Looking to Land a Man?!
Are you in the flash-for-cash business and want to keep your tip purse stuffed?
I was the Queen of my Pole-Dancing Kind.
My memoir, Shave Slowly, will teach you how to attract any man you set your sights on
I'll give you a hint . . . your most important strategy has nothing to do with raw, graphic, porn sex.
In the novel, Lovely Beast, my
fictional Taylor Thorn character’s traits were influenced by years as
an adult entertainer. They also lay deep within the dark shadows of my
upbringing when I learned how to not only survive, but thrive in the
demanding and competitive world we all live in.
In Shave Slowly, my
real life is profiled so settle back as I give you a rare uncensored
glimpse into the mysterious world that I came to dominate as a
successful stripper in the Midwest. It took some time, but I began to
understand that it wasn’t really about the sex. Yes, bills changed
hands, skin was displayed and touched, but the actual commodity valued
and exchanged at the rate of hundreds of dollars per hour, may surprise
you.
Find Chapter 1 below.
My original audio journal recordings which I used to shape the chapters in Shave Slowly are now available on:
Shave Slowly can be ordered at:
Chapter 1
HI,
MY NAME IS AMY! Yep, I’m a stripper, but I’m also a model, a writer,
and a Doctor-Drew shrink, a life coach, a good listener who can get to
the bottom of your problem with efficiency and empathy. I can be the
best friend you ever had, or your worst Kill-Bill enemy if you don’t
treat me right. When a customer walks into my gentlemen’s club, I’m all
of these things and more—I’m whatever the client needs me to be.
Some
men just want tits in their face and they’re as satisfied as a small
puppy gnawing on a big bone. Others need a pretty woman to sit there and
listen to them talk about their day, their work, their family—their
life. Along with a sympathetic ear, I see them respond to my kind eyes
and soft hands, holding theirs, rubbing their backs while they pour out
their hearts. Getting things off their chest helps them get through the
day. I see men respond to this simple formula time after time, day after
day. They keep coming back to me and I know it’s not about the sex.
How did I learn to read people this way? It all goes back to how I was shaped growing up.
Though
far from normal, but then what is normal, anyway, looking back I
wouldn’t have had it any other way. Briefly, my messed-up childhood
began the day I was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, to a Jehovah’s
Witness couple. My mother was often ill and had difficulty caring for
me, so I stayed with my grandparents a lot. At nine, my parents thought
it would be a good idea to take me out of school. Not an uncommon
Witness practice, I was home-schooled to shelter me from the wicked ways
of the big bad world. Of course, it also meant they wouldn’t have to
rise and shine at the crack of dawn to get me up and out the door off to
school.
At
11 we moved to northern Wisconsin to be closer to my mom’s parents, the
good grandparents, unlike the alcoholic grandfather and sweet but
paranoid schizophrenic with bipolar tendencies grandmother we left back
in Minnesota. Despite their issues, they did love me and were
brokenhearted when I was taken away.
At
13 I’d had enough of my parents neglect and moved out. The woman I
moved in with went to the same Kingdom Hall as my family. At first, she
was nice to me. In her 30s, she owned a dog-grooming shop and boarding
kennel. She also bred poodles. I loved animals, so at first it was cool
helping her. By 14 I was working full time for my room and board. A
slave driver, she had me busy from sunup to sundown. Between work and
church and going door-to-door trying to recruit more JWs, there
certainly wasn’t time for me to have any fun. I hated it. I hated it
all!
I
remember sitting in the Kingdom Hall, Bible and Watchtower in my lap,
listening to the same bullshit coming from the pulpit. I wanted to
scream . . . This just isn’t right . . . God doesn’t want us to live like this! But,
did I do anything about it, no, I just sat there for years sick of
everything about my life. Like so many other JWs, I felt trapped, like a
caged cougar, crazed with hunger, for freedom, to the point of almost
being driven mad.
At
18, I moved out of the home I’d lived in for five years with the dog
groomer. She’d become unbearably mean and verbally abusive. Probably
jealous, since I was better and faster her clients wanted to deal with
me and she hated me for it. That summer I lived in a camper in the
backyard of a friend’s home rather than deal with my parents. For pocket
money I worked in a day care. In the fall, when the cruel
northern-Wisconsin winter began to set in, I had to ask my parents if I
could move back with them. That wasn’t easy.
