when i meow at you, human, it’s because i want attention, or food, or both. nothing more. i am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, save for those few times i happened to fall asleep on the radiator and, twitching during a particularly good chasing dream, fell of said radiator. while i am unhappy with you using my fall as fodder for your snapchat “story,” i will admit that it might have been humorous. i am not a golem, for chrissakes, i do acknowledge humor, and whimsy, and embarrassment. in fact, since we’re on the topic … please, if you come into the garage and find me there defecating, please do not watch. i understand that you’re concerned about my health and can discern abnormalities via your primitive scatology, but please refrain from doing so until i have finished. it’s hard enough as it is finding a chance to use the litter box with that hell beast mister whiskers skulking around the place. imagine using the bathroom and then suddenly a man sees you and attacks you, mid-defecation. what kind of barbarism is that? well that is what your roommate’s cat mister whiskers does to me at least once a week. it is quite unnerving. so please, now that you fully understand, this hideous trip to the vet is completely unnecessary. i am not hurt, and my yowling was merely for attention. don’t you understand? please, let us turn the car around and return safely to the house, where you will pet me and feed me treats. it’s only the nice thing to do, human!

i fell in love with a concept of you. don’t be mad, it happens to everyone. it has to happen, because the only consciousness you know is your own. when you meet people you can’t help but project yourself onto them. so to speak. because all you know is what you know. and i did that with you, and i’m sure you did that with me. and that’s infatuation, that’s like the force field that gets brought up when you first start dating. so, love, dating, like, constant dating, i mean, it’s not about wearing down your soul. people mistake that. it’s about learning how to bring down that force field, how to be yourself to a person and not expect anything from them. when you’re infatuated with someone, that infatuation is a reflection of you, not them, because all you see are the things you’re infatuated with–physical stuff, mostly. when the force field goes down, suddenly you’re confronted with a person you never even met. and that’s happening now, i’m sorry. there are all these aspects of you that would have kept me from dating you, had i allowed myself to see them. i don’t mean that in a negative way. people are people, we all have different ways of living. but it’s important, i think, to find people that accentuate your qualities, that do things and act like a person you want to be with, not one where you block out qualities that you don’t want in a person. god this sounds so shitty, this sounds terrible, i’m sorry. i loved spending time with you but you have qualities that i don’t want in a partner. that’s all. it sucks but … that’s it. i fell in love with a concept that wasn’t true to the final product.

robert, i want you to know something, alright? something before we get down to this. when i was trained by you, the things that you did to me … during, during it i spoke to many of my comrades, we talked about the training, about what the masters were doing, and every time, when i told them about the techniques you used on me, they … they didn’t–they tried not to show it, tried not to show that they thought it was fucked up, but i could tell, i saw it, i saw the slightest wince in their eyes, i saw their nervous tells. everyone, in the bunks, after hours, i’d come in with bruises and cuts all over my body and everyone else … was clean. cleaner. they’d ask me what happened and i’d tell them. and then they’d be quiet, or they’d change the subject. never once did they say anything as bad happened to them during training, robert. not once. and i’m not an idiot, i figured it out early on, but i kept going because i thought, maybe, that your training was special, that you were hitting me harder, that you were using real swords instead of wooden ones, because you thought i had potential. i felt it, i felt … something, between us. didn’t you? something like, “this one is going places,” you know? i’d like to think that your training made me the master agent i’ve become, and yet … here you are. accused of treason, your head split open, your face covered in blood. so. let’s find out if your training was worth it, robert. let’s find out who you’ve betrayed. [cocks gun] did you break, robert? tell me now, did you break.

i had a guy come in, looked like he was in his mid-thirties, well dressed, didn’t give of a creepy vibe at all, which was refreshing that night, as i had been dealing with creeps all night. guys in sweatpants. eugh. first rule of being a stripper is “never trust a guy in sweatpants.” but this guy comes in, i’ll call him john. he looks good. well-dressed, but not like a suit or anything, not one of those guys. just casually dressed, clean, hair styled. a nice guy. so naturally all of the ladies on the floor spot him at the same time. it was kind of hilarious actually. it was like when a new guy walks into a saloon in one of those westerns, right, and all the old timers look over at him. that was this guy. fresh meat, right.

and right off the bat we can all tell he’s new. he’s green. he’s never been to a strip club. maybe once. he’s glancing all over the place, it’s too dark, there’s too many weird lights. he’s looking at all the guys sitting by the stage, the guys drinking in the back, in the comfy chairs, with ladies trying to get a dance out of them. cheap motherfuckers. he’s looking and he’s judging, because he’s in that position. i get it. you have a set of morals hammered into you at a young age, and walking into a strip club for the first time usually challenges those morals. you have to start thinking about women, about women as sexual objects, about women who are okay being sexual objects, about women who love their sexuality and aren’t afraid to show it. tits and ass and pussy and all that flashing around. guys who look skeezy as fuck, guys who look so put together you wonder why they’re even in a strip club … it’s all there, a little societal microcosm for your developing brain to wade through.

