the club director telling me that I was booked for a "private session". This essentially means that you come in during off hours and you have to entertain your customer for an hour long session.

I knew who the guy was. He is the one from my hometown. The one who has halitosis and wants to make out all the time. The one who is so old he can't get hard, yet keeps you there until he can make himself get off. No, I did not want to go spend an hour, unattended, with this man. Especially knowing full well that the club takes a good portion of the fee and the girl only gets $100 plus tip. Now yes, I know girls who get tipped upwards of $500, but I'm guessing my willingness (or rather, lack thereof) wouldn't net me anything close to that. Not worth it.

I have started a business. An although we joke about doing it topless so we can charge more, it isn't sex related. At all! Instead I've partnered with a coworker/friend to start a gardening business in the city. I'm certainly not raking it in, but I'm eating. And keeping busy. And - wait for it - USING MY DEGREE.

I'm not dead yet.

It has brought to my attention that I haven't updated in a while. Some of you have been concerned for me. I appreciate that.

I wish I could report that I hit the lottery or married rich or something equally as fund-enhancing, but no, nothing of the like. Instead, I got a 3 week gig working for a well known department store flower show. Meaning when the store closed, I came in and watered and traded out spent plants and generally made sure things looked good for the shoppers. At the time the gig was offered the pay rate of $18/hr seemed like a godsend. Except when I got the first check and realized exactly how much of that check went to taxes.

Let me just point out one thing: after trying to work a "legitimate" job for a month I'm sad to report that I make more money working less hours at creepy fetish club.

So where is the incentive to not do it?

The Great Food Stamp Saga

Ok. So.

Today is my first day off in 15 days. I am dead tired and so so cranky. What I REALLY wanted to spend today doing was navigating this food stamp thing. Certainly I didn't need to have a pj and couch date with old House reruns.

But I did the responsible thing. While I've been working like a dog the past 2 weeks I got a notice in the mail that I have been accepted for food stamps. Hot damn! Mind you, I was approved for $32 whole dollars a month. I'm not exactly sure in what world that will provide ANYONE with enough money for an entire month's worth of eating... maybe I just eat a lot? But still, ok, it something!

Except the letter I received didn't explain ANYTHING. I apparently need some sort of food stamp card to use at the grocery store? Ok, great, but TELL ME THAT. So I tried to sneak off on my breaks and call the assistance line but I was on hold for longer than my break. Finally, I got through and was informed that I needed to come into the regional office. Oh ok sure. I'll  get right on that.

(Funny side note: welfare office is not set up to be convenient for people who actually have jobs.... meaning I had to wait until I had a day off to be able to make their craptastic office hours)

So today? I actually got out of bed, put on pants and a bra, and ventured into the heart of the ghetto.

Some fun highlights:

• I got onto the last bus on the journey. It was crowded, annoyingly so, and I fought my way to the back of the bus to not be as asshole and make room for people getting on an off. For a good 15 minutes I got to hear such lovely comments such as "what stinks? It smells like ass. Oh god, there is white girl on this bus" and the like.
• Walking out of the center, I was accosted by a creepy toothless man. He was babbling and hard to understand, but I think it was something like this: "hey pretty white thing. You in need? I can give you some work, make you some money. You'd be my prize"
• But the REALLY GOOD PART? I sat in the office, waiting to speak to someone about this card business, and when I finally was called, I was informed that "oh sorry, you came here for nothing... you didn't come into the office in time so we mailed  it to you" YOU MAILED IT TO ME!!? WHY DID YOU TELL ME I HAD TO COME INTO THE FREAKING OFFICE IF YOU CAN JUST MAIL THEM OUT!!?

I am SO ANNOYED.

one born every minute

Let's take this opportunity to talk about some crafts! I have two different etsy shops: one plant based and the other clothes. Lately I've been more into the plant based crafts... I think the impending spring has everything to do with that. So imagine my surprise when I check my email the other day and notice that I have sold a piece from the clothing line.

A hat. A hat I made out of bubble wrap. This hat:

I wore the outfit to a Lady Gaga concert. I can only guess that the purchase was somehow Gaga related as well. But still. Someone actually BOUGHT that. Just the hat though. And now I have this Bubblewrap dress with no hat. 

