Using a blog was a great idea for selling my house. It sold it less than a week and is supposed to close on November 18th. I'll finally have the money to get on with my life.

I'm looking for some good investment opportunities... so if anyone has a sound venture, I'm listening! Prefer something in the "tech" arena. It's what I do so it's the area I'm most comfortable with.

Part 9

This being my first trip to Western Samoa, I took the opportunity to explore the islands as completely as I could in the few short weeks I was there. One of the aspects of life in Samoa that intrigues many foreigners, myself included, is the art of the tattoo. Known around the world, and certainly no stranger to a variety of cultures, the polynesians have embraced the practice of skin adornment for centuries. Throughout the pacific islands, tattooing, in one form or another, is widely accepted and practiced. There are some variations. The "Maori's" from New Zealand combine tattoos with a procedure called, "Scarification". This is performed by making cuts in the skin, (often the face), and rubbing hot fire ash into the cuts to cause them to welt and create a very three-dimensional scar. None of these traditional tattoos are quite like the one's your Uncle Bob came back with from his Navy or Marine Corps days.

These tattoos are not applied with the electric tattoo guns that most of us are familiar with. The principle is the same... pierce the skin with a sharp object or needle creating a piercing for the ink to flow into. Health regulations in more developed nations regulate sanitary practices in tattoo application. However, in much of the South Pacific, tattooing is done much the same way as it was before the white man arrived. The hand tattooing of the South Pacific achieves much the same effects through the use of such piercing objects as a sharks tooth and boar bristle. The inks too, are quite different from those used in modern tattoo parlors. Pacific Island tattoos are primarily monochromatic, (black ink only), however some modern inks have made their way into the art in recent years as well. By tradition, the mother collects the soot of the burning candlewax bean to make the ink for her sons and daughters tattoos.

As the picture at the bottom of this posting will attest, the complete and traditional tattoos for Samoan men starts just above the knees and rise to, or slightly above, the navel. The entire application procedure can take up to a few weeks depending upon the pain tolerance of the recipient. As they tend to fade over the years, some Samoans will have them gone over again in later life to re-fresh them. Many Samoans actually envy the higher contrast that we caucasians achieve in our tattoos because of our lighter skin.

I spent a tour of duty in the U.S. Navy, and while I came close to getting a tattoo on several occasions, (each time I was intoxicated), I never found a design or theme at that time, that I wished to have, essentially as a permanent fixture for the rest of my life.

So it came as a surprise, even to me, that I made the decision to get a traditional Samoan tattoo in broad daylight and without even the hint of the influence of alcohol!

No, I didn't opt for the "full-treatment" that is the trademark of Samoan tattoos. Mine was limited to a bicep arm band on my left arm and a wrist band on my right. The only sterilization procedure that was used was the periodic wiping off of excess ink with a rag floating in a bucket of strong bleach and water. The whole process took about an hour and a half. And as I healed well in a few weeks and didn't get an infection, I guess the bleach-water technique works well enough!

Back in the states, I get many admiring compliments and curious comments on my "skin art" and always the question; "Did it hurt"? Since I've never tried those delivered with a tattoo gun, I really have no basis for comparison. But no, I didn't think it hurt. There were some mildly uncomfortable moments, but nothing I couldn't easily tolerate. As a result, I am left with a permanent reminder of the people and the islands that became so dear to me, and from that day on a link from me to them was forged that will last all the days of my life.

Coming next post, Part 10

"That Crazy Palagi"

Man at Sunset, Samoa; National Geographic 

More funnies from "Dust Bunnies" by me. 

You had best not get too attached to someone... you never know when they might unexpectedly leave you. (Click on picture to enlarge).

Part 8

Well, I finally got my house up "For Sale by Owner" and created a blog to advertise it. So sorry for the lapse in my posts to all my faithful readers. I was "slacking" for sure!

On the plane from American Samoa to Western Samoa the guy sitting next to me struck up a conversation. He was from Northern Queensland in Australia and ran his own vineyard and winery. He was on a business trip to Fiji and the Samoas to promote and sell his wares to the tourist hotels. Pretty enterprising of him I'd say... he was doing pretty well too. Anyway, he asked me lots of questions and I gave him the condensed version of my life. He asked where I was staying in Samoa and I told him I didn't have a clue. On this trip I wasn't making any hotel arrangements in advance of my arrival anywhere throughout my whole trip. I preferred to wander around a bit and see what was available, perhaps even meet someone who would invite me to stay with them for free during my stay. He suggested a small hotel, (only seven rooms), that he said had the ambiance, friendliness and charm that he had enjoyed immensely when he travelled there. I took his suggestion, and it forever changed the course of the rest of my life.

La Godinets, (pronounced "La God-i-nays",) was everything he said it was. Owned and operated by a 50-ish year old, Samoan/Chinese blended man, Derek La Godinet was an ex lounge entertainer who once opened for Barbra Streisand back in his prime in California. A kind and generous man, he treated all of the guest in his little hotel like family. Every guest got his personal greeting upon check-in and an invitation to dine with him on any evening of his stay. Derek was one part Samoan ambassador, one part tour guide and, for me, one part confidante and psycho-analyst. Where La Godinet's really shined was their main floor restaurant and lounge. The food was extraordinary. I still get hungry just thinking about their Seafood Crepes. As you might expect from an island hotel the seafood was great and always fresh caught.

