Archive for October, 2012


Posted in Family Events & Celebrations on October 31, 2012 by tiltdiary

Happy HalloweenMy neighbors probably think I hate kids, because every year on Halloween my house stays dark. It literally looks like a scary ghost house. I will even turn the porch light off. Because the last thing I want is kids to walk up to my house, not because I don’t like kids, but because my dogs see anybody knocking on the door or ringing the doorbell as an intruder or possible attacker. For the past 14 years I have been taking my dogs on hikes, or kept the house dark, or tried to hide with them in the garage. But since the kids know me as the WolfLady, they think it’s fun to knock persistently on my door. I guess they are high on sugar from all the unhealthy candy, and it gives them courage to dress up and do something scary, because Halloween is suppose to be scary.

I really don’t get the whole ‘Trick or Treat’ thing anyway. I thought when I experienced my first Halloween here in the US, that the kids had to do a trick, like singing a song or recite a poem, but it’s nothing like that. They just get the candy…they don’t have to do anything for it. Free candy!

And I am not against dressing up. We have something similar in Europe called “Fasching”, where we dress up to chase out the winter ghosts. But it never turns into the candy-run-around wild madness that I have experienced here. And why would I need permission to dress up? I can dress up any time I want, I don’t need Halloween as an excuse for it. I am not big into costumes, but in the end I do have established Jones-wear. I wear fishnets when I please, thigh highs when I am into it, 8 inch stilettos when I dance, Yoga outfits when I teach, sexy little mini skirts only teenage girls are suppose to wear… I wear whatever I want to wear, when I want to wear it, and when it makes me feel happy. And if I want to pull the sexy kitten outfit I can always wear it at the club.

There is this new girl at the club, she has probably at least 10 different outfits she changes into in one shift. I find it a little too much. Come on, she has a cheesy police officer uniform she strips out off, a fake Geisha kimono, an alien outfit, she even has a kitty cat outfit with a tail, which doesn’t appeal to me, but the guys seem to like it. Men are a lot like boys, they are very visual, and they like to play. I get that. And although it’s not a turn on for me, it’s fine. Whatever works.

I guess, maybe what Halloween makes me realize is that I have Halloween at the club all year long. It’s a mad house. But club or not club, I will still wear my Jones-wear, dress the way I feel comfortable, dress to tease if I am in the mood, dress to turn heads, or sometimes not dress at all…because being naked with the right person at the right time is magic.


Posted in Customers on October 30, 2012 by tiltdiary

I go into the club feeling money, feeling it will be a good night, and I am in good spirits. But that quickly changes. From 8p.m. to midnight I have not made a single dollar. There are a few guys there, but the kind that sit there for hours staring at you chewing on one beer, with their arms crossed not tipping any of us a single dollar. About two hours into the shift the girl’s mood drops hard. They are all on something, except me. So I just watch with a clear mind. Some girls go into silence, sleeping wasted on the dressing room floor, others become full of rage and want to fight. Like bi-polar MoodyMolly, who literally steels my song “I’m Still Loving You” and wants me to attack her over it so there is at least an outlet to her frustration. Everybody knows this is Jones’ song, and only Jones can pull it off dancing on this song. May flips out when she hears my song blasting, “WTF, is she trying to fuck with you? Everybody knows that’s your song, everybody knows you dance for San Francisco when you play that song. Are you going to kick that bitch’s ass?” I respond quietly, “Naaa, not worth the effort. She wants to fight. Let her dance on it, that song is 7 minute long, and she’s going to walk off the stage with not even a single dollar for all that effort. Just being so long out there in front of all these stingy douche bags is going to teach her a lesson.” And so it is, MoodyMolly comes back with not a single dollar bill. Whatever…

By midnight I have surrendered, I am at minus $10, haven’t even made my house fee yet! I talk to the little waitress and she says, “It’ll get better!” And I say, “I hope you are right but anything could happen any time!” In that moment I feel a strange, rancid smell behind me, and it’s a homeless looking guy who walks up to me and hands me a $20 bill. Wow, that is a sign from God, right. I walk up to him and say, “Thank you so much, honey!” He answers, “Don’t worry about it!” and waves his hands uncoordinated and his mouth opens in a reflex as if he would gag. I get it right away, he’s not just stinky, there is something mentally not right, but I know I am a born psychologist and can handle it. I know I cannot count on the bouncer who is working tonight, he’s too out of shape and half asleep. So I say to Gaggy, “What’s your name, honey?” And he yells with a giant smile on his sunburned face, “Don’t worry about it! What’s your name?” And then he gags again. I can see all of his bad teeth all the way down to his deteriorated molars. And I say to him while almost passing out from his smell, “I am Joneseee, nice to meet you.” And I have to shake his rough, dirty hand with fingernails covered in black grease.” Now I almost have to gag, but of course I don’t. He tells me singing. “Yoooouuu aaarrreeee speeeecial! I have stacks of money at home, stacks of money you don’t even know. And I just give it away. God tells me who to give it to.” Gags again.

