So You’re Not A Stripper?


I’m trying to get my graphing calculator. I’m in Paradise Valley. This lady opens the door and that’s the first thing she asked.

“Did—. You order a stripper?”

She opens the crevice of the door she’s peaking at me through a little more.

Who orders a stripper right now? Gas is $25 a gallon? People in Paradise Valley I guess. I’m still standing there. Do I look like a stripper? I mean, I catch a mirror sometimes. I look okay. For being a bit banged up. I could still lift and throw most people over my head and pretty far. I don’t—. See? It’s unfair.

“I just have some extra time and—.”

“Okay so! Do you have the graphic calculator?”

“Right I just didn’t expect you to be… good looking.”


She gave me the calculator throw an outstretched arm. A furry nose pushed the door open to inspect the stripper. I checked out okay per her dog.

A text message while I was at Starbucks:

How much would you charge to strip for me?

Paradise Valley Lady

I just, can’t—. Right now. I have so much homework. I’m an awful dancer. So. I blocked her number.