Derek was a very popular local figure, almost a legend, and he had an endless procession of friends, relatives and acquaintances who would drop by unannounced to eat, drink or just chew the fat. He had a special charm and dignity that endeared him to everyone that he came in contact with. Every night he was coaxed and cajoled into performing his signature rendition of "I did it My Way", and every night he feigned reluctance to do so. The truth was, he loved it! He was never more comfortable than he was playing to the crowd, no matter how large or small it might be.

When I arrived in Samoa I had lapsed into a sad malaise, missing the people back home, and stayed the first few nights in my room just feeling sorry for myself. Derek noticed this right away and on the third night dispatched several of the hotel staff to fetch me down to the lounge. It wasn't long before he had me up on stage singing with the band while all of my sadness left me. By the next night I had become completely immersed in Derek's world and was introduced to the wide cross-section of Samoan society by him. In Samoa, at that time, anyone who was anyone, sooner or later stopped by La Godinet's. I met everyone from the simple fisherman to the Head-of-State himself.

Derek's cousin, a regular visitor, was Savea Sano Malifa, the owner, editor and publisher of "The Samoa Observer", the largest and only english language newspaper on the island. A large man, Sano Malifa brought out strong emotions in everyone. Depending on who you were talking to, he was either loved or reviled. Not many people were "lukewarm" or neutral in their opinion of him. We took an almost instant liking to each other. He showed me around the island and introduced me to more people than I could ever remember. Sano had been born in Samoa but was educated in New Zealand, England and the U.S. He was, and still is, one of the most intelligent men I have known in my life.

Next post, Part 9

How to get a Samoan tattoo.

My house "For Sale by Owner". Details and more pictures at: "buymyhouse.blogspot.com". 

In my usual meandering style I will depart for a few lines from this text, which I fear, is beginning to resemble a travelogue. Let’s turn for a moment to the present. As a little personal history, I am currently living in big old Victorian house that I retained after our split. We had three houses in all. Two of which my ex kept as part of our settlement. I know it doesn’t sound quite fair until you know that the house that I got has a total equity greater than the other two combined. It was a good decision for her too being that the other two are considerably newer and much less maintenance intensive.

The point now really is that a two-story, five-bedroom house is a lot more space than a single guy needs. Not only is it a lot of work to keep up and more costly to heat in the winter, (it was built in 1906), but also most of the time I rattle around in it like a pea in a shoebox. It is a grand old house situated across the street from a beautiful park, in a great historic neighborhood. I however, having re-tasted the pleasures and excitement of world travel again, have decided to put the old homestead on the market. If, with any luck, I sell it for my asking price, I will net around $125,000 to aid me in starting over on a slightly less grand scale. I am currently constructing a blog to advertise the house with pictures, location and descriptions. When it’s finished I will post the URL in the near future for the curious among you.

I hadn’t intended for this blog to digress into a dating site extolling my virtues as a potential boyfriend, but what the hell! If after reading my posts you feel you know me a bit, (and that doesn’t scare you away), and feel that you would like to get to know me even better, feel free to drop me an email and we’ll get better acquainted. Perhaps we may find that we have more in common than a love of travel and an intimate knowledge of strippers and the surreal world of adult entertainment. I am sure that I am not so one-dimensional that we couldn’t find more than that in common.

I will pick up part 8 in my next post… I hope all of you have a great Labor Day holiday.

Part 7

The Two Samoas

Many thanks for the emails of encouragement. They do mean alot to me! I've been called "brave" by some of you, but that's simply not the case. Starting over has been one of the scariest things I've ever done. But I really didn't have much choice. The alternative was to sit around and feel sorry for myself and just be depressed. I quickly found out that people really do not want to be around a person like that. In fact, they avoid you like the plague!

So at first you go through the motions of a life... going places, meeting new people and having new experiences. Before you know it you are living a life again. Sure I still have my darker moments and think about "what was", but the "what is" isn't bad either! Life truly is, what you make of it!

The next stop on my itinerary after leaving Fiji was American Samoa. As the title of this chapter says, there are two Samoas. American Samoa and Samoa, (fomerly Western Samoa). Both are inhabited by native Samoan people. Just 77 miles apart, it's not so much the similarities that are interesting, but the differences between these two islands.

For one, American Samoa is a U.S. Territory, governed by the U.S., much like Puerto Rico or Guam. The currency there is the U.S. Dollar, the kids play the typical U.S. school sports of basketball and football and the voltage for your appliances is our familiar 110 volts/60 cycles. By contrast, Western Samoa is an independent nation, but still has close ties to New Zealand and Australia. The kids, (and adults, for that matter), play rugby football, soccer and cricket. The voltage for their appliances run on 220 volts/50 cycles. The two political systems don't share much in common either. I won't go into the intricacies of their respective governments, but an over-generalization would be to say that American Samoa is more like the United States and Western Samoa's is more like that of England. Actually, more like New Zealand or Australia's, but as they used to be possessions of Great Britian that might be expected.

