Anonymity has been an extremely fun game. I learned very quickly that I would compromise the quality and details of my stories in the Stripped blog if I told anyone at work about my identity as the stripper blogger. I mentioned it to a few girls months before it actually began. They didn’t really care or soon forgot about it to make room in their heads for better gossip. With a little thought and plenty of anecdotal evidence to form this belief, I realized that word travels at the speed of tacky black light in a strip club.
The strip club world is very, very small. I once ran into a stripper I met in Vegas when I went to visit a former customer in a strip club in a different state. It takes a certain mix of personality traits and financial pinches to begin and endure in such an industry. Few can really get in and hang on through this bull ride. So, as I said, it’s a small world and it would be in my best interest to be as candid as possible even to the point of denying my identity as the stripper blogger if anyone confronts me about it. No one has made the connection so far, though one stripper really should have made that connection when she said, “Hey I read something in the Weekly that reminded me of you,” and proceeded to tell me something about this blog. “That’s so funny!” I said nervously. I wanted to tell her it was me but I also want to see just how long I can stay under the radar.
It has been a challenge guarding my secret. I have slept in the same bed with certain women I talk about and have not divulged my identity to any of them. I remember spooning with a stripper in a downtown hotel room. I had my arms around her. Her bleached hair was in my nose and I held her wonderful breasts in my hands as she was drunkenly falling asleep. “Aren’t you writing that one thing?” I heard her ask quietly as we lied there on the same pillow. I was a bit surprised. “Umm… No?” I responded. “Oh” she said and we fell asleep. She’ll know one day maybe. I’ll see where we go.
Even the stripper who accompanied me on the long road trip to Burning Man is unaware of my identity. We know each other’s history of abuse, deep insecurities and mad quirks. I feel a bit guilty, to be honest. Many have trusted me with very personal things. Some things are so harmful and embarrassing that I have not and will not write about them. There is no honor among thieves, they say. As far as I’m concerned, I am not a sufficiently adequate judge of character to determine who might be a proverbial thief and hence, who could be trusted with a real secret.
There is plenty of evidence in my writing for strippers to know who they are if they have been in one of my stories. There is also plenty of evidence to discover who I am. My educational status, travel history and work stories would reveal my identity right away if someone knew me and cared to put the pieces together.
However, my appearance can be a bit difficult to accurately describe and hasn’t really been addressed in great length in my writing. My good friend, the only stripper who knows I write this blog, was scheduled to meet me for lunch one Monday afternoon. She anticipated the possibility of showing up to the restaurant late and being in a situation where she needed to describe me to the hostess. She said she isn’t sure what color my hair would be, or if it would be straight or curled. “You look different every time I see you.” I’m white but not exactly. I’m not really completely Hispanic looking. I’ve been asked if I was Asian. I might be wearing glasses or maybe contacts. Maybe I would have sunglasses. Luckily I was fashionably late and she never had to bother with a description. We later went to a bar, and a drunken man insisted I was Sarah Palin. I had my hair up and I was wearing glasses. “Whatever you do, don’t vote for me” I wanted to say. I had to ignore him though. He had a seriously belligerent attraction to Sarah Palin.