You Know What Chaps My Ass….

…I’m about to tel you…

So, I’ve been house sitting in North Hollywood for the last week and regardless of what you may think of NoHo, I actually enjoy myself here. I’m close to my Nerd Herd, I love all the little art houses and enjoy spending my time at the federal. My favorite thing to do in the morning is get up, well, actually, no, that’s not my favorite thing to do. However, Once I’ve had my shower and have woken up from my coma, I like to explore the neighborhood I’m in. I’m an LA Native. I love taking walks through the neighborhoods and discovering little gems that you otherwise may not see while driving. I walk for about a mile everyday even though there’s an amazing gym here, I just hate being cooped up. I’d rather get my heart rate up, have the sun on my pale, Irish face, listen to my music and go on auto pilot.

And Today was a beautiful day for just that. Taking a walk, clearing my head, listening to The Beatles. I gotta say it was a good day…that was, until, an older man of Indian heritage (dot not feather), came up to me and began preaching the word of god. I’m not religious by any means, but I don’t consider myself to be an atheist either. Being an atheist is the same as being Arnie Grape, much like religion.

So, being the polite, little miss sunshine that I am, I allow him to go on and on about Jesus, God, & how in his country he’s considered a medicine man by the name of Yogi. A Medicine man, eh? Part of me wanted to ask if he was holding, but I had chocolate milk getting warm by the minute and still had a block to go before I could reach my fridge. And as you know, hustlers come in all shapes, sizes and religions, so, he was not letting me leave so easily. He claimed to be psychic and that the last year for me has been hard. Meh, OK…I’ll agree with that. “There is a sadness in your eyes.” He must have had ex-ray vision as well considering I was wearing sunglasses. Whatever. I’m open minded.

I began to give the bat signal that I was in a rush and must go, backing away slowly, making not sure to make any sudden movements and this guy, Yogi, begins to follow me. At this point, I told him that I was late for work and had no more time (or the patience) to talk about God, but was thankful for his words of wisdom and how he absolutely knew that this year was going to be better for me. And I’m all for that. Bring on the fortune and half naked chicks. But just as I was beginning to walk away, he handed me his number and said, “I spoke the word of God to you and would appreciate a donation.” Um…Exsqueeze me??? Did you just say you were a man of god? I can’t imagine Jesus walking around, healing the sick, curing the blind and feeding the starving and then boldly asking for a money donation.

First off, this is NoHo. Not Las Vegas. Mr. Yogi, the medicine man, was dressed in a hoody and Dickies. It’s not like he was on the strip in Vegas dressed as Elvis or Hollywood Blvd dressed as Marilyn Monroe. I didn’t ask to take a picture with you and I certainly didn’t ask for your bullshit speech about God and this, that and the other. I just wanted to drink my chocolate milk in piece and avoid human contact. This is not to say that I’m so coldhearted bitch who had $100 on my pocket and was just outright refusing to give him a little something. Truth is, I didn’t have money on me, but I was chapped my ass the most, was having “a man of God” asking for a donation because as he so elegantly put it, “I saved you. I saved your soul, your soul which has been damned.” Yeah, that’s great, kid and I surely appreciate it, but I’m probably going to hell and just pumping that gas. I didn’t approach you. You approached me. If money is what you need, I hear Pastors/Preachers make great money speaking the word of God, as if we all knew Jesus/God personally.

The moral of the story is, if you’re going to approach complete strangers on the streets, tell them how hard their life is and how sad they are inside and all it would take is a donation and the word from God, perhaps you should put a wee bit more effort into it and put on an Elvis costume or dress up as Charlie Chaplin. Anyway, just a thought…

Thug Lyfe

Congratulations to those of us who made it to 2015! Myself included. This being my first blog in over four months I feel that I should be wowing you with wisdom and wit, but it appears that you clicked on the wrong blog post. So, you’re shit out of luck.