I'm not really sure why, but as a general observation, Western Samoans seem to have a greater sense of national pride. I would have to guess that this might have something to do with being an independent soveriegn nation.

Another surprise to me... You would expect that, of the two, the one with the McDonald's restaurant would be American Samoa. If you did, you would be wrong! Now if I seem to mention that hamburger franchise with some regularity it's only because when you travel you do sometimes get to missing the familiar fast-food you grew up with. McDonald's is a known quantity. No surprises there! The Big Mac and fries you purchased in the Ginza in Tokyo tastes pretty much the same as it does anywhere else in the world. There are subtle differences though. The McDonald's in Costa Rica also offers the national dish of beans and rice. Usually it's just the addition of the local favorite dish.

I had scheduled four days each in American and Western Samoa. I ended up leaving American Samoa a day early and extending my stay in Western Samoa to fourteen days. What happened those first few days in Western Samoa to make me want to stay so much longer? Read my next post.

Coming next post...

Part 8, You Never Know Where You Will Find Family

Part 6

I am Robinson Crusoe

The last time I was in Fiji my son was just a skinny little kid. It was now 10 years later and I was on my own this time. The last time we stayed at a pretty posh resort with a pool and all the amenities. It really wasn’t my style, even then, but it was his first real dive vacation and I wanted to make it as memorable and comfortable for him as I could.

This time I had something completely different in mind. Fiji is comprised of two major islands, (Viti Levu and Vanua Levu), and dozens of smaller islands surrounding them. These two major islands are fairly modern with electricity, running water, restaurants, resort hotels and plenty of automobile traffic. Hell, the capitol city of Nadi, (pronounced, Nan-dee), even has a McDonald’s.

I guess I wasn’t the only one who had fantasized about living on a tropical island because one tour group provides boat transportation to some of the more remote islands in the Mamanucua’s (pronounced, Mama-New-thu), group. This is the way to truly live as the native inhabitants do. I would be dropped off for a week’s stay on one of these tiny volcanic outcroppings to stay with a village of the indigenous people. Remember, it was only a hundred years earlier that these people were cannibals and were making meals out of the first white men who came there.

I arrived at Manu Island early the next day to a beach landing with no dock. I waded ashore where the village chief and every member of the tribe met me. The greeting was amazing! Each person came up to me with a huge smile and shouts of “Bula”, (meaning, “hello”). They helped me ashore with my bags and led me down a narrow jungle path, which wound through the lush tropical vegetation. About a mile and a half later we came to a large grassy meadow where the village lay. The village was comprised of about eight bures, (pronounced, boo-rays), of varying sizes that served as the meetinghouse, the sleeping quarters and the chief’s house. The main bure, or the meetinghouse was where all of the ceremonial meetings took place, where meals were consumed and all the members of the tribe did the majority of socializing. This was also the place where the Kava ceremony took place.

Kava is made from the pounded root of the native pepper tree plant. The root is dried, pounded, and placed in a straining cloth for preparation as a drinking beverage. Water is added to a large carved wooden bowel, and the Kava in the straining cloth is soaked in it. As the Kava root absorbs the water the cloth is repeatedly wrung out back into the bowel. This leaves a coffee-with-creamer colored liquid in the bowel, which is the finished liquid for drinking for the Kava ceremony. Only the men of the tribe are allowed to attend the Kava ceremony and on this night I was to be their honored guest. Now I had attended a Kava ceremony on my last trip to Fiji on the large islands, but this was different. This was much more formal and not something done just for the tourists. This was a regular part of their lives. I remembered from my previous trip that it was considered polite to bring a gift to give in return for the invitation, usually a cloth bag of more dried Kava root. I however had neglected to bring some. It is sold in every market on the larger islands but this tiny island had no stores. I did however, have a box of very good dark Maduro cigars from Honduras and presented one to every man attending. These were an enormous hit.

During the Kava ceremony all the men sit in a circle around the Kava bowel and a cup made from a hollowed-out coconut shell is filled repeatedly with the Kava liquid and passed in turn to each man. Everyone claps twice together in unison and the cup holder must empty the shell’s contents in one drink. Upon completion of the liquid the men all clap once in unison and the bowel is re-filled and passed to the next person, where the procedure is repeated. There is much laughing and joking and a good time is had by all. We drank Kava and smoked cigars well into the night.

So what does Kava do to you? Well, to me, Kava tastes pretty much like muddy water. It does, after consuming several bowels, start to make your lips and tongue numb and has a slightly intoxicating effect. Fijian women I have talked to claim that it causes impotence in men and, when enough of it is drank, an inability to get an erection. I decided that it wasn’t going to be replacing Pepsi for me anytime soon!

The next day was spent exploring the island on foot. I hiked to the top of the island, which was an inactive volcanic cone. The view from the top was incredible. I could see for several miles with other neighboring islands dotting a panoramic view clear to the horizon. I swam; I speared fresh fish and lobster for dinner and helped in the preparation of the nightly feasts. We had a roasted pig that was prepared by covering it in banana leaves and cooked in a pit with hot stones for most of the day. It was so tender that the meat fell easily off the bone.

