anything but a wasted life

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There’s been some good cock talk happening in the dressing room tonight. Strip club dressing rooms are like girls night out on crack. Our minds and conversations are far dirtier than a men’s locker room or most kitchens (chefs are an intense breed). It’s one of my favorite things about being a stripper. I’ll miss the shit out of it when I’m really done. It’s like nothing else (cathouses excluded). We crack jokes, drink, and act like fools. We talk about sex, men, and orgasms (having them, faking them). We share funny stories from the club. Of which, there is an endless supply. It can get weird in the dressing room (including the occasional hookup amongst the girls). And by weird, I mean amazing. This level of amazingness varies depending on how much booze is being swilled and how the night is going. This is true for every strip club dressing room around the globe. The worst and best nights will yield the most incredible dressing room status. We get hyper on the extreme. The original girls gone wild. Strippers are a magical group of people. I know we get a bad rep (people picture cat fights and backstabbing), but behind that curtain, we mostly resemble the best all-girl sleepover you can image. There’s a bond that forms amongst dancers, similar to war vets. We’re in the trenches, battling wandering hands.