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My Date With SF’s Douchebag PUA With A Rape Van

This could have been mine.
This could have been mine.

So, by now many of you have probably seen last Friday’s article on Jezebel about “Jeffy,” AKA jlaix, Captain_Derp on OkCupid (although he seems to have deleted his account), or Jeffrey Allen. Jezebel was inspired by a post on Mission Mission, concerning spottings of his “rape van,” emblazoned with hand-painted portraits of Tupac and Pedo-bear. Katie J. M. Baker found a local woman, “Amanda,” willing to go public about her ultimately fruitless correspondance with Jeffy on OkC. Well, I’d already gone a bit further.

Being an adventurous and somewhat awkward internet dater in the SF Bay Area, I went on a date with this fine specimen of manhood in December. And yes, it was all that you would expect—and more. Upom leaving the house, I told my roommate that it was either going to be the best date ever or the worst experience of my single life. It turned out to be both, and also an excellent insight into the psyche of the so-called pickup artist (PUA, in their terminology).

I’ve been a sex worker for about four years now. Having been a nude model, peepshow dancer, stripper, porn performer, sensual massage provider, and dabbler in pro-domming, I now make my living mostly as an independent escort. While working in strip clubs, a friend introduced me to Neil Strauss and his book The Game, and told me that the techniques described inside worked even better on male customers and would open wallets like nothing else. I devoured the book (and also the Vh1 reality series starring Mystery, a man famous for his love of furry hats and success at leveraging drunk girls’ low self-esteem for blowjobs). Turns out, she was right. Drunk, entitled men really respond to “negging” (backhanded compliments made to prey on insecurities), “peacocking” (wearing bright or outlandish clothes to attract attention, something strippers have been excelling at for years), and other PUA tricks.

So when I wound up sitting at a Mission bar next to a self-proclaimed master PUA, I was armed and ready.

An Extras Girl in Australia

maxines_barI get into work at the strip club and put my bag down. “Who is leaving all these condoms around here? We’re not fucking whores!” “Why do people have condoms in here, it’s meant to be a STRIP CLUB, who is doing that shit?” I replied straight back, “They’re not mine, but what’s the big deal? Lots of us do extras.” Hours pass, and in a quieter, more private moment, the same worker who said this earlier confides to me that she does extras too.

The first sex work I did was in a strip club—in the state I was living in at the time (Victoria, Australia) there is a complex legal system for the sex industry which means to work legally for yourself you must register with your legal name and only do outcalls. The only other way to work legally is in a brothel where the money cuts are less and you had to attend monthly invasive health checks to work (recently reduced to once every three months). Neither of these options really appealed to me, so I chose to work in a way that was criminalized, but where I could keep the maximum amount of my money, take care of my own health, have the maximum amount of control over how I worked and also avoid police as much as possible. I chose to work in a strip club.

Romance & Relationships: A Stripper’s Love Story

As I’m writhing under the crimson-lit, leather furnished room, his eyes never leave my face. Although my glance is cast downward, I know that he is smiling and I sense his contentment. I don’t bother to hide my smirk, as I lower my lips to his neck, and deliberately graze them across the wiry brush of his beard. My knees are at either side of his waist, and I wind my waist around until I press against the bulge in his pants. He exhales against my cheek.

The last week when he visited, I giggled quietly to myself as he fucked me from behind, out of sight and sound of the other customers, staff and my coworkers. Tonight we are in the smaller, more visible private-dance room. The gauze-like curtain does little to hide our activities tonight, and so I will maintain my professionalism. Peripherally, I can see a bachelor party gawking from the couches adjacent to us.

The thumping rhythm comes to an end, and with the sound of DJ Robert’s voice, I loudly sigh and plop back in to the chair. My husband closes his eyes, and takes a breath, before reaching for his beer.

“Well, thank you Penguin,” he says to me, as he reaches in to his pocket and passes money to my outstretched hands. I daintily take it, and tuck it into my waist cincher as I bend to kiss him on the cheek. He knows the drill. Apparently he is also aware of the couch-gawkers. The bills are singles rather than twenties, but it is of no matter; I’ll surely just use them to buy us coffee in the morning.

I stand to give him a hug, as I do most of my well-paying customers. I step from the room, smiling, keeping my gaze level with the crowd, and hold the curtain open for him. My beautiful, bearded man returns to the bar, and I head to the bachelor couch.

Smiling bigger than I mean to, I greet them. “Well, hello, gentlemen. I couldn’t help but notice you watching. So…who’s next?”

Your Bunched Panties, Calculated And Concluded

Image via Annablogia
Image via Annablogia

We’ve been working our tails off here at Tits and Sass H.Q. We’ve calculated, tabulated, carried the four and moved the decimal. We almost ran out of bananas to feed our staff of well-trained statistician monkeys.  It was a close one, but we persevered. Now we can finally publish what may be considered the most important and scientifically relevant bit of sex worker research ever done. Yes, the results of our poll are in and we can now answer the most pressing question of our time: What, dear sex workers, irritates YOU the most? 

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beerholder

I am 28 years old. I am 5’4″. I weigh 155, about—I actually have not weighed myself for years, but I have worn the same dress size since I was fourteen years old. I figure as long as my clothes fit, there is no need to keep track of my actual weight. I ride my bike everywhere I go. I am energetic and I rarely feel like my body holds me back. I eat what I want and most of what I want is healthy. However, I do think life is too short to not eat a goddamn piece of cheesecake if I want it.

I hate validating myself in this way, but I feel I need to tell you these details because apparently I’m “fat.” And definitely too “fat” to be a stripper.

Having gotten my start stripping at the Lusty Lady in San Francisco, I moved to Portland for a totally separate job. Eventually, I started working at a couple of places on the outskirts of town. I hadn’t even worn heels for over a year, so I figured I would keep a low profile while I got my strength back. As I gained confidence, I contacted a booking agent. She had me do an audition shift at a club where she was short a girl that day. When she stopped by to see me dance, she told me I was too heavy to work in one of the clubs she booked for, but there didn’t seem to be any complaints at the one I auditioned at, so she would schedule me there. I worked there for six weeks. I made pretty good money (even though I was only given day shifts) and I got along with everyone. The clientele was right up my alley: middle-aged white guys. They dig my style, the music I dance to, and my body (especially the fact that I don’t shave all my pubes off!) and I was happy.

Then one week I just wasn’t on the schedule. Then the next week I wasn’t on the schedule. So I called to ask why I had basically been fired. Apparently, a “customer complained” about how I looked. I have my doubts about if that’s true, but even if a customer did complain, would they have taken a skinny girl off the schedule?