The first few days I had a constantly smiling and laughing entourage of children following me throughout the island. Their numbers dwindled as the novelty of me wore off and the children slowly returned to their regular pursuits until I was left with just one boy whom I dubbed “Friday” in my tribute to the Daniel Defoe classic novel. At that moment, I could truly say, “I am Robinson Crusoe”!

The week passed all too quickly and before I knew it, it was time to return to the main island. It was with a very real sense of sadness that I left my newfound friends. In just a week we had established such a closeness that I still think of them often today.

I have been an avid scuba diver since I was a teenager and no trip to Fiji or any other tropical island is complete for me without several good dives included in it. As many people already know, Fiji is famous for its World Class diving. Beqa, (pronounced “ben-ga”), island off the south shore of Viti Levu is famous for its “fire-walkers” and only slightly less famous for its beautiful Beqa Lagoon. Fiji has the usual fare of beautiful tropical fish, big drop-offs and the large pelagics, (sharks, sea turtles, manta rays, etc.), which come to feed, but its biggest draw to most divers is its abundance of soft coral formations. They are every color of the rainbow and leave a lasting impression on every diver fortunate enough to see them. The dive operators are courteous, professional and among the best in the world.

Getting around in Fiji was great fun for me. I rented a car and drove from Nadi, the capitol, to Pacific Harbor for the boat trip to Beqa. Not only was the scenery spectacular, the two and a half hour drive initiated me into the subtleties of driving a car with the steering wheel on the opposite side that I was used to and driving on the left side of the road. It does take some practice to master shifting with your right hand instead of your left. I had experienced it several years earlier driving on the island of Moorea in Tahiti so it wasn’t totally unfamiliar. It may seem like a small thing to some, but to me, those little experiences are what make a trip to a new culture even more special.

Next Post, Part 7

The Two Samoas

Part 5

The Road to Samoa

I couldn’t sleep on the flight to Hawaii. I’ve never been a person who could sleep on a plane, or sleep in a car while someone else is driving. Thank god for in-flight movies!

I spent quite a bit of time in Hawaii while I was in the Navy and the memories of those days flooded back to me as I felt the first caress of the warm, humid air as I left the terminal. I had planned a three-day layover before traveling on to Fiji and I thought I would make use of the time to lookup a few old friends from my Navy days. My first real girlfriend was a navy nurse I met while she was stationed at Barber’s Point. Whenever my ship was in port at Pearl Harbor we always got together. After she got out of the service she decided to make her home in Honolulu. She married a local guy there but the marriage didn’t last. She divorced him after 18 months and she’s been single ever since. It had been 23 years since I had seen, or spoken to her and I amazed myself as I dialed her number from memory. Her number hadn’t changed in all that time.

“You’re kidding, you’ve got to be kidding”, she repeated throughout the conversation. I told her that I wanted to catch a cab and come and see her, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Twenty-five minutes later she was at the airport to get me. She leaped from her car and jumped into my arms as more then two decades evaporated away. Sure she had changed some. A few more pounds and the addition of glasses, but I was floored by how much she hadn’t changed. Still the wild and crazy hippy chick that I knew so long ago. She was the first person in my life to talk me into smoking grass. And true to form, the first thing she did when we got to her house was to get out the pipe. Since I last saw her I may have smoked weed a total of three times and though I tried to decline she was insistent. Big surprise!

Now I’m not one of those people who tolerate marijuana well. When I get stoned I turn into a giggling idiot. Everything anyone says is funny and starts me laughing until my sides ache. Since I couldn’t remember the last time I had laughed, it felt pretty good. We got pretty wasted that night on the weed and some cheap wine and I think I slept for about twelve hours. It wasn’t until the next day that we played catch-up and filled each other in on what had been going on in our respective lives. She was still doing the nursing thing at a local clinic when she wasn’t hanging out at the beach. That was where we spent the next few days. We even slept on the beach the second night and screwed like the kids we were twenty-something years earlier. The years melted away that night and it was as if no time had passed at all.

I thought a lot about her all that last day in Honolulu and I guess I even entertained the notion of starting up where we had left off. But I was fresh out of a devastating relationship and I knew that emotionally, I was in no condition to be with anybody at that time. I had to have some time to myself, to figure out who I was again and what I wanted out of life. I knew from the look in her eyes as she drove me to catch my plane that it had been in her thoughts too. I thought about why we had broken up in the first place. I was leaving the service at the end of my tour of duty and she had two years left to go. We were great friends who just happened to enjoy each other’s bodies. And we both knew that it takes more than that to build a relationship on.

Next post: Part 6

I am Robinson Crusoe

Part 4

It is often said “All good things must come to an end” and “One man’s heaven is another man’s hell”. Living with a Showgirl was kind of like that, from agony to ecstasy and back again. It is anything but a “normal” life and I longed for that remembered stability that a normal relationship represented.

