Roadwarrior

by Nick Molloy

  According to the literature, men such as me who sustain a relationship with a borderline are not emotionally healthy. To quote one psyche ‘I have had a lifelong struggle with closeness, abandonment and engulfment. My attraction to a borderline taps into deep, archaic issues that I’ve carried for decades. I may have done a great job of surmounting boyhood setbacks but they’re still alive in me’. Newsflash – apparently the stripper is fucked up so he gravitates towards a partner who is fucked up too ! Well, for this stripper, I’ve finally reached a position where I think I understand. Maybe I can move on.

  I probably should have left the stripping behind by now but I’ve been depressed. The chances of me starting a new career with gusto were virtually non existent. As an addict to my borderline I had been forced to go cold turkey and was left shivering and hallucinogenic in a darkened room. I therefore continued with what I knew. On the weekends I lobbed my knob out for cash, erstwhile pretending that there was some art or theatre prior to the lobbing.

  Frankly however, stripping is no longer fun or pleasurable. It purely provides me with a modest stipend. The fun days of the gay scene - the days of midweek work, of meeting people and making friends, having intelligent conversations, going on tour – they are long gone. Ladies nights still exist but there are far less of them. A busy stripper can still earn his money but it is now through private parties. Mostly this is for hen parties, that is a for a female audience in it’s entirety. Alas, in this fakebook, snap-numpty, too many tweets make a twat, era…….things have changed beyond recognition.

  There are a couple of issues at play here. Firstly, strippers really haven’t helped themselves. With all the cons and unprofessional plays I have alluded to in the past, I think the behaviour has finally caught up with them. When I started there was a certain glamour to being a stripper. We did have minor celebrity status for half an hour at the end of the performance, in that room/club/pub. That has gone.

  It used to be that people wanted to talk to you afterwards. The obvious question was how did you get into this, do you have any funny stories, etc. Maybe I don’t look interesting to talk anymore. Maybe I look too old ? I doubt it. I’m still in good shape, I’m still breaking sports records and still look 10 years younger than my real age. Some people still want to talk but less than 10 per cent of people are interested now. It used to be 80-90%.

  However, we haven’t simply lost the glamour. We have gone into a negative. Now, quite often, someone will not so much welcome you into their home to get changed prior to delivering a service. They expect you to get changed in the cold outside. We butt heads and eventually a bathroom or a bedroom is presented. Money is transacted and at the end they can’t get you to leave their abode fast enough ! That’s fine, but I am left with the distinct impression that we now have a reputation as sleazebags. We are beneath human. We are only hired out of tradition and as a kind of verbal punchbag. In any other working environment signs would be displayed saying our staff don’t have to tolerate such abuse and abusers will be prosecuted. We have to tolerate abuse. Nobody looks out for our health and safety.

  I’m not alone in my observations. All the other strippers are reporting the same phenomenon (at least those that have been around to remember what it was like previously). However, the most disturbing change for me has come in the actions of the punter who tries to pull a fast one. There have always been a small minority (around 1%) who try to rip you off. However, it now feels like that has risen to over 10%. The typical scenario is that a punter will try and bargain the price down because they supposedly booked a black guy with the agent, or a guy with blond hair, or a dwarf (really). I will counter this by phoning ahead and discussing exactly who they have asked for and what their expectations are. Agents may tell them that you will perform for an hour, for example. On the phone they may be all sweetness and light but when you arrive they try and renegotiate because you have already made the journey and don’t want to leave with nothing. I will just leave, in disgust. They shout and scream as I drive away.

  This never used to happen. At first I again thought it might be because I’m getting older. Perhaps my eyesight has failed to such a degree that what I see in the mirror is no longer what others see. I’m no spring chicken anymore, but I have a good body, a big willy (when tied off at least) and a decent routine. My face is aging but I still don’t look anywhere near my age. The delivery of service isn’t the issue. I’m frequently in dispute with some people before they even know what I look like. I can send a picture ahead of the event, I suggest they go back to the booking agent if they have an issue. They rarely ever do. Instead they will try and rip off the thick stripper after they have made him travel. I find this action despicable.

  Personally, I think facebook has an awful lot to answer for. I swear I have watched the degradation of society over the last 5-6 years. It has brought out the inner narcissist in people. ‘Trolling’ or abuse is now commonplace online. It’s easy to abuse people when you are anonymous and they don’t know who you are. Everybody is now an expert, on everything, even when they know nothing about it. One stripper told me he has had girls complain because he didn’t perform the same routine as from the film Magic Mike. Apparently, that was how strippers should perform. One had a budget in the millions and the other budget was £90. She expected parity between the two and was apparently offended when the disparity was pointed out to her.