green guys are tough to deal with. a lot of them don’t have any money, or they have a shit ton of money. it’s hard to tell. this guy was dressed nice but i got the feeling he didn’t have any money, so i decided to warm up to a guy i knew had money, one of the regulars who likes to sit in the back and talk about the trailblazers while i waggle my tits in his face. he wears blue jeans and a t-shirt with oblong grease stains on it, his face is a constant battle between five o’clock shadow and a fresh shave. he smiles when i compliment his teeth. what can i say, i’m a sucker for a guy with nice teeth.

new guys generally run the gauntlet–all the women eventually sidling up to him, letting him know the rundown of prices and all that. “gauntlet” is not our word, it’s a word used by a guy who comes in often. quiet type who gradually opened up over time. he called if the “gauntlet.” i like it. anyway, this guy was about to go through that and i got this sense that he wasn’t uncle moneybags, so i let the newer girls go after him while i tend to nice teeth guy. he and i start talking, getting reacquainted, he tells me about his wife, i tell him about my boyfriend. after a moment i ask him if he wants a private dance, he says yes, we both stand up and i take his hand, turn toward the booths in the back, and–there’s the new guy, standing about three feet away from us, awkward as fuck, hands in his pockets, but this determined look on his face. behind him lie rejected strippers in his wake, the younger ones tinged with a hint of damaged self-esteem, the older ones already casting glances across the room for new men to chase.

proximity for women in the sex industry is an important thing. men within three feet of you change the atmosphere of the room, so to speak. nice teeth guy, he’s a foot away, but i’ve vetted him, i know he’s cool, i know during a lapdance he sits on his hands and doesn’t come in his underwear. he’s respectful, gracious. new guy, he could be anything, so despite my years of doing this job, i still feel the hairs on my neck raise up, a chill run down my spine. and yet, his face, so soft and sweet, he has patchy stubble under his neck and on his chin. a thin wispy mustache. his hair neatly styled, but you can see the cut itself is a little rough, like maybe his mom cut it for him.

and then, his voice, above the din of thumping bass and drums, says, “excuse me.”

“yes?” i reply. here’s the gist: he found me on instagram after a friend of his talked about how great of a stripper i am. his name is eric. he wants a lapdance from me, and only me. he drove into town from beaverton (this makes me laugh). he has money. he has plenty of money. i turn to nice teeth: “would you mind?” i ask, and nice teeth shakes his head, chuckling to himself, sitting back down to watch felicia dance. i’m fine, i know this, the club has plenty of excellent bouncers who will rip a man’s dick off the instant he even tries to touch me. so i’m not worried about eric. i take his hand, i tell him the rates, i tell him about my specials. he nods to all of it, says he wants a private lapdance. a long one. i ask him how long, ten minutes? “an hour,” he says. i say we don’t do hours, and he pulls out this wad of cash from his pocket and says, “how much is a ten minute lapdance?” “sixty,” i say, and he starts counting money. “i want six ten minute lapdances,” he says, and gives me more than what it would cost.

so i’m like hell yeah and i lead him toward the private booths, with a small detour to let the DJ know that i’m going to be incapacitated for the next hour. i also manage to catch the eye of troy, one of the bouncers, and i give him a look like “stay close.” he nods and follows us from a distance. i hand the stack of money to a fellow stripper,

i take eric to the farthest booth because i like the privacy. the rooms are cozy but big enough to twirl around in. there’s a couch opposite the door and mirrors on the walls and ceiling. it’s dimly lit, which thankfully hides the still-healing pole dancing bruises on my thighs. i tell eric to take a seat. he asks if he can remove his jacket. “as long as you’ve got a shirt on underneath,” i quip. he doesn’t respond. under his jacket he is wearing a black polo shirt. he’s a small guy and skinny.

outside, the muffled 4/4 bass drum beat shifts from one tempo to another, a slower beat. the DJ announces a new dancer: carolyn, a newbie but incredibly strong on the pole. she asks me for tips with guys and bums the occasional cigarette outside. the slow beat influences my hips and i slowly undulate my body onto eric’s lap. “you know there’s no touching, right?” eric nods, and then bursts into tears. like, sobs, sobs so hard his chest heaves. and suddenly i go from sexy stripper to mother hen. i slide from on his lap to on the couch and hugging him, softly at first, but sometimes you can tell when a person just needs a good bear hug.

what’s wrong, what’s wrong, it’s okay, i keep repeating. he was dating a girl who died suddenly of a brain tumor and he didn’t know how to deal with it. he was so in love with this woman that the idea of moving on from her was causing him physical stress, and he decided to confront that by going to a strip club. just to watch the women dance. his friend gave him my name and where i worked, and mentioned at some point that strippers love guys who talk to them. that kind of pissed me off; i don’t care if guys talk to me, i care if they pay me money and don’t sexually assault me. but anyway, this guy was hurting and he just wanted someone to be there. i understand that. he’s not my first crying guy at the strip club, but his story was definitely the saddest. his girlfriend had been dead for almost a year and he hadn’t dated or hardly gone out. he knew he was supposed to move on but didn’t know how, and i guess he thought coming to a strip club would help. i don’t know if it ever did, because after the hour was up (mostly spent crying and talking), he gave me a hundred dollar tip and left, and never came back, ever. believe me, i’m still looking for him. i think about him every night. i hope he’s okay.