During
the next year I took care of three boys; ages four, two, and a baby put
in my arms at the tender age of two weeks. I’d break down, tears
flowing, wondering how any mother could leave a newborn like that. Then,
something completely unexpected happened that would end up changing my
life forever.
I
met a boy, a cute boy, a handsome Robert-Redford rusty blond with big
mussels, at a JW convention . . . and he was nice! I thought he was the
answer, my one-way ticket to the promised land of a new life far far
away from where I was raised. I guess I loved him, sort of.
Because
a Witness can’t have sex before marriage, the worst sin anyone could
ever commit, my parents and his thought it best for us to marry before
our natural urges got the best of us. My mother was planning the
reception before I even had a ring on my finger! A year after meeting
him, we were hitched!
Just
a few days after our honeymoon I caught myself standing still, frozen,
in the tiny kitchen of our small apartment. I’d dutifully made him
breakfast, packed his lunch, and kissed him goodbye before sending him
out the door to work. I stood there alone, my heart sinking like the
Titanic into a deep cold despair before finally screaming, "What the
Fuck have I done??!!"
Was this going to be my life from now on? Sadly, that’s exactly how
things
were for the next six years. I was trying to be a good wife, not like
my mother. I knew what was expected of a JW—cook, clean, manage the
household; all things that my mother never did on a regular basis for my
father. And what was my reward when he got home from work? If I got a
five-minute conversation out of him, I was lucky, before he split for
the couch and his video games.
I
was so lonely, completely neglected, and absolutely ignored. Sure, he
had friends over, mostly younger gamers. They were nice boys, good boys,
some from bad home situations like mine. I fed them, they loved it, and
it felt good to be appreciated by some other people, if not my husband.
Going
to Kingdom Hall meetings didn’t help. Doing our JW door-to-door
evangelism didn’t help. I hated all of that. I HATED MY LIFE!
I
craved feeling wanted, needed . . . loved. I started going out on the
down low with other JW girls. We were all after a taste of the outside
world. Finding ourselves on a club dance floor, responding to the sexual
tension, feeling the intense energy of the scene, the driving pounding
music, the lights, the crowd, the guys’ eyes staring right through our
clothes, we would dance until soaked with the sweat of the most ecstasy
we’d ever known. This went way beyond sex, at least the sex you’d get
from most JW men.
After
a couple of years of this kind of clubbing, though it was a trip, it
still wasn’t enough. I still hated my life. Then, another moment of the
most unlikely serendipity and I knew things would never be the same.
Walking
into a new club, there he was—a big, sexy man dressed in all black, the
head of security. I turned to the girls I was with.
"Oh . . . my . . . god . . . I want him . . . I have to have him!"
I
had no way of knowing if anything would come of my moment of teen-idol
obsession, but I kept dragging my friends back to that club. Then, I
found out he also was a bouncer at a gentlemen’s club in Milwaukee and
started visiting him there. I was still married, but the chemistry was
intense and undeniable. We would steal away in my car, his car, or to
hotels every chance we could. It was the best sex I’d ever had . . .
then . . . and still is!
After a year of that craziness, I left my JW husband, finally escaping the life I hated so, the life that was strangling me.
It
took a wonderful man to make me finally feel loved and
appreciated—something he makes damn sure of every day. Yes, he told me
he loved me, but I felt his love long before the words came. I’ve felt
his love each and every day since. Gone for good are those sad days and
nights filled with loneliness and neglect.
With true love comes unconditional support—any crazy thing I want to do, he’s there for me no matter how it might affect him.
Always
a hard worker, at first I cleaned houses by day and was a shot girl by
night at the gentleman’s club where my man worked. I was having a great
time and making awesome money. I still had my pride, though, and when
management started losing it; one day passing out praise, the next
yelling about some stupid little thing, I moved on.
At
the next club, I set aside my shot-glass tray, stepped up on stage, and
never looked back. The club managers treated the dancers well, were
free with compliments when you’d earned them, and have always treated me
with respect. It feels good to be patted on the back once in a while.
Years
later now, I’m still with my man, still happy, still at that same club,
and I’ve learned much during a personal and professional life full of
ups and downs.
Read
on! Explore a journal of the last full year of my days as an adult
entertainer and I’ll share some of the secrets I’ve uncovered along the
way with you.
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