  In my view, Thatcherism brought about a fundamental shift in society. It broke down a sense of community and led to a rise in narcissistic greed. Historians debate many aspects of Thatcherism but this particularly impact is one they rarely address. The shift in attitudes wasn’t immediate. It took a generation.

  Facebook, in my view, has usurped the effects of Thatcherism in a fraction of the time. Thatcherism promoted greed and this in turn caused people to want to ‘keep it up with the Jones’. That is, they wanted to portray an image of affluence, success and wealth. Facebook does exactly the same thing. People do not use it to emphasize the misery or ordinary nature of their lives. They exaggerate their circumstances and ‘compete’ with their fellow fakebookers over their imaginary circumstances. This in turn creates pressure to further outfake their competitors. When their virtual world is so fake, but increasingly pervasive, it has to spill over into the real world. People are now more concerned with how many people ‘liked’ their picture or statement than if their elderly neighbor is warm or lonely in her flat. They don’t really care about much outside their own sphere. The narcissists network (facebook) has had a truly profound effect.

  As strippers we now feel this directly. We are no longer people, more objects. I’d swear blind the IQ of the average booker has dropped 20 points in 10 years. This in itself should not be an issue, but the reasoning ability of the individual concerned is seriously impacted. Perhaps they are just more self centred and manipulative. Either way, it no longer feels a nice place or profession to be involved with or connected to.

  Every stripper I speak to is experiencing the same phenomenon but it’s not confined to stripping. Other business owners in other industries report the same phenomenon. For example, Russ with his fire engine limo has stopped servicing hen parties and is slowly withdrawing from the business, primarily due to his dismay over erractic behaviours. Today’s hen parties apparently wreck his motor and have no regard for their conduct compared to yesteryear. To quote him they apparently say ‘we’ve fucking paid for it so we’ll do what we like’. Restauranteurs tell me more diners complain unnecessarily to get money off their bill. Garage owners tell me that car owners now seem to expect miracles (engineless drive?).

  Over the last year I’ve also been constantly reminded of my relationship failure. Women will frequently ask ‘are you married’ when I’ve finished performing. One of the kindest/funniest comments I think I received when I explained my fiancée had just left was ‘she a was a stupid bitch’. As I drive around between gigs, Gary Numan is my regular companion. Alas, I have come to associate some
of his tracks with Sylvie and some of our sexual highs. I like Gary Numan but now he torments me. In May just passed I was distraught when I lost one of my beloved terrapins to complications in childbirth (egg laying). The vets bill ran into four figures. Sylvie and I had reared Shell since she was tiny. I had felt like a single parent since Sylvie left and with Shell’s passing I felt like a total failure as a parent. It was the last time I had any contact with Sylvie, who was surprisingly comforting. At the time I was driving from strip to strip, it was a busy period. At each hen night I attended I was reminded of my own failure to cement my own relationship and walk down the aisle. The irony of being the entertainment for those about to do so was and is not lost on me. This is often compounded with questions about my own relationship status. I would get back into my car and Gary Numan’s Lost and Love Hurt Bleed were my company. One reminded me of Sylvie the other of Shell. Kenneth commented that I obviously find it easy to form deep affections for things that don’t give much back (a borderline girlfriend and reptiles).

  For the first time in my life I was struggling with the will to function day to day. I went into stripping primarily to get my life back from the rat race. I wanted the time it would afford me. For the first time ever as a stripper, I had the time and didn’t quite know what to do with it. The things that would normally give me pleasure weren’t quite doing it anymore. I was listless, unmotivated. I was trying to function normally but something was amiss. I thought about trying to get a real job but figured I simply wasn’t in the right place. If I was going to go back to the rat race I at least needed to have some motivation and drive. I had none.

  Now that I have obtained a diagnosis for her condition, I do feel I have made a giant step forward. As painful as it all was, there is some small comfort in knowing that there was no cure and the best I could do was manage things (which I mostly did anyway). Feeling so helpless to assist the one you love in the face of her own destruction was the toughest thing I have ever faced. I hope it remains at the top of the list.

  The truth is I owe a debt of gratitude to stripping and the chance encounters with a couple of people that led to me becoming a practitioner. I am unequivocal on this. My 30s were the time of my life. I had a job that I loved, a woman that I loved even more and all the time in the world to enjoy it. It may well be that the job and the woman actually fed my childhood issues. That is, it was setting me up for a fall. Perhaps inevitably, my borderline love has now abandoned me leaving me feeling bereft. The job is also abandoning me now meaning I have to return to the real world of work, something I am going to hate. My 40s are going to have plenty of struggles. Adjusting to normality is not going to be easy after where I’ve been. Ex borderline spouses suffer withdrawals from the highs. Normal, healthy relationships can seem dull. Strippers will no doubt see normal work from the same perspective. I’m suffering a double whammy of withdrawal. It makes the future seem daunting and unappealing.

