LJWorld.com

Human sacrifice is alive and well in the United States, and people really like it.

I've watched them and participated in them most weekends (that's when they tend to happen), delighting in their every detail.

As you might suspect, they're only available at the finest gentleman's clubs.

Only the finest, and with good reason: You need stage and ceremony, and a team of professionals to set the mood and carry it all out with great attention to each humiliating (rather than bloody) detail.

Wildly apart from the daily drudge of anonymous civilian life, a sacrifice [sak-ruh-fahys] is a theatrical act in which any and all male pride is surrendered at the stilettoed feet of a pack of beautiful, wild women.

And it always starts with you.

You get in, and you round up $50 (sometimes more) from your group (usually a bachelor party) and hand it to a strip club staffer. At your request, three, four, or up to eight girls of your choice (The prettiest! The nicest! The meanest! The funniest!) get a heads-up that your sacrifice is coming.

The name of your bachelor booms out over the loudspeaker!

The team of chosen girls pull him onto stage and force him into a chair, backed against the pole.

Swarming him immediately, the girls demand proof that he's wearing underwear.

He pulls it up--just a thumb!--and the girls seize it, and rip off the waistband entirely.

"Oh my god! You guys!" laughs the groom who with enough humor and humility to survive and thrive in his marriage.

"Oh my god! You bitches!" whines the angry groom who won't last two years.

Like triumphant pirate queens, the girls fling the ragged remnants into the cheering, yelling crowd.

The music starts!

"Girls Girls Girls" by Motley Crue. "Bodies" by Drowning Pool. "Sabotage" by the Beastie Boys. Whichever the club chooses, it's loud, it's boisterous, and the team of girls is lined up to climb on him like a human jungle gym.

A small jungle gym, anyway, because many of them step easily onto his shoulder on their way straight up to the top of the pole, several feet over his head.

The dancer might pause at the ceiling for effect, smiling sweetly over her shoulder, suspending her body in some impossible hold (usually like this, but at the top of a taller pole). She might swing a bit, "threatening" him with her strength.

The bachelor visibly prepares himself for a world of hurt.

"...Go-ing down!" the emcee cries out like he's bracing for impact, too.

Whoosh! She plunges straight down onto his lap, smiling deviously. Delighted anyway, the groom winces with his whole body.

"Oh, man!" the crowd smarts along with him.

With a flourish that could be abusive (a slap!) or sweet (a wiggle), she smugly returns to the back of the line as the next girl sashays up.

"Hi, bitch!" our smiles say as we happily climb up past his face and whoosh down. Some girls just dance on the guy a little; others, however, stand over him, grab the pole, and pound him in the chest with our rock hard abs.

Bam! Bam! (Some clubs ask you to be gentle). Bam! (But rough is more fun for me). Bam!

We did six of these last weekend at my club. One guy went twice.

Again, and again! We sometimes go through the line two times.

Push-ups are next--while we're beating his butt with his own belt (and two others), or standing on him (naturally). They usually go pretty fast, but the slow ones taunt us--and live to regret it. (Or enjoy it. We've got to up our whipping skills for these guys. I love a good challenge at work).

It can take a while to finish ("...Six! Seven! Eight! Eight! Eight!"), but we eventually make it to 10, and he's done... Only to crawl around the stage on all fours, of course! Or submit to purple-nurples. Or both. While we smack him around.

All in good fun. It has to, after all, start with you!

"Aww, he ran away!" the emcee laments when an occasional wimp flees the smiling brawny beauties on the stage. "We must have a replacement!" the emcee demands. "Who will take his beating for him?!"

So close to the end!

The two times I've seen bachelors tap out, an enthusiastic groomsman has immediately leaped on stage to finish it out wearing the most stupidly happy grin I've ever laid eyes on.

A choreographed group hug makes up for the shocking (shocking) lack of sugar and spice in the whole ordeal.

In a final bid to strip him of his dignity, we nail him with another round (or two!) of plunging down the pole.