After our initial split, (which incidentally was her idea), my ex played the “I don’t know what I want game” and bounced back and forth between my and her lover’s beds. This went on for a few months and drove both her lover and I crazy. He found us together once and repeatedly banged his head on the canopy of his truck in expression of his angst. I likewise, had similar moments, (though not physically self-abusive), when the situation was reversed. I might still be caught in that twisted triangle if I hadn’t mustered the courage to end it.

I had to start my life over again, but where, and how? I decided that the relatively small town that we lived in, (population; 190,000), was too full of memories of our past life together. Besides that, I saw her and/or her boyfriend driving in their cars or at our favorite restaurants at least two or three times a week. I had to get the hell out of Dodge to maintain some semblance of sanity. I decided that it wasn’t enough to just move to another city or another state. I opted for a totally new country. So I asked myself… Where would you live if you could live anywhere in the world that you wanted to?


Scouting the Choices

As a kid I was perpetually intrigued with Tales of the South Pacific. Robinson Crusoe, Hawaii, Adventures in Paradise, Swiss Family Robinson, Mutiny on the Bounty, and Tom Neale’s, An Island to Myself. Before our separation my wife and I had traveled together to Hawaii and Tahiti, and I had taken my son on a diving trip to Fiji when he was 13. These were but a few of the thousands of islands I had to choose from in the vast Pacific. So I set out on a voyage of discovery. Like Captain Cook before me I would chart my course and begin my adventure.

My quest was now two-fold. I would find my island paradise, and as I knew myself well enough to know that I needed a female partner to share my life, find a suitable first mate.

I started out by using the Internet and books to research every island, atoll and archipelago in the Pacific I could find. I had multi-colored stickpins stuck all over my globe. I voraciously consumed every bit of information that I could; location, land mass, major cities and towns, population, major imports and exports, primary industries, forms of government, and immigration laws. It would do no good to find paradise if I wouldn’t be allowed to stay. Some, like Tahiti, had strict immigration laws, and besides that, a very high cost of living. The cost of living seemed to be directly proportional to the level of developed tourism. The more tourists, the higher jobs paid and the higher the cost of living! If I was going to “get away from it all”, I could probably rule out the most popular destinations like, Hawaii, Tahiti, and perhaps even Fiji.

While surfing the net I came across a website for Polynesian Airlines, (the official airline of Western Samoa). They offered something they called a “Poly-Pass”. This was an airline ticket for unlimited travel throughout the Pacific. The ticket granted its holder 45 days to explore the islands with one in and out of Australia and New Zealand thrown in for good measure. The price was a very reasonable $999.00 U.S. dollars. Just reading the itinerary that I had laid out gave me a thrill. These were all the exotic locations that I had only read about as a child.

Departure

My ex was strangely excited as I told her of my plans. I believe that she was relieved. I had made the choice for her. I expected some sense of sadness from her, but there was none. (Maybe I hoped there would be). We had lost that spark that we once had between us, never to regain it. It reminded me of when she gave birth to my son. At the time, I thought no two people could be more in love and surely we would grow old and be together always.

As the day of my initial flight to Hawaii approached I was enveloped in mixed emotions. I was excited and melancholy all at the same time. I was leaving the familiar confines of the town that I grew up in and, except for my four years of naval service, had spent the majority of my life. I was also leaving my son behind, now grown and living on his own for destinations thousands of miles from what I knew. I had my packing done and my passport, airline tickets and necessary visas were ready for my departure.

The day of my departure was typical for autumn in the Northwest, rainy, cold and shrouded in dark ominous clouds. Thoughts raced through my mind… what the hell are you doing? I fought off the feeling and forged ahead. The next several hours were something of a blur. I still can’t tell you who gave me the ride to the airport, or who, if anybody saw me off. I like to think that it was my son and that we both had tears in our eyes as I boarded my flight. For some reason I honestly don’t remember. Perhaps it’s just too painful to recall.

Part 3

I wanted to preface this chapter because I know that after reading the first two parts, some of you will think that you know why my marriage failed and that I am just a womanizer, plain and simple. The fact is, I was a faithful and loving husband and father for more than 20 years, (which is more than can be said for my ex), and it wasn’t until we separated that I even entertained the notion of another woman. For my life since then, I make no apologies. All the women that I have been with have been consenting adults and as far as using someone goes, I would say we were even. So hold someone else up to your high moral standards, because meeting yours doesn’t concern me in the least! And since I have no plans to run for political office it shouldn’t concern you either.

Vanity, thy name is…

The Showgirl’s obsession with her appearance is just a natural by-product of her occupation. Sure, most dancers are, on average, more concerned with the way they look then the girl on the street. And since nowadays most dancers completely shave their pubic regions, every blemish, wrinkle, stretch mark and mole is on display. Vanity is a necessary component of the Showgirl’s personality. Without it, few would have the courage it takes, (and believe me it does take courage), to get up on stage night after night in front of a crowd of strange men.

Many men, (at least the one’s who have even thought about it), assume that the Showgirl takes the night off when she is on her period. On the contrary… most can’t afford the luxury. Most I have known simply snip off the tampon’s string and push it in out of sight. The problem is, without the string to remind them, some may forget that they already have one in and insert a second one behind it. This can make the first one extremely difficult to retrieve. A professional Showgirl rarely makes this mistake twice. Most dancers are fastidious about their hygiene and a package of baby wipes is an absolute necessity in every Showgirl’s bag. Every trip to the ladies room warrants a full inspection in the mirror for the errant piece of toilet tissue, which if missed, will glow brightly under the black lights on stage.

