Hobo Stripper

It’s seven in the morning, after work at this little diner with wifi, and the blue haired old lady crowd is starting to show up. I’m not tired, I could stay awake forever.

Tonight a sweet older lady climbed on stage with me. It was actually really cool and not weird and invasive like it usually is when customer women invade your stage. “I bet she used to be a stripper,” I told another girl as I got off stage at the end of my set.

“Did you ask her? Sometimes regular women dance like that.”

Oh, yeah, I forgot. They have MTV now. (I’ve not actually seen MTV yet, but I hear it’s the thing to blame everything on).

So I got a peice of paper and headed over to her and her friends, who were all deaf. I know a tiny tad of sign language - my mom taught me when I was little, but then I didn’t live with her, so it lay kind of dormant in me all these years and every once in a while when I see people talking in sign, their hands flying, I recognise a word or two. And sometimes I see old men from the village who remember when I was little, and they’ll lean into me with their drunkbreath, sliding a finger into a fist. “Look,” they say. “Poop, remember? We all used to sign POOP with you.”

She had stripped in Portland, which is a strange cool unique stripping place, for six years. She danced up to some guys at the bar, danced all around them, pointed at the dancer on stage, danced them up to the stage and pulled out chairs, wiggled her ass in their face, pointed at the dancer on stage, and made that universal money sign. It was awesome.

Then there were a couple crazy weird guys, and the usual drama. I think my hustle died sometime last week.

The sun is going down now. It happens every fall and every fall I wake up in the midnight dark and get so afraid that the sun will never come back up. Then it does, and I laugh and cry and go to sleep.

Hat-ma just got here, and now we’re both busted. We were going to go to sleep right away after work and go on an adventure early in the morning, but now it is early in the morning and neither of us have slept.

If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to my RSS feed. Thanks for visiting!

Vibe Review is having a sale! You can save ten percent on sex toys, and support my blog, by clicking here!

“Holy shit,” she says, staring as I dump my stuff sack of sex toys out on the bed. Shiny sleek silicone, gummy plastics, pleather cuffs, and silver bullets tumble across the red quilt.

“I told you,” I smile. “They send me lots of vibrators.”

She nods and we both strip naked. We are last summer’s lovers, re-united after a long winter. She is the opposite of anyone you would imagine me with, but we come from the same place. We are different paths from the same beginnings and it pulls us back together, over and over, an eternity of summers watching the sun barely set in each others arms at the tops of mountains. Except tonight we are in a hotel room: there is a minor ghost problem at her house.

Our bodies fit together exactly the same, even though they’ve changed.

“Bro remembers me,” she says. He sighs from where he’s laying on the other bed, then flops over on his side. The first time we slept together Bro stared at her the whole night, a couple times falling asleep sitting up so that they both woke up when his nose fell to her face. But of course he remembers her. She once threw the ball across a stream for him two hundred and twenty two times. I haven’t told her yet how he’s aged over the winter, how forty ball throws can leave him sore for days and he mostly just sleeps in the van now.

We turn our hands into fire and ice, our mouths doorways to each other. This is how it is with us, a certain kind of flow that could go forever or stop any moment.

She stops, pulls away, grabs the feeldoe. I’ve been so excited about this toy ever since it came in the mail, but I haven’t had anyone to try it out with. It’s sort of a double ended dildo, with special shaping so that one person can wear it, like a strap on, by putting the smaller side inside her. “Top or bottom?”

“Top.”

“Really?”

“I’ve gotta try both to write a good review, so I wanna start on top.”

“Ooooh, I see.”

I put the small side inside me. It vibrates. It’s nice. I want to lay there and enjoy it, but I roll over so I’m on top. She doesn’t like that position. She’s got lots more experience with penii, so she shows me a sideways position. It’s great for me, the wearer, but there’s not enough depth for her, so we decide to switch.

I run to the bathroom and clean it off (safe sex always!) really fast, and then she wears it. As soon as she puts it in she loves it. As soon as she slides it into me, I love it. She thrusts in and out and it’s amazing in the way that I’ve always imagined hetero sex is supposed to feel.

The silver bulletis laying next to us and I grab it, put it between our clits. Instant ecstasy. We wiggle and push against each other, the feeldoeinside us, our clits grinding into the silver bullet.

We come together, long, panting orgasms with my legs wrapped around her.

The feeldoe gets five stars, ten stars, a hundred stars from me.

Sex Toys @ VibeReview!

All over the country, strippers are sleeping in cars, vans, jeeps… and a bookmobile!! Ashton has done really awesomely creative and successful things in the sex industry, so this promises to be a very cool bookmobile.