And the crowd goes wild.

Though we get $5-10 for each sacrifice we do, many girls maintain they'd do it for free.

Still waiting on that Kansas earthquake our boobs are going to cause.

I've been so busy with government-y stuff this week AND last that I haven't been able to finish a quality blog entry, so this is what I'm putting out. I just don't want you to think I forgot about you. Also, I can't buy all three suits anyway, so your feedback will be followed.

I've been rocking the pin-up girl look for a while now, and typically wear cute, 'modern' black lingerie with pink or white ribbons and bows that suggest the preferred styles of the 50's and 60's.

Now, I need a new outfit, and you're going to help me pick it out. :)

FYI to people who haven't visited me at work: As a rule, regardless of the rest of my get-up, I wear fishnet thigh-highs and big, black, Bettie Page-style retro-ish platform heels. My hair is always in two pigtail-type loops with twin white bows pinned above them.

What brings the look together, of course, is the infamous belt/whip I wear around my shoulders. (Sugar and spice always was a lie).

I ask the peanut gallery: Which one do you like best?

I had posted pictures here at first, but it turns out that our fearless leader Jon Kealing has been cracking down on "chicks threads" on KUsports.com, and it would be unfair to have even these rather innocuous pictures posted here, so links will have to do.

We have the black cherry one-piece, which will set me back $68.

Option two is the vintage bikini in white cherry, which is a two-piece. The damage there is $80.

Option three is black cherry "sweet cheeks" outfit. (Yes, it has a title on the Web site). This one is on sale and is $44.80.

Which one do you vote for?

I invited two young ladies to my home for some light questions and chamomile tea. They both currently strip in the Lawrence area. I have used fictitious stripper names. The conversation lasted an hour and a half and these are only a few of the questions I asked. I apologize for the choppiness and lack of flow; I'm new to the world of writing and reporting.

How and why did you become a stripper?

“Sasha,” in her early 20s, said: “I went to Free State High School. I had to graduate early because my mom walked out on me, so I started working at McDonald’s. As you can imagine, $8 an hour doesn’t get you very far. I worked there for three or four months when the transmission went out on my car. I did the math and I was like OK, $8 an hour after taxes and bills… leaves me with nothing to fix [the car]. So what I did was take the Lawrence bus to All Stars and managed to find a ride home every day for two months. At that point, I came up with the $2,000 to pay for my car [and then stopped stripping]. I returned to dancing after my divorce because it’s the only way I could afford to get away from him.”

“Cherry,” 21, said: “I packed my [expletive deleted] up in my car, started driving out here and I got in a car accident. I was out of work for two weeks. I was… waiting for my insurance check, so my mom bought me a plane ticket down here. [I thought] Paradise [Saloon] was the closest club, so I figured I’d try that because I didn’t want to get behind on my bills. There’s really not much else [to the story].”

When you tell other women that you’re a stripper, how do they react?

Sasha: “My true friends that I hang out with never say anything bad. They just say things like ‘don’t get into drugs,’ and I’m like yeah, I know that, thank you. When I told my boy’s [female] friend that I was a dancer, we were both sitting at the table, and I got about the dirtiest look in the whole entire world for that one. It depends on the situation. They’re pretty cool [sometimes], [but if they are talking to my boyfriend about it] they just kind of say ‘oh, she’s a dancer, why do you want her?’”

When you tell men that you’re a stripper, how do they react?

Sasha: “I haven’t dated for very long [recently]. They don’t have anything bad to say, and never go into detail or start questioning me, like ‘do you give blow jobs, do you do hand jobs, do you do drugs.’ So they’re pretty cool about it, but this one guy I was talking to—I always think they get the feeling that they’re gonna get some. They always think I’m going to be super easy and they don’t have to treat me like a lady or how a woman should be treated.”

Do you have a savings account?

Sasha: "No."

Cherry: "No."

Do you guys feel bad about being strippers?