Cosmetic, or Vanity Surgery takes many forms these days. But for the Showgirl the breast augmentation, or the “boob job” is far and away the most popular. Having paid for a few of these and served as caregiver to their recipients post-operatively, I am well acquainted with the procedure. But if you want the full “411” there are websites which do it better than I could.

When it comes to “their boob-job” most dancers have the “Dolly Parton” or “Pam Anderson” Syndromes. That is, if a large “C” cup looks good, then double-D’s must be even better. This quest for extreme size often results in a cartoon-ish appearance, stretch marks, wrinkling and an increased appearance of blue veins near the surface of the skin. Many girls simply don’t have the skin elasticity to contain these over-sized implants and they appear as if an alien larva will burst forth from their chests at any moment. In accordance with the old adage, “you get what you pay for”, the strip club is a virtual showcase of the very best and the very worst cases of breast augmentation surgery. The good one’s make the botched ones look even worse by comparison. Though they don’t, the best boob-jobs should earn their recipients a referral fee from the surgeon. They are walking advertisements and the best are always asked who did them.

With the possible exception of Hollywood starlets, no one is a stronger proponent of cosmetic surgery then the strip club headliner. These are the traveling Showgirls who make their living “on the road”. They have usually done several nude pictorials in the popular men’s magazines and many have starred in X-rated features. Usually the “Porn Queens” are most in demand as headliners. In an attempt to prolong their careers and increase their bookings, many will opt for liposuction to trim and sculpt their problem parts. This is a hard life of hotel rooms and fast food. Relationships are hard to maintain and after awhile many find that it is just not worth it.

The most extreme case of stripper cosmetic surgery vanity, (to my knowledge), comes from a dancer friend of mine. She was so self-conscious of her labia, (pussy lips), that hung down a few inches, that she had them surgically reduced. She was so pleased with the results that less then a week after the surgery she rushed over to my apartment to get my opinion before the stitches were even out. What many people can’t even fathom is that a Showgirl’s makeup, costumes, and yes, even cosmetic surgeries, may be legitimate tax deductions.

Vegas baby, Vegas

Nowhere in the world does the advantage of large breasts factor in then in the adult playground of Las Vegas. Strip clubs around the nation suffer periodic lulls in business for a variety of reasons. And it is usually during these times that local Showgirls will consider making a trip to work a week or two in the Nevada clubs. Las Vegas clubs certainly cater to a more affluent clientele but some dancers opt for Reno clubs as well. These clubs have very strict standards and small-breasted Showgirls simply do not make the cut! I have known dancers that got boob-jobs simply so they could work Vegas. What can go on in the VIP rooms there is not for the squeamish dancer. It is one place that money will buy the well-heeled patron almost whatever he wants. Many girls form groups to travel to Vegas together to share expenses and hotel rooms and to lend moral support. I have known girls who have made $5,000 per week and up, though their expenses often offset these profits. Almost all of the girls that go to Vegas say they spent much more than they planned during their trip and most return with new costumes that can also eat up some of their profits. Oddly, very few of the dancers I know spend much on gambling on these trips.

Stage Presence

A large part of a Showgirl’s stock in trade is her stage performance. So much attention is paid to it that some strip club franchises sponsor “Showgirl of the year” and “Pole Olympics” contests to showcase these talents. There are often cash prizes for the best in each category and the sponsoring club is often filled to capacity with patrons. The best performers display a level of athleticism, style and grace that compares well to that of Olympic gymnasts. I have known many Showgirls who take it very seriously and who have practiced thousands of hours to perfectly choreograph their stage performance. Many will agonize over their selection of just the right costume, music and stage lighting. If one dancer uses another’s music or copies a move that she considers her trademark, all hell can break loose.

Strip club Dynamics

The last topic concerning the life of Showgirls that I will address is the work environment itself. Not unlike other occupations, workplace politics, backstabbing, cliques and employer-employee loyalty issues permeate the strip club. Unknown to many, including the majority of patrons, most Showgirls are not employees of the club. They are, in fact, independent contractors. Usually no withholdings are taken from their pay (except rent), they get no benefits, (no medical/dental insurance, maternity leave or retirement), and they assume full responsibility for reporting, (or not reporting), their income to the IRS.

Are you just happy to see me…
Or is that your hand in my pocket?

The majority of Showgirls are paid directly by the customer either for lap dances or in the form of tips for their stage performances. The club receives its cut in the form of an admission fee and drink minimum charged to the patron at the door, rent paid by the Showgirl, (the rent charged to a Showgirl is currently $140/shift at Déjà Vu in Seattle), a cut of each dance performed and on the drinks sold to both the patron and the drinks the patron buys for the Showgirl. State laws vary with respect to the serving of alcoholic beverages but many states do not allow alcohol where total nudity takes place. It is not uncommon for a club to charge $5 to $10 dollars to a patron for a coke that costs them less than fifty cents. Many clubs pack more than 100 girls on the floor to up their take from rents that have more than doubled in the past five to seven years. The final insult to the Showgirl comes at the end of the night where she must tip the Deejay, the Bouncers, the Doorman and the parking lot attendant on the way to her car.