dennis, get me the president. the president of nabisco. did you know that is a portmanteau of “national biscuit company”? well it is. biscuits in england are cookies, you see. they call them biscuits in england because cookies sounds like a thing a baby would eat, while biscuits, well, they are a refined gentleman’s dessert, a thing you eat while drinking earl grey tea, you see. nabisco started in england, do you see where i’m going here? what? that’s not true? new jersey you say? well shit. email me the wikipedia article, i’ll read it later. the issue at hand: these oreos which state that they are stuffed full of double the amount of creme than a regular oreo are, in fact, lying. i did the math. you’ll see the food scale and the dissected oreo cookies, or should i say, biscuits, arranged chaotically in front of me. i took the singular oreo creme and weighed it, and then weighed a “double stuf” cookie. the creme of the double stuffed cookie should arguably weigh twice as much as the single creme. yet this was not the case! i am understandably outraged at how i am being gypped out of the rest of my double stuffed creme! i am–what? gypped? what about it? culturally insensitive? oh please, gypsies literally stole my father’s ashes at his funeral because they thought his wedding ring was inside, don’t get me started on gypsies. your job, dennis, is to call the president of nabisco and yet i have yet to see a single phone up to your ear! get to dialing! i refuse to eat one more oreo until i have confirmation from the president of nabisco that i will receive double the stuffing in a double stuffed oreo cookie! this is ludicrous! absolutely ludicrous!

everyone monetizes. everyone. everything you see on the internet, every aspect of the internet dedicated toward social media, it’s all waiting to monetize. maybe it takes six months, maybe it takes a year, maybe it’s like tumblr and it takes ten years and a takeover by yahoo, but it happens. and i’m always shocked at how surprised people are when it happens. everything needs money in this country to survive. it’s america’s life blood. it’s our ambrosia. you can’t just run a website without any income. advertising has been the backbone of the internet since its mass inception. no matter what you log into, at some point it’s going to try to sell you something. every website is a salesman and it’s already got its foot in your door. so the question here is: when? do you monetize up front? that carries the risk of an inferior product and steep decline in usage. many social media sites go free at first, then introduce advertising later on. others give a subscription service; pay per month and we’ll get rid of ads. which works best? the answer is: none of them. ad space on websites is now removed via ad-blocking apps. subscription models only work if the client likes the site enough to actually want to subscribe to it, which is a different proposition in this day and age. people don’t just buy cable, you know what i mean? you got netflix and hulu and amazon and HBO and all these places offering subscription packages. too many, really. people just want good shows, not a whole channel with two good shows on it and a bunch of other crap. anyway. i’m saying all this because if we’re going to launch this site we have to know how we’re going to monetize it, and we have to have that code implemented before we launch. so you’re going to have to understand that no matter how much you want people to “connect,” we also need their money. figure out how to get their money. you’ve got until 9am tomorrow.

so, i am a heterosexual, cisgendered, white male. i am, in america at least, the dominant gender. i’m everywhere, getting up in everyone’s shit, and getting mad when you try to take away my free speech because free speech is the only thing that can really be taken away from me, if you catch my meaning. i’m in your senate seats, i’m on your city council committees, i’m vice-president of your homeowners associations. i’m the lawyer you call when you’re discriminated against. i’m everywhere, as homogeneous as white bread. meanwhile there’s a lot of civil rights shit going down, a lot of feminist shit going down, a lot of disenfranchised people with words, words directed largely at me, because i still claim all these years later that i own this shit.

now, a lot of other white men like me, and a lot of women, white women, we’re taking this disenfranchisement to heart. we’re with you. we sympathize. we hold your hand and ask you how we can help. but at the same time, we lobby in your stead. we don’t give you a voice, we pretend to be your voice. and that’s gotta stop. the best thing white people like me can do is not advocate for you. stay with me here. the best thing we can do is give you the platform. give you the microphone. give you the high profile stage where your message can be heard, where it will be heard. it’s like, it’s like when marlon brando won that oscar in the 70s and he had a native american girl accept the award. he gave her his podium, in front of millions of viewers. he forced people to watch her, in a way. now, he could have just come up there himself and said, “we have committed atrocities against the native american population,” but then he’d come off as a smug white asshole. and he was kind of a smug white asshole, but that’s beside the point. the point is, we wouldn’t listen, because he’s a white guy, and all we hear are white guys. he shocked people by letting her speak. he shocked them into clarity. let the disenfranchised speak. give them the spotlight. give them the freedom to speak their mind without fear of retribution. that’s what the “safe space” means, it means listening, reacting, finding emotional connections between people, not making people “too sensitive.” that’s what this is all about. you know?

really, this movement is not about us whatsoever, us white people i mean. except as listeners. i can’t tell any disenfranchised person what to do, nor should i. all i can do is step aside and gesture to the stage, to the limelight. just gesture and mouth, “go for it.” it’s your time now, and it will be for a long time to come. take it, enjoy it. don’t let it go to your head.