Katie taught me The First Thing You See. When I’m on the road, I stop and sleep in beautiful places. These are some of the first things I’ve seen upon waking up.

Out the other window:

Cultural exploitation at it’s worst:

(This photo can be viewed in person at Wal Mikes on the Parks Highway.)

I got this big wooden box out of the dumpster:

And turned it into OSB boards and 2×4’s and 2×6’s. Here’s the van packed full of dumpster diving spoils:

Life has been happening faster than I can process (or write) it. There’s a lot to write about, but I don’t know how much of it I want to write - lately I feel even more private about my life than I have before.

My brakes got stuck on, tho, and I changed them. It was hard.

I have big news, but I’m going to wait until it’s very final to post it. Which takes a long time, I guess.

I love this town especially for it’s dumpsters. Down in Amerikkka, they don’t have dumpsters. Not like this. Here we have several of them, and you say the dumpster but you mean a big circle of dumpsters and a covered platform (the give-away platform) that is a big chaos of clothes and furniture and stuff.

Last night I went to the other dumpster in the two-AM-dark with a flashlight and picked my way through the circle of dumpsters. It was me and another woman. We didn’t talk. I started on the side opposite her, worked my way around. I found a bookshelf, but not much else that I wanted.

Today I went to the dumpster on the other side of town with my sister. On the way we picked up a hitchiker who lived near the dumpster. “I call it the mall,” she laughed, leaning into me with her hard liquor breath before we let her out.

At the dumpster I got:

Three tiles to put on my new kitchen counter, because it seems like I have a new kitchen counter, or I’m probably about to. (Keep your fingers crossed.)

One big brand new thermos.

A nice big wire basket.

A really nice wood dish rack. You know, the fancy laminated kind.

Two big grocery bags of fur scraps - hare, fox, and a luscious black fur that I’m not sure about. I can get cheap leather mittens and sew the fur on like trim and bead them. I could sew them all together and make a hat of patchwork strips. And still have lots!

Some fancy paper.

And a pretty shiny red toolbox.

Tomorrow I will probably work, because I haven’t in a couple weeks and I want some money.

So, I got this nifty award from Jack at Adventures in Voluntary Simplicity for being brilliant:

And this one from Grace, of Grace Undressed:

I am not sure what this one means, except that it’s pretty and sort of angelic looking.

Grace and Jack both have very awesome blogs that you guys should check out.  Grace is sort of like me, but different, and an incredible writer.  Jack is the opposite of me, but he’s working on simplifying.

So, now I get to pass the Brilliance award on to five more Brilliant bloggers:

1. DeAnna.  Check out how brilliantly she set up her little SUV thing for living in recently.  Also, she spins dog hair.

2. Lindy.  She shares her brilliance - if you live, you know, in a dwelling of any kind, you should read her blog.

3. Apostate.  She thinks more in five minutes than I do all day, and it’s very brilliant thinking.  I had the good fortune of meeting her when I was in her city and she was all tiny and meek looking, but then she opened her mouth, and… brilliance.

4. Living Primitively.  There is nothing more brilliant than independent survival.  I wish this guy would put together an e-book of all his explanatory posts - I would buy it, print it, and keep it with me until I knew it all by heart.

5. Renegade Evolution.  I don’t even understand how she manages to be this brilliant.  I mean, she sit’s in front of a computer and plays weird video games.  And she’s brilliant.  I don’t understand.

And five people for the Beautiful Angel Award:

1. Smokey Mountain Breakdown.  Beauty.  Truth.  Wisdom.  All in some good good stories.

2. Enchanted Gypsy.  A beautiful life.

3. Freedom Van.  Life is beauty in progress. 

4. Carrot Quinn, not afraid of Winter.  This is my favorite-ist new blog.

5. Of course Katie, she makes everything she touches beautiful.

If you’ve been reading a while, you remember the interviews with my mom from last summer.  They’re seasonal, like my contact with her.  Anyways, if you missed them before, click here to get to them.

So tell me about the time when we were out on trapline and dad broke his back?

He didn’t break his back.

He did too!

He ruptured a disk, that’s not breaking a back.

You were almost a year old. We went out, snow hadn’t fallen yet, it hadn’t frozen. We were working on building an addition to the cabin, and your dad’s back was bothering him a lot. It had been bothering him for years but it was really bothering him a lot. He insisted that it felt better when he was carrying these heavy green house logs, which made me very suspicious that something really serious was going on. A plane landed, it was the pilot that had dropped us off saying that he was going on to Fairbanks to have his floats removed and it would be a month or so until he’d be able to land again because he’d have his ski’s on and he just wanted to check and see if we were okay since he was flying over.