And who would wear that fabulous dress without a matching bow hat?

Regardless, thank you random Etsy shopper. Your purchase of said hat enabled me to buy both milk AND bread this week for the house, which is good, since the roommates assured me it was my turn to buy the staples.

Profile of a Foot Fetish.

At this point I thought it might be fun for you to all see a little video. At the last foot party I worked, I met a man named Jack. He had been to parties before, but I knew what he was into (not what you're thinking), and I didn't think I would be any good at it.

But one of the girls I'm friends with introduced me to him and arranged for us to do a double session. Having someone seasoned to show me the ropes, so to speak, put me at ease, and I agreed. While we waited for the session room to open up, I learned quite a bit about Jack. The most interesting tidbit, of course, was that he was on Jerry Springer a few years ago for his fetish.

So perhaps watching Jack explain it all can help you understand exactly what it is that goes on:



Make sense now? Especially when I say these guys a more than a little socially inept? Oh and because I know you're wondering: I AM NOT PRINCESS.

So there it is in true Springer fashion: not fake, really, but more than a little over the top. I certainly don't do aerobics before a foot party.

Here is the thing: Jack does love, as he puts it, 'white woman's feet'. But thats not actually the fetish he comes to the parties for. It goes a little deeper than that, which brings us to my first session with him at the last party:

Jack likes to be trampled. Hard. Which basically means he lies down and you kick the bloody shit out of him. He also wants to be called every racial slur in the book. Perhaps you understand my reservations about working with him before. Yes, he likes it, and asks for it, but I still feel a little weird about beating up a blind black man while calling him the N-word... AND THEN GETTING PAID FOR IT.

After we sessioned I was told that I needed to work on my racial slurs. I, apparently, don't know enough of them and I didn't use "any of the good ones." I.... I still don't know how to react to that statement.

But I will leave you with some interesting food for thought: Jack told the Springer show about the rest of his "white girl feet" fetish. And even the Jerry Springer show wouldn't touch that with a ten foot pole.

well then

Not to get too revealing, but I will just say that my 10th grade Chem teacher was arrested on child pornography charges today. So, thats interesting.

What's really sad is that he would be the 2nd teacher of mine to get arrested for that topic

My landlords won't take my money

Okay, today is February 23. March is in 6 days.My landlords have not cashed the February rent check, yet. If you are anything like me you see that you have money in your bank account and forget that its "technically" spent already. Or you don't forget and it just sits there taunting you.

And any other time that would just be annoying.  But this is the ONE MONTH that I actually have cash in my bank account (even though I don't really because the check could clear any moment, you know, when my landlords decided that they could use that extra cash...) and so when Uncle Sam poked into my records to see if  I could,  in fact, be awarded some government assistance for food, what did they see? Money. 

And what that means for me is a big old rejection letter. Awesome.

Of course its not all doom and gloom. I did sell some art:

So thats good. I have about 25 more pieces listed, so if I could just sell some more, I could actually, you know, eat and stuff.

Socially Inept.

Another foot party. Another weird, weird night.

Two different guys offer you today's reading material: The submissive and headlamp guy.

First the submissive:

This guy, he is the the king of the socially awkward. I was eating dinner and the moment I finished he was there, asking me if he might take my plate. Total gentleman, right? And he would have been, if he then didn't proceed to crawl away with it. On his hands and knees - that sort of crawling. 

Later, he comes up to me, telling me I am so beautiful, so German looking (seriously, German looking?) that we have to session. Ok, fine. So we go off to a couch and I sit down and he hands me a mirror. He apparently gets off on women looking at themselves. And then he starts licking my boots (literally!) and saying how sexy my Nazi boots were. Nazi boots?

My Boot

Hitler

Not exactly, though I'm sure the Nazis would have had a much better go of things if they had worn a cute kitten heel. 

So then he asks me to put on lipstick and I know that he likes to be humiliated. So I call him stupid and worthless and he asks me to step on his face with my boots on which I do. And then he says "you're so pretty. I bet you were popular. Just like Regina George." Thats when one of the other girls in the room (who was in a session of her own) starts creaking up. The whole time, I had been rolling my eyes and shoot her looks because this guy was just so weird, but at this point she actually loses her shit and laughs. It took me a moment - what was he talking about. And then I realize: oh my god, Regina George.

