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Caramel September

Throughout most of my college career I juggled a full-time job AND 12+ units. Looking back, I don’t know how I did it. But I did. And without working at the Crazy Horse, which I actually considered for about 2.7 seconds. The truth is I am too insecure to be a stripper yet too secure to be a stripper. But every now and then I’ll blast Outkast’s “Spottieottiedopaliscious” and start crawling on the floor in homage to the messiah herself; Diamond of The Players Club.

Sometimes in between day dreaming about book signings and marrying a pediatrician/firefighter that saves polar bears on the weekends, I day dream about being a stripper. I wonder what my stage name would be, if I’d have a signature move, and how many pairs of velour sweats with the words “JUICY” written across the booty I’d own. After a few minutes (too many) of brainstorming, I decided how I would make it rain.

Hands down, my name would be Caramel September. Or maybe Creme Brulee. Black Dante. Beauty in the Dark – whatever. Caramel September. Hmmm I suppose that would imply a special syrup encore performance for those nights where I’m especially ON. At any rate, I’d definitely have a modest boob job, and more than likely a fake tan. I was born on an island, but the San Francisco fog drains the melanin out of me.

I noticed two things about strippers: they always smell like Victoria’s Secret Country Apple, and they carry around those God awful looking lunch boxes for their tips. I’ve never been too much of a fruity scent kinda girl, so I think I’d splurge on some Warm Cotton lotion instead. Can’t hurt to smell clean when you’re doing dirty things. And if I’m carrying around a train case you better believe it’s not gonna be one of those janky see-through ones from Walgreens. Checking if Louis Vuitton makes stripper purses now …

I already know what my favorite songs to dance to will be: Prince’s “Kiss”, Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” and SBTRKT’s “Wildfire.” As far as signature moves, one time at Exotic Erotic I saw this stripper climb to the very top of the pole, and then free fall to a clean ass halt with her face barely two inches away from the ground. You would’ve sworn a golden Gandhi statue flew out of her vagina with the way it took everyone’s breath away. Needless to say, I’m going to go with that for my signature move.

Except.

My hands get sweaty when I’m nervous so I’d probably eat it and get a concussion. That’s IF I can even climb my ass to the top of the pole to begin with. I’m a little bottom heavy and have zero upper body strength so I don’t know how that’s gonna work. I’m also scared that my pikachu will show when I’m doing one of those mid-air split movies. I have no idea how strippers do the splits without having their hoo-haw flash everyone. Come to think of it, I get anxiety attacks whenever I’m on stage, and get nervous when spotlights are on me. And EW, I don’t even like touching subway train poles, what more poles that other women hug with their thighs …

Shit, never mind. Maybe I should just day-dream about being a high-end hooker instead.

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What am I?

Intimacy. Licking your brain, while massaging mine. Exploring you inside and out. Becoming one then two then one again. Feeling you. Tasting you. Loving you. Lingerie and tailored suits, sundresses an

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