I tried to talk your dad into going with him to get this back checked out. Neither of them thought this was a good idea, to leave me alone with a one year old. That night your dad got up to put wood in the stove and his disk ruptured right then and there, he was in raging agony. We were up all night. By daylight, his leg had atrophied dramatically so that it looked like he had had polio.

He didn’t eat or sleep or do anything for five days, just pain management. He kept saying he was going to kill himself, he couldn’t stand it. These were pretty desperate straights, we were more than thirty miles from the nearest village with absolutely no trail cut and pretty swampy ground. It would have been extremely low odds that I would have been able to walk out and hit that village of thirty people. We had no way of communicating with anyone.

While you were napping I went out and cut trees and wrote “HELP” in three tree high letters on the lake.

It was frozen over, then?

Yeah, well, it wasn’t immediately. I was trapping with you on my back and then when I would get home I would stand outside and steel myself for the possibility that your dad had followed through on his suicide threats and I would find him splattered all over the cabin.

The situation continued for thirty days with him pretty much unable to function due to pain. Me, highly stressed with trying to keep everything going, get at least some fur so that we had some money, not knowing what was wrong with him and worrying about finding him dead when I returned.

Planes would fly over between the big village and Fairbanks, but they were several air miles away. Twice a day I would run out and try to signal them with mirrors, which I knew was futile because of the distance but I couldn’t resist. Finally one day a plane flew over real close. I ran out the door down to the lake and threw myself in the snow trying every antic that I could think of to get them to land. It worked. When the pilot stepped out he said that he’d just been checking out the lake. He’d just picked people up and was full but he was planning to bring our frozen food out to us the next day and was checking to see if he would be able to land. I explained to him that your father needed to get to town right away, that it was an emergency medical situation here. So they unloaded the whole plane, laid him on the floor, put the seats in upside down over top of him so he had that triangular space, loaded everything back in the plane on top of the seats, piled the people in and took off, saying that the pilot would be back for me the next day. That night the weather turned, started snowing, had a blizzard, and they couldn’t get a plane out for over a week.

Meantime, trapline chatter message that your dad had been medivac’d to Fairbanks and they were going to do surgery.

Then what?

When I finally got to town, flew into Fairbanks, he was… he was afraid of needles. When they operated on him, he told the doctor, the doctor promised him that he was to get pain meds orally, but the doctor forgot and ordered shots. He declined the shots because he was afraid of shots. One of his famous lines was, “if you won’t bring me a pill, just bring me a gun.”

He told me that his roomate, when he was back in from the after the surgery and was kind of still out of it, you know, still under sedation. Two orderlies came in and started loading him on a gurney, and the roomate said, “where are you taking him?” and the orderlies said, “to surgery.” His roomate said, “he just came back from surgery.” They looked at their orders again and found that they were on the wrong floor. As they left the room the roomate claims to have asked what the potential surgery was, and the response was that they were going to remove his left testicle.

It turned out that the entire disk matter had come out in one blob and lodged in the crotch of the sciatic nerve.

After a stay in the hospital he still couldn’t walk. He insisted however on going right back out to the village where he laid, insisting that if he could not walk to a friends house then he couldn’t walk, with me insisting that he could get up and walk to the kitchen and build up his strength.

He would send me down to the liquor store which was a three mile walk with you on my back, to get him whiskey to help with the pain. Several of his alcoholic friends would be hanging out at the liquor store, see me buying whiskey, jump on their snow machines, and go to visit your dad, leaving me to walk the three miles back carrying a year old kid and the bottle of whiskey which they would then help him consume. Yeah they were jerks.

He didn’t walk for three months. So eventually we went back to Fairbanks. His surgeon said there was nothing wrong with him but that he would operate again if we wanted. No one would offer physical therapy and he kept threatening to commit suicide. Finally we found a doctor that would provide physical therapy, which turned out to be a great dissapointment because what it amounted to was we had to take a taxi to his office, and your father crawled on his hands and knees into the building and it was fifty below outside, and then they would put heating pads on his back.

We finally located a chiropractor who was new in town and would come to where we were staying to treat him. None of these treatments had the desired result. Finally we decided that we needed to seek help outside of Alaska, and returned to the East Coast City that I was from, where a friend of my fathers that was an orthopedic surgeon/physical therapist had agreed to treat him. He treated him with trigger point therapy which at the time was a relatively new therapy and was sucessful. While still in a great deal of pain, your father was then walking and we returned to Alaska.

I lost my phone while rolling down grassy hills and stuffs.  So if you’re trying to call me, try email instead.  And if I used to have your number, I don’t now…