“Wow Bella! You look good! Have you lost weight?”
“I guess I must have, everybody keeps commenting on it.”
“You look really good. I mean, not that you were fat before, but shit girl, you look good.”
“Aww, thanks.”
“Like, really fucking good!”
“…Thanks. You’ve lost a lot of weight too!”
“Yeah, Mike* told me that I was getting fat so I decided to lose a couple pounds. I look fucking hot right?”
“Yeah, definitely. So how did you lose the weight?”
“Dope.”
I stared, dumbstruck for a moment. “Well, I guess it’s been working for you.”
“Fuck yeah. But I’m not addicted or anything. If I start spending any more than $20 a day I’ll quit.”
“We all have our limits I guess.”
“Yeah, I handle it pretty well. Like, Rose* was talking about doing it and I told her not to. She would just go crazy, you know? Just wile-the-fuck-out, you know? I’m used to this shit so I can deal. Bella, I’ve been making so much fucking money.”
“That’s really great.”
“Yeah. So how did you lose your weight?”
“Um, I guess since I left school I’ve just been more activ-“
“Yeah, that’s cool. Dope’s so easy though. I mean I’ve been making so much fucking money. I think I’ll get my son back from my mom.”
“…you have a son?”
*Just a side note, yes this conversation ACTUALLY occurred. I had danced with this girl for months and had never once heard her mention her son. This dancer in particular was one of the more fucked up people I worked with and I always felt a mixture of pity and disgust for her. Pity, because she had such obviously low self-esteem and disgust because she was one of the people who made my job harder by offering extras in the back room.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Krystal
She sat, artfully concealing the creases under and around her eyes with powder. Drawing on lips, contouring cheekbones and creating lashes where there were none before. She teases and backcombs newly processed hair, the real color of which hasn’t been seen in over 20 years.
She talks about a time when dancing was just that, dancing. When girls didn’t need to be whores to make money. When customers were real gentlemen and paid for her company with cash, champagne, and jewelry. When she could pay all of her expenses for a month off of one night’s work. When the girls knew how to move. When they didn’t just grab themselves and hump the air.
She has a teenager at home. A girl. A good girl, she says. She’s got enough saved up for her to go to college and she doesn’t even like high heels. A good girl, she says, she can’t really even put on makeup.
She pulls on her lycra bikini, scrutinizing. She’s held up well out here in the sun, but her knees ache and her back is tight. She gave up the night shift years ago. Too many young girls, and too much drama, she says. She has her regulars, and she still makes her money. But the money is slowing down and the world is speeding up. Her feet are swollen and she doesn’t know how much longer she can do this.
She could move back home. She could see a real rainstorm for the first time since she left. Get away from all the dry heat and go someplace with real trees and rivers and damp. She could take her daughter someplace nice. She could find another job. One that wasn’t so demanding. But what has she got? No real job skills, no real references. She could find something.
She puts on her shoes and stands. She aches. What has she got? She’s got legs a 19 old would envy, and the ability to walk in heels. She’s been walking in heels for most of her life. She could walk through fucking hell in heels.
On stage she dances and thinks about the rain.
-Bella 9/10/09-
She talks about a time when dancing was just that, dancing. When girls didn’t need to be whores to make money. When customers were real gentlemen and paid for her company with cash, champagne, and jewelry. When she could pay all of her expenses for a month off of one night’s work. When the girls knew how to move. When they didn’t just grab themselves and hump the air.
She has a teenager at home. A girl. A good girl, she says. She’s got enough saved up for her to go to college and she doesn’t even like high heels. A good girl, she says, she can’t really even put on makeup.
She pulls on her lycra bikini, scrutinizing. She’s held up well out here in the sun, but her knees ache and her back is tight. She gave up the night shift years ago. Too many young girls, and too much drama, she says. She has her regulars, and she still makes her money. But the money is slowing down and the world is speeding up. Her feet are swollen and she doesn’t know how much longer she can do this.
She could move back home. She could see a real rainstorm for the first time since she left. Get away from all the dry heat and go someplace with real trees and rivers and damp. She could take her daughter someplace nice. She could find another job. One that wasn’t so demanding. But what has she got? No real job skills, no real references. She could find something.
She puts on her shoes and stands. She aches. What has she got? She’s got legs a 19 old would envy, and the ability to walk in heels. She’s been walking in heels for most of her life. She could walk through fucking hell in heels.
On stage she dances and thinks about the rain.
