Strip City: A Stripper's Farewell Journey Across America by Lily Burana

Author:Lily Burana [Burana, Lily]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Business, General, Women, Entertainment & Performing Arts
ISBN: 9780786886753
Google: 4lhpx9yewVoC
Amazon: 0786886757
Publisher: Miamax
Published: 2003-02-18T16:00:00+00:00

He's right, too. She really was.

TWELVE

Anchorage, Alaska

Forget it. Just forget it. If you think you know something about the beauty of nature and you haven't been to Alaska, then stop right now-and admit that you know less than nothing.

I'm not talking about the formidable glaciers, the crystal-blue streams, the emerald-green mountains veined with snow, the elk, moose, whales, or eagles, though I've seen them and they're breathtaking.

I'm talking about the girl.

There's this girl, with an atomic red pixie bob, in the entrance to the club. She's leaning on a piece of furniture that looks like a lectern, sucking on a cherry Tootsie Pop and looking bored. I am astounded by the amazing natural architecture of her ass, which immediately commands my attention when I stroll into the building after Randy drops me off so I can inquire about work. Rather than have a conventional door, the front of the club is completely open— come one, come all—and shielded from the street by a partition. The nine o'clock sun (nine o'clock! sun!) sneaks in behind the partition and gleams off of the girl's deeply tanned flank. Her upper body is rather petite—under her shiny red PVC teddy, she has no breasts to speak of, and her face is a little girl's, but her ankles are thick, her calves sturdy and her thighs firm and mighty. The stuff of R. Crumb's dreams, the inspiration for a thousand hiphop songs.

This girl is a masterpiece. Mother Nature's magnum opus.

Good thing I'm female or I'd get slapped and branded as sexist for even thinking these things.

Am I staring? I must be staring. I'm staring.

The girl looks right at me.

"Hey."

"Hey," I smile, not lecherously but nicely. "What's your name?"

"Trixie."

Trixie. That is beautiful.

I love her.

It took Herculean effort to get this far. Not the actual distance—though that was a bit of an ordeal, having to fly from Denver to Chicago to Anchorage, where Randy and I landed at 10 p.m. under a bright orange gibbous moon, traces of sunset still in the western sky. The bulk of the grunt work was the psychological preparation.

About a week before we left, I decided I needed to lose five pounds. Alaska would go a lot better, I was convinced, if I pared down a bit. A couple pounds less would lighten me up to do battle with my inhibitions. They don't call it "fighting trim" for nothing.

I bought a can of mocha-flavored SlimFast powder and tried making shakes with skim milk, as per the instructions on the label, but despite my diligent shaking and stirring, the powder never fully mixed. It separated into globules on the milk's.surface, a gag-inducing chocolaty sludge.

But I knew there was a more palatable, less torturous diet shortcut. SlimFast makes meal bars, so I went on a recon mission.

A trip to Wal-Mart is enough to give anyone a panic attack. Squalling kids everywhere, yelling parents, a clerk calling for a price check over the PA system, someone crashing a cart into a towering display of sandwich cookies, two packs for two dollars, and long lines at every checkout.

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