  Logically I know that I will likely win through. My 40s will initially seem tough but then I’ll make a success of it. I’ll make money. My 40s won’t be about pleasure, they’ll be like my 20s – laying the groundwork for a future pleasure. By my 50s I’ll likely have enough money. Maybe I can rediscover my 30s in my 50s ? Alas, I’ll have the time, but I’ll no longer have my youth. I won’t be able to leap over parked cars just by having a small run up. I’ll need a trampoline for take-off! That isn’t to say I won’t be able to enjoy life. The highs will be different, more low key, less intense. Let’s not forget my 20s. There was nothing wrong with them, but I wasn’t retired. In my 30s I had my youth, I partied to my version of excess and crucially I had the time - a priceless commodity.

  To state my 30s were the time of my life is not putting a pessimistic slant on the future, it’s merely a realistic assessment of what has been. Being coldly detached I can see now that perhaps Sexecute has not been the most emotionally rewarding experience for me. In many ways he has set me up for a huge fall and I’ve fallen hard. BUT and it’s a big but, I was so happy for the majority of that time. I can never get that time back but I’m so glad I had it. I’m so angry at Sylvie for robbing me of the fantasy of continuing that happiness. Yet, simultaneously I’m so grateful to her for having provided me with the opportunity to be that content.

  Many people spend their lives constantly running on a treadmill from around aged 20. They get off aged 65 and wonder where their life went. I have a friend who is now 88 years old. He was happily married for 42 years. He has only very recently begun living a gay lifestyle. I admire him for having embraced his new life so fully. Partly this is born out a desire to make up for lost time. He doesn’t talk about his regret about not having pursued his desires at a younger age but I know he has them. I’m inspired by people that chase their dreams against the flow of the tide. Steve Feltham gave up his job and went to live on the shores of Loch Ness (in an old mobile library) to search for the monster. To me he’s a hero. To most people he’s a dreamer, a nutter. He left behind the mundane and he chose to live. Sexecute was my loch ness moment. How could I possibly regret something that delivered so much utility ? The destination may be a disappointment but the ride was wild.

  I’ve lived the dream as best I can and finally, I now feel ready to bury Sexecute. Financially, I’m better of than most but a rat race driven cash injection will probably mean I don’t need to work for too long and I could retire with my cottage and future owned bulldogs by the sea. I never thought I’d see the day where I thought real work would be preferable to my existence as a stripper. I’m sad to say that day is upon us. With the change in the attitude of people towards strippers it really doesn’t feel like a nice place to be. When you combine that with the fact that we receive less now for an assignment than 15 years ago, the incentive to continue is negligible. Only last week I was in the High Court arguing with the freeholder’s barrister and surveyor over the diminution of the landlord’s interest with regard to a flat I own. Despite the fact that they are trying to pull a fast one and make me pay thousands more than I should for a leasehold extension, I paused to reflect on what had happened. I was in central London wearing a shirt and trousers. I was having an intellectual debate with a barrister, a surveyor and a judge. In a bizarre way it made me feel more wholesome and valued than what happened a couple of days before where I was arguing with some idiot woman because my hair was dark not blond. Whilst it may be that only 10% of punters behave this stupidly, I’m sick of it. It’s at least 9% too much.

  I’ve actually started applying for jobs ! Almost 20 years to the day, history is repeating itself. I’ve started by looking at jobs in sport. However, social mobility is apparently worse now that it was 100 years ago. Over the years I have tried to work in sport numerous times and always found it be cliquey, backward and un-commercial. I see little reason to imagine why that would have changed. Indeed, I’m finding that already. True to form, my mind is starting to move towards positions where the money is the only thing that matters, positions I would hope I’d never have to consider again. I have just applied for a role as an FX Trader. Earnings could be considerable for someone with the appropriate drive. As a write, I am about to leave for a willy waggling assignment this evening. My drive for that has just about been extinguished.

  I have had to change my name form that on the cover of this book. The prejudice afforded me in the job application process would be huge if I hadn’t. You never know, the guy at the desk next to yours might soon be The Artist Formerly Known As Sexecute.

  Nick Molloy

  November 2016

  nicksexecute@gmail.com

 

 

 
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