Regina George

He is actually comparing me to a imaginary 17 year old queen bee. Amazing! Then he starts this deluge of weird compliments: my skin is so pale, he wants to buy me Uggs, I look so un-American.

What, exactly, is un-American?

Oh but this next guy. I have never actually sessioned with him. I've tried all the tricks: engaging conversation, laughing at his odd jokes, pretending that I give a shit when he talks and talks and talks... No go. But he does make a point to come up to me and say hello almost every party. Usually he does and then wonders away mid-conversation. We call him headlamp guy because when he does session he puts on a miner's hat and inspects every inch of your foot. So. Strange. And this night... oh my god.

Him: Hello, Craftitute.
Me: Oh hey there.... you (I have no idea what his name is). 

Him: You know that band? They sang a song with your name in it.

Me: Yes they did. 

Him: I had a friend named Craftitute. She got pregnant at 17 and stopped being our friend because she thought she was so much better than us.

Me: Oh thats weird. 

Him: Why?

Me: Well, she was 17.... i mean, thats not a good thing...I.. er... well kids just aren't my thing.

Him: You don't want kids?!

Me: Not at all.

Him: But you've babysat before.

Me: Huh? yeah, I've babysat. Thats why I know I don't want kids, haha.

Him: Did you ever babysit boys?

Me: Yes.

Him: Babies?

Me: Yeah, less than a year.

Him: But how? You couldn't change his diaper!

Me: Um, sure I could.

Him: But he has a thingy! You would have seen it! (seriously, that statement is verbatim)

Me: Well, yeah, but he was a baby.

Him: There is this video on Youtube of a mother showing how to change a diaper.

Me: Oh yeah?

Him: Yeah, she uses her son and films what to do.

Me: Well thats a great idea. I think a lot of people might not know how to do that and could use the help.

Him: You should see the comments people leave. They think it is wrong.

Me: Why would it be wrong?

Him: Well..... she..... she lifts his thingy and cleans it!

Me: Yeah, thats what you have to do. You can't let it stay dirty.

Him: But you didn't do that when you changed diapers.

Me: Yes, I did. Thats what you have to do. They're not old enough to take care of themselves.

Him: [weird silence]

Him: You know touching the thingy of someone your own age can be kind of fun, though.

Me: [startled silence]

Him: What? [he got right in my face] what did you say?

Me: I didn't.... I didn't say anything.

Him: But it COULD be fun, if he is older, right?

Me: I... don't know?

Him: Oh never mind. You don't understand.

He walked away then and I realized "Oh my god, he was trying to ask me for I handjob, I think."

I think the system is broken

So, as you may have gathered, I'm poor. And while it is a hard notion for me to comprehend, having come from the middle class and wanting to stay firmly there thankyouverymuch, it was actually my parents who brought up the options I was ignoring. Welfare.

Even now, I feel slightly embarrassed just admitting to it. How absurd is that?! It is easier for me to admit that I provide sexual satisfaction to creepy old men for money than to admit that I applied for government assistance. This might be the first problem. Why is welfare such a dirty word? Is it merely a product of my upbringing? Is it the burden of the middle class that if you slip from that class level sex work is a better option than letting your taxes pay for assistance? What weird sort of mental blockage is that? And yet, there it is. I have told more people about the fetish club than my application for food stamps. That should not be the case.

But anyway, I did it. I applied for foodstamps. You can do it all online (at least in my state - did you know food stamps are state based? I was mistakenly under the impression that it was a federal program, but no. It is a state run system and, I assume, qualifications differ from state to state) so I did, over the course of about 90 minutes one evening.

I received a letter in the mail shortly after. It was one page long.

the letter I received from my friendly government assistance office

So go ahead and read that over. I especially enjoy the bold line at the top. "I know you're hungry right now, but you're not a migrant worker and you have more than $100 to your name, so sorry, we have to wait till we get around and review your application." Meanwhile, I went to the gym today and stepped on the scale. It had been broken the past 2 weeks, so I wasn't sure how much weight I'd lost, if any. I knew people were commenting, but who knows how that translates? I started at the scale in disbelief. A women behind me said that she wasn't sure it was working right, since it had been broken so long. I found another scale. Same number.

