J’aime les histoires de stripper et j’aime parler de stripper (les meilleures sont à Montréal, selon un auteur-player américain, wouhou).
Je suis tombée sur un tumblr vraiment cool, celui d’une stripper qui parle de tout, de ses tournées, des autres filles qui dansent ou se tripotent ou piquent des crises, des clients qu’elle aime, de ceux qu’elle n’aime pas et il y en a des franchement bizarres, comme celui-ci :
« The guy who completely ruined my night is too tiring to write about, so I’ll jump right to when we were in VIP. He had been told explicitly by me that he couldn’t touch my breasts. He tried to touch my crotch first, which to his credit, I hadn’t said anything about. He kept whimpering about not being able to touch my breasts before falling silent into a deep sulk and grasping my stomach fat.
Like, gathering up as much skin and fat as he could in each hand, and then squeezing and twisting it. I endured this, waiting out the rest of my 2:00 songs like a sentence. At first I wondered to myself how someone could be an adult and most likely married without ever having learned how to touch a woman. And then, I realized that he had just settled on pretending my stomach rolls were nippleless breasts. »
Faire semblant que du gras de ventre, c’est des seins? Pour bien bander? Gosh. Le pouvoir de l’imagination.