Just an opinion, but for your consideration… There are about 2,400 Strip clubs in the nation, which employ 500,000 to 750,000 people and rake in an estimated $15 billion annually. Besides dancers, strip clubs employ beverage servers, disc jockeys, bouncers, retail clerks and parking attendants. If these workers were to form a cohesive union for the purpose of collective bargaining, they would be one of the strongest unions in the country. I have seen the word “union” strike terror in the hearts of strip club owners.

Part 2
Continued from Part 1; “Showgirls, Strippers & Exotic Dancers”
(See previous post).

The time comes in many professions when one just can’t do the work anymore. A Showgirls professional lifespan is somewhat akin to that of a professional athlete. As the athlete ages and slows down and as he/she must compete with younger and younger players, so too must the Showgirl compete with younger girls entering the profession for the money spent on them by the customer.

In many cases the girl simply quits the biz and gets a regular job. This option is harder than it sounds because she may have only had to work 3 or 4 nights a week to pay the bills. Many dancers I know have a very loose schedule and only work when they want to or when they run out of money. If the dancer has children this further complicates her choice of work shifts. The answer for some is to go to the dayshift. Not the party atmosphere of the night shifts, or the larger crowds. It is usually sedate by comparison and the clientele tends to be older men or retirees. The girls working the dayshift are not all fading remnants of nightshifts past. Some clubs put new girls on the dayshift because it is usually less demanding and is a good place to learn the ropes with less pressure on them. Sometimes the girl just cannot adjust to the 2 or 4 am quitting times of the nightshift. If the girl acquires several “regulars” that she can count on to come in she can actually make more money than a nightshift girl who has to regularly deal with younger guys who are, by and large, cheaper and spend less.

Sometimes a dancer has the foresight to see ahead to the day when she must retire from stripping. Many work other jobs while still dancing, some go to school, and still others go into business for themselves in fields related to stripping. Some design and make costumes for other dancers, some sell shoes to dancers, some migrate to escort services and others dance for bachelor parties or other male-oriented events. The latter can be the most lucrative, and, arguably, the most dangerous to their personal safety!

Bachelor parties are definitely a work environment that is, at best, difficult, to control. So enters “The Bouncer”. Just like the bouncer in a bar, it is the responsibility of the bouncer to insure the safety of the dancer(s) in his care and to maintain standards of conduct among the often, intoxicated customers which often outnumber him from 10 to 50 to one. While the dancers are getting into their costumes the bouncer lays out the ground rules to those attending, which can differ significantly according to the performers wishes and what types of services they are used to offering. These services can run the gamut from, “no touching whatsoever” to “no limits if the price is right”.

If you are a large fellow and are dating a dancer it is only a matter of time before she will be asked to do a bachelor party and you will be asked to serve as bouncer. There are men who make, at least part of their living, providing bouncer services to dancers. They usually work for 15 to 20% of the dancer’s tips and often collect the tips from the girls periodically during their performances for safekeeping. To save money the dancers will sometimes ask their boyfriends or even husbands to serve as the bouncer. This can be extremely hard on the boyfriend or husband as the rules for bachelor parties are somewhat more relaxed than the strip club environment and some touching is often allowed.
Small bachelor parties of 10 to 15 individuals are usually a piece of cake. Larger parties of 50 or more men can be total chaos. As the numbers go up, so too do the numbers of dancers working the party. More often than not, the numbers of bouncers’ doe not increase. The largest party that I ever “bounced” for was a college fraternity party. Over 60 guys attended!

My girlfriend at the time and her best dancer friend had scheduled the party but had costume problems that resulted in us being and hour and a half late. By the time we got there the floor of the dorm was littered with empty whiskey bottles and the guys waiting for us were out of control. It was totally impossible for one bouncer to maintain order.

I was feeling the panic set in, so while the girls were getting into their costumes I had a conference with the organizers of the party. I told them that if they wanted the girls to perform that they had to delegate several of their numbers to help in the bouncing duties. Some of these “delegated” bouncers took their commitment to protect the girls so seriously that any guy who got out-of-line was immediately ejected from the dorm and not allowed back in. They were actually a pretty good bunch of guys who were stricter with their peers than real bouncers usually are. The party went on for over two hours and came off with no serious incidents. And the girls made over $1,500/each. In spite of its success, it was the last bachelor party that I bounced. Who needs that kind of pressure!

Coming in next post, Part 3

Boob-jobs... The Other White Meat

Part 1

It's been 7 strange years since my wife and I split-up and a soap opera would be hard pressed to match the changes and the drama that my life has taken on since then.

