Harlotry: I Was A Live Nude Girl

After four days and as many false starts, I finally decided on what to wear: my tiniest skirt and webbiest fishnets with a leather jacket over a tank top. To pull everything together, I opted for some truly unfortunate black knee high boots that were probably from the nineties and if they weren’t, definitely looked like they were. It was March, and I will remind everyone again that I live in Chicago. We often get snow well into March and temperatures in the tens and twenties are not uncommon even as late in the year as April. I was not appropriately dressed.

Knowing what I know now (that as long as one looks presentable when going to apply at a strip club, slutwear is superfluous), my get-up only seemed of the utmost importance. I shivered my way from my house to Randolph and Halsted, convinced that the entire world could see my underwear (they probably could), petrified about both my upcoming application and the probability of my skirt blowing up, and confused as to why it was not possible to walk with one’s legs crossed.

By the time I got to the heavy black door, I was certain that my face had broken out in at least five stress pimples and that I’d aged ten years just in the freezing walk from the train. I was also concerned that my legs, and especially my knees, had turned to a bright cooked-lobster red from the cold; this last concern, at least, was completely valid. I loitered outside of the club smoking three cigarettes in rapid succession and obsessing over the frightening state of my legs before it occurred to me that there was nothing I could do to return my skin to its usual color so I might as well own it.

I stomped out my cigarette and pushed open the door. The first thing I noticed were the combined smells of stale semen and lemon cleanser. The second thing I noticed was the artwork in the lobby. There were two large boards hanging on the walls and they were covered with unpainted plaster casts of women’s disembodied breasts. I wondered briefly if perhaps the breasts belonged to the girls who worked there, but quickly decided that there were too many various boobs and that it was unlikely a bunch of strippers would choose to advertise themselves with something that so closely resembled a serial killer’s trophy board.

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    • Maggie

      Your stories are all so good! Someone should really give you a book deal :)

      • Cate

        I appreciate your vote of confidence!

        The idea of a book deal both excites and scares me. People have predicted it will happen, but so far there has been nothing. I am not too worried, though, after all I only started writing for people who are not myself a few months ago.

      • Andrea Dunlop

        I agree! Cate- hollar at me if you want to talk publishing. Jen has my info.

      • Cate

        Hi Andrea!
        I’m really hoping you aren’t just some troll trying to toy with my fragile hopes and dreams. However, so long as you are who you say you are, it is a real pleasure to internet-meet you! I have contacted Jennifer to ask about your contact information, as I would very, very much love to talk about publishing with you.

    • Meagan S

      This was hilarious! How on earth were you supposed to express your awe at their penis size? Two thumbs up?

      • Cate

        Two thumbs up, or maybe a sassy, hand-over-wide-open-mouth pin-up girl face? I’m really not sure what they wanted

        Honestly, though, I did see the biggest dick I’ve ever encountered while working in the peep show. Calling the thing a baby arm would not be an exaggeration and I could only think of how happy I was to not be on the receiving end of that appendage. The issue there was more concealing horror than anything else.

    • Renee

      Oh god…they ARE all inordinately proud of their genitalia.

      “they’d whip it out and look up with expectant, ‘Mommy, look what I did’ expressions” THIS.

      I’m pro sex work, but I have never felt comfortable pursing it myself. Which is why as a former massage therapist, it really pissed me off when men didn’t understand the difference between massage therapy and sex work. Like the client who decided to make his dick dance in the middle of me giving him a massage. As if I would be so impressed I would just throw in a free hand-job. A dancing dick is hilarious not enticing!

      • Cate

        That is just…god, that’s terrible. I mean, I have no words. Is the massage not enough for people?

        Sometimes I really do wonder what is wrong with people.

    • Silenus

      I find your posts interesting. Is there any way I can be notified of new posts without receiving Gloss’s 181.5 posts per week in my RSS feed?

      Thanks,

      Si

      • Cate

        Well, I know that my stories post every Monday somewhere between ten and noon, except on holiday weekends when they post on Tuesdays. As far as I know you can’t just subscribe to my posts, but you can check the site on the appropriate day.

        I am glad you like my posts!

      • Marian Rosenberg – Haikou #1 Translation Agency

        Indeed. I’m subscribed to Gloss’s 180+ posts a week just to read Harlotry.

        Even though I don’t deliberately read them skimming through Mommyish and STFU Parents and all the other Gloss stuff has led me to know more about the fashion world or parenting than I ever wanted to know.

        I’ve also realized that quite a number of the professional writers on this site are desperately in need of someone to check their grammar before they post. The mistakes jump off the screen, grab my eyes, and punch me in the face.

      • Cate

        Oh wow, I guess that speaks really well of me. But seriously guys, The Gloss has a bunch of other cool articles! Jennifer’s Shelved Dolls and Ashley’s Illustrated Guides in particular are very interesting and entertaining. If my recommendation carries any weight, I suggest you give them a shot.

    • Madam Michelle

      Sad the way men pay them to lie to their faces and laugh behind their backs and in return, the men respect them the most. Sad.