And where exactly WILL this line of thinking deposit me?

So, it seems that I, along with the rest of America, have developed a little crush on Diablo Cody. Move over, David Duchovny. I know, I know-- I, too, am riding our culture's wave of affection for all things stripper-iffic. I read their blogs, vehemently argue with friends that sex workers can be smart too(!) and cheer when they win Oscars. And on the urging of a friend with closer ties to the adult entertainment industry than those of which I could ever dream (let's face it, folks: my sexpottymouth blogging posture is just that--posturing (abstractly hopeful, perhaps, that it'll eventually get this nerd-girl laid (Yeah. I write a blog because it really turns dudes on. Eat me. (Please.)))), I read Ms. Cody's little memoir Candy Girl: A Year in the Life of an Unlikely Stripper.

So, I spent probably 5 hours, grand total, of this weekend doing just that. It's total fluff and fast reading-- it really is. She doesn't dwell too long on any one stripperly neurosis or creepy interlude with a gawker. Her experience seems to have been largely drug-free. And despite having developed a comfort with what sounds about like the stageshow version of my last pelvic exam, she seems to have emerged from her year in the erotic netherworld basically unscathed. She makes panty auctions and masturbating for your supper behind plexiglass sound downright apple-pie-like. But damnit, if the book isn't entertaining as hell. Her prose is fairly dense with puns and cultural references (ones I'm just barely cool enough to get, for the most part). If not a brilliant writer, she is, at least, a *clever* writer. "Clever" of course, being the second-worst insult one can receive in a creative writing workshop (the worst would be "precious"-- as in, "She's just so precious about her work! She really oughtta tear it apart and get at something more raw/real/tight/authentic/dangerous/new/antagonistic/scary/ragged (all synonyms for "good" (yes, antagonistic writing can still be "good."))). (Man, I'm really parens-happy tonite, aren't I?) And I don't mean "clever" as an insult here at all-- the book is legitimately funny, with its dry, matter-of-fact tone that makes any of the more risque content go down like a hot, sweet glob of.... well, I've said enough.

Christ. I've been reading altogether too much of this shit, haven't I? It's really starting to rub (one) off (ha!). Jesus! I can't stop!!

Anyhoo...

I guess what I find so appealing about Cody's story is that she is a self-described goober-- a libidinous four-eyed intellectual with pasty skin and some degree of self-consciousness about her thighs. And yet, when she was 25 or so-- long past the age at which most girls are considered prime for peelage-- she began stripping on a lark and then proceeded to quit her day job and make a living by providing sexual surrogacy for an army of penises. While I sit at home, a Cranky Spiteful Spinster at 31, and envy her the audacity and self-knowledge that allowed her to achieve a commanding ownership over her own sexuality by her mid-20s. It's taken me 6 more years and several relationships of the "learning experience" variety to even get close. And I'm not there yet. And, probably, the person of Cody isn't so evolved as her memoiristic persona-- none of us really are. But man oh man, does this book ever make me wish I it had occurred to me to take up stripping as a hobby before I started noticing the herald angels of crow's feet perching in the corners of my eyes.

Why must we wait to get brazen in our old age?

Oh, I would have made a lousy stripper anyway. I can't internalize music to save my life. I have plenty of A but a distinct deficit of T, by girlie show standards. And my body looks better naked now than it did 13 years ago, anyway. Thank you, yoga.


So much for my little Diabolic fantasy.