I've lost almost 10 pounds in 4 weeks. Any other time I would be THRILLED (oh hell, I'll admit it here, I'm still a little thrilled) but it's cheap excitement. I didn't EARN that weightloss. It isn't even that I have the willpower of an anorexic. It's just that I'm not a seasonal farm worker who doesn't qualify for food assistance. Never mind that I'm hungry.

Yes, I understand that the system can't be too easy because then it would be abused to hell. But you know something? I see a LOT of people shopping at the local Whole Foods using their foodstamp cards. I'll even go out on a limb and assume that all of those people are qualified. What I can't understand is how the hell they figured it out. I mean, I have two degrees. And I can't make heads or tails of all the documentation they are requiring from me. I don't know.

You know what else sucks? The dispute option. Even though I wouldn't have disputed (obviously, I don't fit any of those categories) the time frame given to me was over by the time I received the letter in the mail. That's pretty shitty.

I'm going to pursue this route. As my parents pointed out: "You're going to be paying for it the entire time you work, so you might as well use it when you need to."



You know, if they let me.

Want vs Need

I guess it's important to say that I consider myself a feminist. Not to go into all the history, but depending on what theory you subscribe to (if you subscribe at all), I am a third wave feminist. This is partly based on age (after all, I am only in my 20s) having grown up with the idea that girls can do anything boys can do, not only from my own mother, but from teachers and TV and battle of the sexes challenges in gym class. So yeah, being a girl has always been an okay thing. Glass ceiling? Yes. It's there. But no one I know makes any money, so I can hardly cry foul about that in my experience.

Now, generally, 3rd wavers are known for not being opposed to sex work. Where as my mother's type of feminism requires any utilization of the female body to be regarded as 'demeaning,' I have always struggled with that notion. What could be demeaning about using your very own body to support yourself? An accomplished stripper has always seemed like the ultimate woman to me. You're a perfect specimen of feminine beauty and men are willing to pay to look at you. Hasn't this been in vogue since Aphrodite? And if you so desire to engage in more than longing looks? Well, good for you. Sex is fun and it feels good and if people are willing to pay you for that as well? There are plenty of girls for free at the local bar, yet you are something so exquisite they are willing to pay for YOU.

Not demeaning in the least.

And so working at the club has always seemed okay to me. Sure, people are weird, and I've had requests for situations that I wasn't interested in participating in. But that is part of the beauty: you bat your eyes, smile coyly and say thanks but no thanks. I have always been in charge. And when I made enough money to make my evening complete, I pack my things and go.

Now things are different. No longer am I there because I want to be. I'm there because I have to be. This money is my income. I need it. It pays my rent, buys my food, keeps my heat on during these 4 degree nights. That realization struck me as I left Real Job last weekend and walked to the club. And I felt ill. I didn't want to go. I cried tears that burned my face in the subzero wind and felt utterly defeated. Because the money wasn't something I simply wanted, but needed it to survive. How much harder it is, to refuse a request, when the money they slip into your palm is going to feed you for the next week.

And once everyone in the club, guys and girls alike, started to comment on how good I looked and how I must "have been busting ass at the gym" to lose that much weight in two weeks, refusal stopped being an option. Because I haven't been busting ass at the gym. I just haven't had money to eat.

So yeah, when creepy old guy gives you $100 to make out with him for ten minutes, what do you do? I guess on the bright side I know many of the girls there make that amount of money through many more illicit means. Should I be flattered? There is something to be said about that, I guess. First base with me is worth the same as 3rd with other girls. But that is also very... weird. I'm certainly no prettier, no sexier, no more interesting than any of the other girls there. It is unnerving.

Also there is this orchid blooming at Real Job that smells exactly like creepy old man's breath. Orchids aren't known for their fabulous fragrance, but I'm haunted by this particular halitosis orchid. It taunts me with my shame.

And this is when sex work stops being empowering. It smothers you in the mantle of no other options and that is scary. Because i feel optionless. I've sent SO MANY resumes and cover letters into open positions in my field and have not even had the courtesy of a rejection letter. And, quite frankly, I'm REALLY accomplished in my field. I should at least be getting a round one phone call.