Cherry: "No. Definitely not. I’d always wanted to try stripping, even from a young age. I think that’s how I coaxed my mom to be okay with it. So many guys make rude comments, and stare, and slap you on the ass. It’s like, well, why not use that and make money off it? If anything, I feel better about myself because I don’t have to depend on men anymore."

Sasha: "[Women who don’t strip] go to the club, they wear slutty clothes, and they go home with any guy that buys them a freakin’ drink. We do the same thing except we get paid and we don’t sleep with the men."

Cherry: "We use what we can to make our way in the world. Men use their muscles to work in construction, to work in oil fields, and stuff like that. We take what we were given and we work with it."

If you could tell Lawrence anything, what would it be?

Cherry: "I would tell anybody that you can think what you want, but don’t be disrespectful to us, especially since you have not been in our shoes. You have no room to be rude."

Sasha: "I don’t know other strippers’ stories, but if it weren’t for a job like dancing, I would be stuck in a really abusive situation. I’m sure that it’s helped other girls, too."

Cherry: "I think being a stripper makes you a stronger person. More confident. Just all around stronger."

I am a stripper.

After my day job, while the civilians of Lawrence, Kansas kick off their work shoes and unwind in front of the television, I skip this after-work ritual and shower. I scrub (hard), shave, wax, and shape. I moisturize, polish, and blow-dry. I exchange a button-down shirt and Ann Taylor office slacks for track pants and a t-shirt. I load an arsenal of make-up, fishnets, and caffeinated drinks into my car. Monster bottle of ibuprofen? Check. Tupperware container with homemade dinner to-go? Check. Studded belt of vicious discipline and fury to use on customers who tip me on stage? Check. I love Mondays.

I'm not even halfway there and I have a sh-t-eating grin from ear to ear. Yay! How many people get to smoke and drink at work and beat up their customers (when I feel like it, of course!)--all without getting fired? Since I started stripping on May 5, 2009, the job I thought would be a complete nightmare has only gotten more and more fun. I love it. It has been six months as of November 5th and the novelty remains. ::squeal::

I take 15th Street toward the cornfields of conservative Middle America and blast Rob Zombie, gyrating and swaying behind the steering wheel. The adrenaline rush intoxicates. My pulse picks up. I can never wait to get on stage to jump, spin, and dance to my favorite new songs to impress customers! I enjoy that I'm no longer the anonymous nonprofit office professional; instead, I'm now adrenaline-fueled Anna, mistress of fantasy.

Stripping feels amazingly different than I expected. What I was brought up to see as humiliating now feels so exciting and empowering. At a place we will affectionately refer to as the East Lawrence Ballet (ELB), I'm on top of customers physically and as well as in conversation. I have at least something most of them want: a pretty face to look at, skillful repartée, and other desirable aspects of the girlfriend (or even just friend) experience. A professional party girl, I gently but firmly guide every interaction from clever "pick-up" lines, through entertaining anecdotes and engaging conversation, to buying a lap dance. The challenge is a fun one and I have a great time doing it.

When the road turns from pavement to dirt I always start hopping around, (even in my seat!), anticipating the challenge and the fun that comes with this culturally underground job. It is then, off this dirt road, at this "East Lawrence Ballet," that I don huge high heel shoes, smile, entertain, and take off my clothes for tips. It's like a game, and I love it. Love it.

I am not here to tell you how to feel about me, or my job. I am not here to tell you anything at all, really. Rather, I am writing this blog to show you stripping in Lawrence, Kansas, and offer you a source of information on an industry that appears at once both over- and under-exposed.

There is a lot to write.

To Be Continued…

As I promised to a specific group of Craigslisters: Please indulge in some spelling help and some grammar pointers. (Sorry! LJ-W doesn't appear to care for HTML).

http://news.zdnet.co.uk/itmanagement/0,1000000308,39273376,00.htm

http://grammar.ccc.commnet.edu/grammar/commas.htm