How Stripper Pimp (Politely) Gave me the Boot

I crossed an invisible line when I slept with my agent. Before I had been a slut. Now I was a whore, which was much, much worse.

It's true that Bear had already given me money for sex and invited me to be his freak. But I didn't see that as whoredom, because he was someone I would have slept with for free. And since I'd always wanted to be one of those girls who could snap her legs open and make some dumb boyfriend pay her rent, Bear seemed like a step up.

I didn't see sleeping with Stripper Pimp, my so-called manager, as whoredom, either. I was genuinely attracted to him. He was my type: old enough to be my dad, reasonably good looking, educated, smart and decidedly antisocial.

But my agent? He was an old white man I wouldn't have slept with in a million years. Yet, I had. In a bald attempt to further my acting career.

So now I was a whore, and an amateur whore at that. Real whores got paid. They negotiated their price up front.

I had no idea what I was going to get from my agent. Did spilling his seed in my face signal an intention to start "sending me out" (getting me auditions for film and TV roles that I couldn't get on my own)? Would I have to keep sleeping with him in order for him to keep sending me out?

Three days into this abyss of self-recrimination, I got a 10:30 pm booty call from Bear. Against my better judgement, I drove to the Snooty Fox motel, where he greeted me butt naked at the door.

"How are you?" I asked.

"I got my d*ck in my hand, how do you think I am?"

That charming answer set me off. Bear didn't get the hot, willing, numb "freak" he thought he could pass out to his friends as a door prize. He got Evil Black Woman. Who gave him a sullen earful while he sat on the bed, stunned, still holding on to the symbol of his manhood.

"Girl, I was gonna help you out, but since you ain't acting right..."

That was the last time I saw him. And no, I did not "become his freak."

But a big question mark still hung over my head regarding Stripper Pimp. We hadn't talked in nearly a week. Would he continue to manage me, or would he dump me, as my best friend had predicted?

That question was finally, abruptly and smoothly answered the next night, over the phone.

"I've decided that I can no longer be your manager," he said calmly. "With all the things going on with the girl group, I can't give you the attention you deserve, and you deserve attention. So, that's what I called to say."

He never once mentioned "dancing" or my failure/refusal to do it. No nostalgia about the fact that we'd slept together twice. We were back to being polite business associates, and he was the Hollywood player who was making the calculated business decision.

Except that now, we both knew he wasn't a Hollywood player. He was a pimp. He was kicking me out because I was a badly behaved ho who wouldn't dance on table tops and willingly share my tips with him.

I'd been riding Stripper Pimp's roller coaster of false hope for nearly two months. And now the ride had unceremoniously stopped.

(Stripper/Casting Couch Diaries Part 14 of 17: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)

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