Just a note about housekeeping

Having lived in college dorms and old mansion-like houses that were converted into far more units than should be legally allowed, I am familiar with odd, late-night smells wafting into my room at various times. Pizza. Or the lovely smell of bile and vodka (oh the joys of having the dorm room right next to the elevator freshman year...) but I have moved up in the world (so to speak) and I currently live in a house. A house that I have access to all parts of. A house in which I know all of the other people under the roof and can ask them about rouge smells.

What I can't figure out is why, at least two times a week, I can smell pot and bacon. It's only in my room. It's only at night. And it comes on so strong and so suddenly it's like someone made a bong out of a roasting pig and took a hit in bed with me.

Where is this COMING FROM?

Do you believe in magic?

Do you believe in magic? Not the crazy Chris Angel kind but the goddess-loving, organic wheat berry eating, drumming in the woods naked witch kind. I'm still not sure. In highschool I explored a lot of paganism and with that came the study of magic as an energy. I still really like the idea of it, even if I'm not 100% sure about it as a practice...

Lately, I've been sending out cover letters and resumes like there is no tomorrow and I just can't seem to get that phone call, let alone an interview. So I started thinking about spells for money and jobs and the like. Its been in the back of my mind: pulling out all the old supplies and throwing myself on whatever deity will enable me to survive. 

This past weekend, I worked another fetish party. I went in there knowing I HAD to make $200 in order to not bounce my rent check that  I already mailed to my landlord. I haven't made $200 at a party in quite some time. Again, this is all due to the growing expectation of unabashed prostitution, but how do you fight it? Generally I work the early shift, starting right after I leave Real Job and working till about midnight or 1am depending on how the night is going. 

This night was the same. I was the first girl there. I changed and watched the NFL Playoffs till the guys showed up. A few guys sprinkled in. I tried to engage them, but there were so many girls and so few guys. Suddenly I looked at the clock and we were 2 hours into the party and I had only made $20. Disaster. 

And then the Jets beat the Colts. I don't know if you watched that game. It came down to a field goal. Exciting. I'll admit I was standing around during the last 2 minutes of the game watching with all the guys as well. And when the Jets won a celebratory riot ensued. Guys were running around, shouting "that is for US! This win was for US!" and I didn't really understand why all of a sudden I was standing in a room of New York fans (since I wasn't in New York) but as I learned, Rex Ryan who is the head coach of the Jets, filmed a series of foot fetish videos staring his wife. And that is more than enough to get a club full of foot fetishists to root for your team, as it were. 

With the celebration I hoped that the guys would start spending money. And perhaps they did, but not on me. There I sat with 20 bucks in my pocket trying to remain friendly but essentially giving up. I texted my boyfriend to save me, but alas, he was still working, so while I waited for him I tried to mingle. 

Here is the thing: I have a lot of people that I talk to at these parties. Some of the conversations I even enjoy. But I am there TO MAKE MONEY. So its frustrating when the same guy talks you ear off week after week and then never slips you payment. Yes, I know you don't pay for conversation, and maybe I'm not your "type" but I'm clearly type enough to stimulate you intellectually, and what the hell, you can support my sexy brain even if you don't want to support my sexy feet. I digress.

We were talking about magic. The girls introduced me to a guy who gives massages. He kept saying he "didn't know me" and I told him my name and tried to come up with good "getting to know you" fodder. He explained that he could tell everything about me with his thumbs. So he gave me a backrub. Wow. Was it good. Actually, good might not even be the right word. I mean, I was stiff and it HURT. But at the same time, it was like I could breathe and think again. And then at the end, he told me "ok, now go make that money"

And the stars aligned. It was really weird.

Suddenly, I was in high demand. I was consistently busy and then decided that I had made enough and grabbed my coat to meet my boyfriend. That's when I was approached by a guy who asked if I had to leave right away. I told him no and he said that he would rent a private room. I blanched. That only ever means one thing. I led him to a corner and asked what exactly he was into. "Lapdances. And.... you know" Right. I DO know. That's exactly the problem. I flat out told him "ok, well lapdances are all I do. Just so we're on the same page." He pondered this news for a moment and then said "ok, let's do it anyway"

About halfway through, it occurred to me that giving a lapdance for 30 minutes straight is really hard on your thighs. At least the girls that perform other.... tasks in the rooms get to flex different muscle groups. It also occurred to me that I have NO IDEA how to give a proper lapdance and should go about learning. Although, where does one learn that skill? Is it all on the job training? This is why I will never be a stripper... I can't stand the thought of not doing something well. 