I think to myself, see although people told me over and over again God won’t help me in the stripping business, he does. I am willing to take the gift! Shortly after I think this, I see a skinny, short haired, blond young man walk in. He is very little. He is probably in his 30s but looks more like a 13 year old boy. I can tell something is wrong with him. Physically an under developed adult. But I have no time to think, my BrutallyHandsome DJ calls me on stage. I pick my favorite 80s song, Bob Seger, “Turn the Page!” Skinny guy sits at the front, and I walk in my seductive strut right up to him. All I can think of is my San Francisco, the only way I can pull this dance off. My hips start swinging in figure eights, Skinny guy is mesmerized and pulls out the singles and lays them neatly organized on the stage railing. I break the rules (no body part is allowed to touch the railing at any time due to the law) and touch the railing to swing my long hair over the Skinny guy’s lap. He wants to talk and yells in a mousy voice, “What’s your name gorgeous?” I say, “Jones, and what’s your name, honey?” He yells again over the loud music, “Little Larry!” And before he continues, he spells his name yelling, “L-I-T-T-L-E-L-A-R-R-Y, and damn you can actually dance, you get a raise!” And he fans out more dollar bills. So I go on my knees and then roll on my back opening my legs in a wide play. I can see his eyes following the rhinestones in my crotch area. He’s hypnotized by me waving my jeweled pussy in front of him, and then I pull Jones’ signature heel clack, slam my heels together. And as if he would have known that I was planning on doing this, he jumps up, claps his hands up in the air and yells, “BOOOOOM, it’s like an explosion, cool, you get a raise, BOOM like a real explosion!” And he neatly fans out more dollar bills. OK, I get it, he loves the explosion, when I clack my heels. Desperate to make my night worth the effort I clack my heels as many times as I can without looking as crazy as he is. Each time he repeats his explosion outbreak.  Gaggy walks up and places money on the stage, the 5 singles he puts on stage are soaked in beer. Ewwwwooo, but I am desperate for money and wrap them in a paper towel hoping they won’t stick together eternally.

When I get off the stage Little Larry blocks my way to Gaggy. He wants to talk and tells me everything, “I was so drunk I passed out and pissed myself, and they found me but didn’t give up on me. Then I won the $50.000 at The Price is Right. Why do you think God is giving me that second chance? To do something with my life. My mother is really proud of me, I am doing something, and I won $50.000 at the Price is Right. I want to hire you to be a dancing diva at one of my wrestling events. I think I can pay you $500 for the day. Give me your phone number….” He goes on and on…. He is insane but generous.

I free myself from Little Larry to check back on Gaggy. And he tells me, “You are special! Do you want to be my girlfriend? I don’t want you for sex, but you have to drive me!” He gags, and I see and smell all the way down  his esophagus. This is almost unbearable for my delicate, sensitive Blood Hound nose, but I force myself to respond kindly to Gaggy, “But Sweetie, I don’t know you, I don’t even know your name. How can I be your girlfriend?” He asks bluntly, “When are you going to pick me up?” then gags again. Me, “Pick you up? Where, when? I don’t know where you live.” He leans in and hands me his driver’s license, “Here take this. Keep it, my address is on there!” I am taken by surprise, “Wait a minute, you can’t give me your ID. Let me just write down your address.” But then it clicks, it’s probably a fake driver’s license, and he might have a stack of those at home as well.

My night was worth it, not a good night, but I do walk with an OK amount of money because of two mentally handicap men. The healthy bastards didn’t want to tip us.

Gaggy tells me many more things that night. He says, “I don’t want you for sex, I just want to take care of you, bathe you, feed you, and put a ring on your finger. If you are true to me, I will be true to you, but you have to drive me. I want your car, you have to be my chauffeur. I can’t drive because I go too fast, like 80 miles an hour. I can’t drive, I can’t read, I can’t write, but I’ll put a ring on your finger!” He gags after every two or three sentences. I listen patiently. I feel sorry for him, but I am also creep out by the thought of him giving me a bath with his black, oil covered hands. I wonder why he won’t bathe himself first.

By 1:43 I am emotionally and physically completely exhausted. I have not just been a stripper, psychologist, listener, I have also been a mad man wrangler. It’s too much, but I get called on stage one last time. Little Larry sits at the front once more and so does a handsome young man I have seen while I was working the floor. The last stage is my stage. I cannot care if I make money or not, I cannot care if I give Little Larry his explosions or not, I dance for me and for my San Francisco. Little Larry still likes it, and the young man puts a $20 bill on stage. When I finish my dance and pick up the money and thank him, he shakes his head and says, “You are Perfection. I will come back to see you next Tuesday, Perfection!” His comment makes my night, his money helps a lot. I look in the mirror while I walk off through the red light, and I think to myself, God, thank you for giving me the body and the brain, and most importantly the strength to work in a mad house. I do believe you are watching over me, although I take my clothes off for living.