-Bella 9/10/09-
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Ambiguous
“Hey! Bella! Come here for a second.”
I buckle my shoe and adjust the bandage on my right pinkie toe before getting up.
“Yes Mike*?” I smile at him the same way I do at some customers. Sweet, obedient, non-threatening.
“Tell me something." He looks up at me from his computer screen, the necklace perpetually stretched tight across his wide neck reflecting his myspace page. "Do your friends know you do this?”
“Well some do, I gue-“
“No I mean, like your family and shit. Do they know that you dance?”
“No, why?”
“Oh, well we’re going to be taking some pictures for our website and I was wondering if you wanted to model for it.”
“Naw. Thanks anyway though.” I smile sweetly.
“No problem doll. I’m asking everybody.”
I buckle my shoe and adjust the bandage on my right pinkie toe before getting up.
“Yes Mike*?” I smile at him the same way I do at some customers. Sweet, obedient, non-threatening.
“Tell me something." He looks up at me from his computer screen, the necklace perpetually stretched tight across his wide neck reflecting his myspace page. "Do your friends know you do this?”
“Well some do, I gue-“
“No I mean, like your family and shit. Do they know that you dance?”
“No, why?”
“Oh, well we’re going to be taking some pictures for our website and I was wondering if you wanted to model for it.”
“Naw. Thanks anyway though.” I smile sweetly.
“No problem doll. I’m asking everybody.”
Monday, August 24, 2009
I am not Barbie
I do not want Ken, or a dream house, or three best friends each of a different ethnicity.
So why do I want to look like her?
I'm a real person. I have a soft stomach and jiggly thighs. I'm pale. Right now, I am the most tan I have virtually ever been.
I'm not currently being paid to be naked, so why do I still care about being perfect? When it was all about making money, my low self-esteem and perfectionist nature just seemed like good business sense. Now, it is, once again, another manifestation of my intensely low self-esteem.
I need to come to terms with myself. And not just physically.
Look Through Me
When you look at me, remember, I’m not looking back at you. Oh, it may seem like you have my full attention as I slither around on stage, or while I sit curled in your lap, but really, I’m not looking at you. I’m looking through you.
On stage I look through you to the mirror behind your head. While I give you my sexy eyes, I check my reflection right next to your head. I pout, and sway, and pose, and check myself. My hair, my clothes, my body. I am not looking at you.
In your lap I look through your head. I let my eyes relax, my pupils dilate. I give you a blank, inviting stare, smiling like a doll. I think about all the money I will make. I visualize my will melting over you like warm butter. I impose my desires on you. I make you think that what I want is really what you want. I stare through you and tell you that you want a dance. You agree.
On stage I look through you to the mirror behind your head. While I give you my sexy eyes, I check my reflection right next to your head. I pout, and sway, and pose, and check myself. My hair, my clothes, my body. I am not looking at you.
In your lap I look through your head. I let my eyes relax, my pupils dilate. I give you a blank, inviting stare, smiling like a doll. I think about all the money I will make. I visualize my will melting over you like warm butter. I impose my desires on you. I make you think that what I want is really what you want. I stare through you and tell you that you want a dance. You agree.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Not that anyone does
but if you read this, and have a twitter, feel free to follow me!
www.twitter.com/fragilebella
www.twitter.com/fragilebella
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Binging Again...
I haven't done this shit in a while.
Stress from moving, worries about starting a new school, and fighting with my boyfriend have been making me binge-eat like crazy. I really thought that I had gotten control of my eating habits, but apparently stress can still make me go off the deep end.
Despite good feelings about my new college, I've been eating WAY too fucking much. I can't start starving myself again though. I've come way too far. I'm so much happier with my body now, I can't let binging fuck it all up.
I don't want to be fat. I don't want to over-eat. I hate how food takes such control of my life during times of upheaval. I just want to be okay. And I want to be skinny for my first day of classes... (especially if I want to try out at a club soon.)
Stress from moving, worries about starting a new school, and fighting with my boyfriend have been making me binge-eat like crazy. I really thought that I had gotten control of my eating habits, but apparently stress can still make me go off the deep end.
Despite good feelings about my new college, I've been eating WAY too fucking much. I can't start starving myself again though. I've come way too far. I'm so much happier with my body now, I can't let binging fuck it all up.
I don't want to be fat. I don't want to over-eat. I hate how food takes such control of my life during times of upheaval. I just want to be okay. And I want to be skinny for my first day of classes... (especially if I want to try out at a club soon.)
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