Initially, I played, and played hard. Feeling somewhat rejected I started spending alot of time at the local strip clubs. There was an element of honesty about it that must have appealed to me then. You pay for the feminine companionship for the amount of time that you want it, and then you go home. After a while though you get to talking to the girls on a personal level and find that they aren't really that different than you are. Some of them were so beautiful that I probably wouldn't have approached them outside of the club environment. So many men have this idealized view of strippers and showgirls that just isn't true. Without their costumes, makeup, high heels and the subdued lighting of the club they look like most other girls. Sure, they were after my money. After all, to most of them it was just a job. (Some do get into the social aspects of the job where it does become a lifestyle. And an addictive one at that). A way to pay the bills. But after getting to know them and becoming familiar with their lives away from work, things start to change.

There is a funny thing about strippers. You are viewed as "the customer". A source of income. If you are a "regular" of a particular stripper you are even guarded by that girl against the advances of other strippers. In some cases I have seen real fights breakout. But usually no matter how much you try you will rarely be admitted to that exclusive company or status of "dating material". I did find a way around this.

Strip clubs by their very nature have a large turn-over. Girls come and girls go. Some leave the job and the lifestyle. Some get married and quit due to pressure from their new husbands, (few of which ever feel completely comfortable with their spouses taking off their clothes for other men), and still others simply haven't got what it takes to make it as a Showgirl. Either they can't pull off a decent performance on stage, they can't take the pressure of family to quit, or they can't deal with the clientele. Though each new girl is indoctrinated on the rules of conduct they are still human and can sometimes be persuaded to meet you for a lunch date in a public place they feel is safe if you have impressed them as being a gentleman and a likable guy in general.

Often once you date one dancer, and if she socializes in after work parties, meetings for breakfast at 4am or just a soak in the hot tub to ease the aches and pains that are part and parcel of the dancers life, everything changes. You are now part of that inner-circle of men who are no longer considered "customers". Some may even continue to be customers in the club but most have rules that no husbands or boyfriends may continue to frequent the club if their girlfriend/wives work there. Some couples are smart enough to keep it a secret from the management, but most cannot. There are few secrets in a strip club and someone will soon rat you out.

But on to that "inner circle" thing. Having dated one dancer and socialized with other dancers working at the club, even if you now break-up with that dancer you are now considered "dating/boyfriend" material by the others.

Sometimes the real jackpot comes in strange forms. My first dancer girlfriend was 19 years old and a bi-sexual. I was 47 at the time. Threesomes for us were not unusual, they were in fact, the norm. Often she would bring other dancers or barmaids home with her who were usually straight, but bi-curious. There is something about the environment of a strip club that seems to bring out the bi-curious nature of women in general, and dancers in particular. On many occasions my 4 person hot tub was jammed with five, six, or more naked beautiful women, and me with the only penis in sight. There was no jealousy from my girlfriend, she was just as attracted to the girl-soup layed out before us as I was and we both feasted upon them at will. She was a good girl and devoted to me, but like so many other dancers she had a problem with drugs and alcohol which eventually lead to our break-up.

Now this is the strange part to me. Often when you divorce a woman, her half of the family divorces you also. Particularly true when she quickly replaces you. The new guy takes your place in their hearts and minds. Never mind the time that you bailed her nephew out of jail for joy-riding, never mind the personal loan that you wrote off to her sister and husband, never mind taking in her juvenile delinquent cousin and being a father to him when his own mother threw him out. These lapses in judgment are quickly forgotten, as are you! The dancers in your little social club not only take you in, but are now quick to say yes when you ask them out.

Dancers usually work horrible hours which sometimes makes it difficult to meet people for social dating. And since dating customers is taboo, (usually), you are now Mr. Available. Mind you, you can't be a prick, a user or a loser, (scratch that last one, some can), but if you are a genuinely sincere guy who makes half an attempt to be sensitive to their needs, (as well as your own), you will probably be up to your armpits in beautiful women. It doesn't even matter if you are good looking or not, fat or bald, rich or poor or even good in bed. In fact, in my experience poor guys seem to do better. And judging by the staggering number of dancers who have confided to me to have never had an orgasm, the good in bed thing must hold some truth as well. (I used to relish the challenge of those girls). Note: Since most 20-something girls date 20-something guys, most of these girls were sleeping with selfish kids who won't really care about pleasing a woman for another decade or so. Don't get indignant guys. You may be the exception. I know I was!

Most dancers I have known are "bum magnets"! Some guys may not even start out that way. Waiting up til 4 or 5 am for your woman to come home makes it hard to hold a day job for some. The money the girl makes is often substantially more than he makes so he can justify dissing his job which was getting to be a hassle anyway with his boss getting on his case for coming in late. Often with the complete support of the girl going to work to now support him, herself and often a child or more. I knew one dancer who was the sole support of her husband, her three children and her live-in mother-in-law. She took it all in stride and even maintained a sunny disposition!

But to be fair, there are those exceptional relationships even in the world of showgirls. I have known couples that truly have it together. The man makes good money but as a couple they want more out of life and use the extra money to finance their dreams of a college education, travel, new cars, jetskis, and in some cases, even fund an IRA! I myself, always had my own money. My dancer girlfriends sometimes quit working and let me support them, but would often go in to work the occasional shift just to meet and be with old friends. The "life" can be hard to leave.

Coming in next post; Part 2

Old Strippers Never Die... They Just Go to Dayshift