Posted in Customers on October 29, 2012 by tiltdiary

There is the kid that comes to visit almost every Tuesday night. He is very young, in his twenties, and we have a great time together. He is not a good looking kid, kinda weird looking, almost as if he has Down Syndrome, and the conversations are simple. About every day things, about his family, his 19 sibling, yes, his mom gave birth to 19 children, about his work, about regular things. I even accepted his friendship on Facebook, he seems safe, and I don’t think there is anything to worry about. He usually comes in early and stays late. He sits at the front of the stage and makes sure he doesn’t miss any of my performances. He tips me well. And he always wants to take me out for ice cream and pushes for me to give him my phone number. I call him IceCream, and he is my regular.

I like spending time with him. He is a Libra, and Gemini and Libra go well together, no matter what! I know him now for at least a year. And I kind of feel guilty. I think he is so focused on me, and he thinks that we could be boyfriend and girlfriend. I have told him many times that this is NOT an option. He is too young, but really there is no way, there is no attraction from my side. He pulls the one same line most guys pull, “We have GREAT chemistry!” Well, that’s what he feels. What he doesn’t know is that I don’t feel that at all. Diana, my friend that studies psychology told me, “Evolution saves us. Women know within 30 seconds whether they want to sleep with a guy or not. They may not be aware of it, but it takes place. Natural selection built into female genes. Basically our genes decide for us.” And I can only agree with that. I think actually, my instinct is even faster, I usually know within 10 seconds, and my natural selection is very limited. I rarely meet a guy I want to be intimate with. And IceCream is definitely NOT part of my natural selection.

But I feel sorry for the kid, because he is really thinking, we could become a couple. So I try to tell him, that our relationship cannot go beyond the club. He can bring me ice cream to the club, but I won’t go and eat it with him outside of the club. I tell him I will NOT give him my phone number, the next day he messages me on Facebook and asks me for my phone number, and if I want to hang out with him this weekend and get some ice cream.

One day, I work at the club with complete laryngitis. I cannot speak a word but carry a little notepad with me, and he comes in again. We communicate me writing on paper. And there he goes again, asking me for my phone number. I give it to him in writing, ‘No, you cannot have my phone number. What do you want from me?’ IceCream answers, “I want to have fun”. Me, ‘Fun? What do you mean by that?’ He says, “I don’t want a serious relationship, I just want to have fun!” I think to myself: You little fucker! You seriously think you can get laid just like that. His statement is an insult to me, but of course, working as a stripper I am used to this kind of bullshit. But still… So I ask him on paper, ‘You want to have fun, but what do you think I want?’ He bluntly says, “You want the same!” If I wouldn’t know better I would get pissed now. I mean where else in the world can men let shit like that lose. Anywhere else he would get slapped for such an insulting statement, but I patiently answer, knowing me holding back will at least get me 3 lap dances before he leaves (he always does that, he always gets dances right before he leaves, maybe because he is afraid if he does them in the beginning I wouldn’t waste my time talking to him all night long). So I write on my yellow sticky notepad, ‘No that is NOT what I want. What makes you think that? I do NOT have sex just for fun! Absolutely NOT!’ He is very surprised, “No?” and then he says, “Let’s go and do some dances!” I throw out the sticky notes, secretly take my ear plugs out I wear to protect from the overly loud music, and we head to the lap dance booth…When we finish he says, “I hope you enjoyed it at least as much as I did. Can I have your phone number now?” What do you say to that? I say, I should have not thrown out those sticky notes and given him those to take home to reread. I mean are you kidding me? His persistence is insane. It seems men only hear what they want to hear. I hug him good-bye, and I am glad I don’t have to deal with him till at least tomorrow. I bet by then I will find a message in my Facebook account from him asking me for my number and to go and have ice cream with him.



Posted in Jones' wisdom on October 28, 2012 by tiltdiary

As a stripper, I am not suppose to have a heart and preferably no brain. Customers (and not just men) feel entitled.  They grope my boobs and spank my ass then even tell me how I feel about them. “You and I, we have such great chemistry.” I am JUST a stripper so it doesn’t matter what I feel.

Without a thought or tipping me a penny they then unload their fantasies or their secret desire or anything else they could not confess to anyone and when I respond, they are surprised, “You are actually smart!” Not in any other setting would this be an acceptable comment. But because I’m a stripper they can let this outrageous stuff fly.

That is exactly like when people say, “My dog is really smart!” Assuming dogs are stupid in general, just like strippers.

But I do have a heart and a brain to make my situation even more difficult! I don’t just feel, I also think. I think and see beyond the obvious. And to make my situation as a stripper even more painful, I have nothing to numb myself. I have no substance of choice to help me cope with what I see, hear, and feel. I am fully aware and sober 24 hours a day.

My secret of survival is: I write to live!

I always did. Since I can write I kept a diary. I wrote so what I felt wouldn’t destroy me. I wrote when I had too many tears to cry, or no more tear left. I wrote when I was punished for things I didn’t do, I kept track of every heart ache to make sure when one day my heart wouldn’t get broken I could celebrate it by writing a happy chapter. I wrote when my first dog died, my horse was slaughtered, and my dad locked me up for one entire year, because he thought I had feelings for a boy my age when I was a teenager.