My initial plan coming here was to either hustle or joke (need they be mutually exclusive? Aren't they the same? Isn't stripping just clowning and isn't comedy just an awkward cry for attention from strangers?) every night.
But of course that all changed because I don't live in a vacuum. Sometimes my shit-eating grin needs a moment of respite in resting bitchface.
The first leg of the tour (Toronto! Barrie! Montreal!) was easier because I was rolling SO DEEP in the unconditional love and support of my friends and family (My cousins came out to listen to me riff about my vagina for 45 minutes. My family is brimming with well-adjusted radness). Coming to Miami has been different. I don’t know anyone here.
When a stripper feels lonely SHE GOES TO WORK. I went to work for 3.5 consecutive shifts then promptly crashed into a puddle of tears and one dollar bills. I was tuckered the fuck out, man. I’ve been at this game nearly six years and still I plan these trips, thinking, “I’ll work six days in a row, yep, totally doable.”
Not doable at all. Not for me.
I love the fuck out of my leisure time, but I was resolved to do some sort of work. I like to work. Work means a lot of different things to me now. It used to just mean showing the fuck up and flashing my gash. Now it’s kind of the same only my gash is my soul through a lens of LOLZ , cartoons and a memoir that I published… maybe you’ve heard of it? It’s called The Beaver Show.
None of the booksellers in Miami had returned any of my “Hi-I’m-Jacq-I-wrote-a-book-It’s-called-The-Beaver-Show-it’s-slutty-funny-and-feminist-memoir-do-you-want-it?” emails, which is shitty. But if there’s anything stripping has taught me, it’s getting used to being completely ignored when you smile, hand outstretched, introducing yourself. (There’s a guy who circulates around all the New York strip clubs who, if he doesn’t want to talk to you, closes his eyes when you walk up to him. You can ask him his name, how the Jets are doing, if he just farted… and he will make no acknowledgement of your existence. Once you ‘get the message’ and walk away, he opens his eyes again. It’s kind of like ignoring a text message, only it’s real fucking life and incredibly rude.) Stripping makes us resilient. Rejection still sucks, but it doesn’t break me.
Instead, I decided to do what my formerly-militant-vegan wife calls 'direct action.'
I PUT THOSE BOOKS ON THE SHELVES BY MY DAMN SELF.
First I went to Shepherd Artisan Coffee… I had been there the day before and noticed they had a lending library in the back. I scribbled a love note on the first page and wedged it between Best Movies of the 90’s and some pink plastic champagne flutes.
Then I moseyed up to Tropico Youth Hostel and planted my tale among some discarded novels and pizza coupons. Youth hostels always have the best book swaps with all sorts of weird scribblings in the margins. Knowing my book is one step closer to being in a shoestring traveller’s hands makes my heart flutter.
I felt like a Santa Ninja… you know, the self-published kind with great tits.
I waltzed into Urban Outfitters and plopped a copy of The Beaver Show next to a book with Bill Murray on the cover. I’d like to think that a fan of his could possibly be a fan of mine. Because we are nothing alike but perhaps in some small way he seems to be the only old man in the universe who isn’t a shameless pervert and I just appreciate him for that so much, you know? Like, Bill, even if you ARE a pervert, thanks for keeping it for your consenting lady pals and not wagging your tongue at passersby. You’re the best. (We can talk about how bad my misandry is getting in another post… I’ll give you a hint and it rhymes with probe hizniss)
Books and Books is an independent bookstore with a great collection of stories and good vibes and so naturally I placed my eye-catching title at adult-eye level among the other “Indie Next Picks.”
My moves were stealth but also carried out with a love and generosity I haven’t felt since handing out fresh pairs of underwear at Burning Man (it’s a thing I do). IT FELT SO RAD.
I dipped into a trendy hotel, got day drunk off one Corona, and slipped The Beaver Show next to The Secret Life of Bill Clinton because it seemed appropriate. I feel like Bill Clinton loves a good beaver show.
I took myself on a date to Wynwood, ate ceviche and slipped a book into Booklegger’s Tiny Library:
I felt like a drug dealer at a drop but you know I’m just a writer spreading the gospel of happy sluts and you know what I’m totally cool with getting off on this perfectly legal activity.
I MEAN WILL YOU JUST LOOK HOW HAPPY IT MADE ME.
There are a few other copies of The Beaver Show milling about Miami now… They are yours to take, to devour, and hopefully share with a friend. HAPPY BEAVER HUNTING, FRIENDS!