I had another long lap dance customer earlier in the evening who really likes my body, which is nice, except he tells me why the whole time we session. And it's always really great phrases like "You have all this extra meat on your bones" and "your ass is just so big." I know he is saying these things as a good thing. I know he is trying to be nice. But it's like highschool in there and the other girls catch on and giggle and whisper "fatass" which, yeah, compared to most of them, I am.

But the winner of the best of the night award goes to the guy who approached me while I was dancing in the mingle room. He tells me how sexy my dancing is and how it just "pushes all his buttons." He wants to know what I'm into. I tell him I do foot sessions. He says he is sure I have sexy feet, but that he wants to see more. I say that I can dance for him if he'd like. He presses on: "Yes, but what else?"

"Nothing"

"Nothing?"

"No sorry."

[long awkward pause while he stared me down]

"Slut!" and then he walked away.

Yes, sir. You are right. I am ABSOLUTELY a slut because i WON'T put out. Good job.

Asshole.

Fun with Craigslist

Readers (if any of you are left),

Sorry I've been M.I.A. I guess I get a little ADD at times and chase after the next shiny thing when it comes along. Part of it too, I suppose, was that I had nothing terribly exciting to write about. Not that I wasn't still doing my thing, but the holidays make everyone busy and when you're spending time with your family (or your significant other's family) there tends to be very little room for scandal.

Oh, but that reprieve is all over now.

I've fallen onto some hard times. Harder than before. Hard times like my Real Job cut my hours by 25% leaving me with a 25% hole in my income. Maybe 25% doesn't sound like too much for you, likely because you have a decent job with a livable wage. To me however, 25% means I don't have enough money to cover all my monthly expenses like rent and electricity and my student loan payment, let alone the less pressing debts of food and transportation to and from work (when i do go).

25% means I'm fucked. Plain and simple. I'm SO GLAD I got that degree from that prestigious university.

So like any 20 something who finds herself in that 25% hole, I turned to the internet. Come with me on my train of thought. Choo-choo!

"I model. Perhaps I could scour the talent section of Craigslist for someone in need of a model. It has worked for me in the past, when I first started modeling. It will work again. And one or two gigs will be enough to get me out of the hole."

Reasonable, if not a tiny bit naive. But like I said, I had good luck the first time. Oh but that's right, back in the good old days, Craigslist had a section for "Adult" work and that's where people in the sex and adult industry posted, leaving the other categories open for non sex-for-money opportunities. It is SUCH A GOOD THING Craigslist shut down that adult section because all those people have simply left the internet. POOF! Gone. They don't hang around in the other sections, clogging up the postings with legitimate-sounding ads and then respond to your incredibly professionally written cover letter email with:

"Are you interested in doing video work? Pay starts at 300$ per scene.
Would it be something you are interested in or need more details? Pay
is in cash.
D.J"

Talk about a non sequitur. Not only does this have NOTHING AT ALL TO DO with the posted job I responded to, that is the whole email. The entire thing. You would think that if you're going to throw that at someone you'd at least preface with "hi" or something.

Now I'm not that naive that I didn't know what he was getting at. But I thought, what the hell, and asked for more details. 

"These are adult videos. They consist of a short interview then oral,
penetration and facial. Condoms are used during penetration. You will
be paid cash before shoot. Interested?"

DJ didn't even sign his name this time. And that was the end of that little conversation.

Here is what gets me: if condoms are going to be used during penetration (which I'm all for, by the way, let's be smart about this) why on earth would I then take it in the face? 

So obviously that route is done. Currently I'm throwing all my energy into making clothes and selling them on etsy, but getting that first sale is turning out to be a frustrating nightmare. I just don't have the time or money to advertise. And I'm not internet savvy enough to get there on my own. Or maybe I just suck at crafting and just refuse to believe it. That could be it too, I suppose.

I just don't want to believe that in order to make an extra income the only option is hardcore porn. What sort of world are we living in where a pretty girl can't even make money letting people photograph her without clothes on? why must she be naked AND have things shoved into her vajayjay?