But while you’re here…

…A few things to get you through the new year…

1.Don’t be a dick
2.Don’t masturbate in public
3.Don’t name your kids after food groups
4.Don’t watch Fox News
5.Don’t say Bae if you’re in your late twenties
6.Don’t say Bae at all
7.Relax. It’s just sex…but get tested
8.Kale is for people who hate themselves
9.Listen. Smile & then do whatever the fuck it was you were going to do anyway because you’re a fucking adult!
10.Drink your Ovaltine

Your Porn Name SUX…

…There seems to be a lack of creativity in the porn name department and very little originality these days. Every girl fresh off the boat is either a Jenna, Jesse, Nikki/Nicole, Brooke, Brooklyn, Alexis,Emma, Abby, Alana, Bailey, Tegan. On my agency site alone, there are two Anna’s, which are both spelled differently. Two Mary’s, two girls with the first name Miss and unfortunately, two Scarlett’s, which are also spelled differently. (Let it be known that I’ve been Scarlett for seven years, so, I think it’s fair to say that, that name belongs to me). 😉

…On LA Direct’s site, there are two Addison’s and four Alexis’! Is that absolutely necessary?

…OcModels has two Brooke’s, both spelled differently, two Holly’s, two Lilly’s also spelled differently, and two Summer’s.

Anyway, you get where I’m going with this.

Jenna Jameson, Jesse Jane, Jenna Haze, Alexis Texas, Nikki Benz…they’ve earned their names. They made these names household names. They are recognized everywhere. And yes, Jenna, Jesse & Nikki are cute, little girly names, but guess what? THE POSITION HAS BEEN FILLED! (no pun intended). Giving yourself a porn name that has already been made famous by the person who first thought of it, will not make you a porn star overnight or win you any awards or recognition of any kind. You may just end up pissing off the wrong person who worked her ass off (literally) to make that name what it is today.

Newbies, don’t be afraid to be creative when it comes to choosing your stage name. Especially if you want the name and yourself to stand out and be memorable. Stage names like Jenna, Alexis, Nikki, Jesse, or Brooke will only get you lost in the crowd. I know strippers with better stage names and that’s not saying a whole hell of a lot.

Your stage name should stand out and look great on a box cover, but don’t get carried away either. If porn is something you’re looking to do, before you sign with any agency, before you do anything…do your research on the industry and spend some time thinking about your stage name. Don’t let your agent choose it for you. Some agents are lazy and may just end up calling you Fido or Grassy Knoll.

Well, kids, that’s all for today. TaTa!

Scarlett Fay

The G-String Chronicles pt. 1: Prologue

*Not every strippers story is the same. These are my experiences. I have over two years worth of war stories. Some funny and some that will have you reaching for your cocktail of xanax and zoloft. But fear not, my little Crumb Snatchers. I will take you through the bog of eternal stench that is the strip club scene and just when you feel the nightmare may never end, I will guide you safely back to Happy Land. This is pt: 1 of the G-String Chronicles…Proceed with caution.*

***DISCLAIMER: For those of you with heart conditions, whiplash, fibromyalgia, can’t read without pictures, can’t read at all or don’t give two donuts and a rolling shit or are easily offended by, well, everything, I suggest you go back to watching Teen Mom or Gossip Girl. This story is not for you. For those of you who made it this far down the paragraph, lets get this shit storm brewing, shall we?***

Once upon a time, in the enchanted kingdom of  San Fernando Valley, affectionately referred to as Porn Valley, nestled quietly on the corner of “walk and don’t walk,” a full nude strip club was erected. It was the biggest and said to be the most popular club in all the land. It was rumored that only the most beautiful maidens frolicked behind its doors, serving up all your wildest fantasies and favorite appetizers. With all the free soda and water you could drink! The girls would dance to their native songs and the men would tip them handsomely with $1 bills. The more coin you left on the stage, the more naked the girls became. Truly a sight to see. The men would come to relax in the arms of a beautiful woman after a hard days work storming the castle. Only the finest gentlemen were permitted inside to see the naked dancing girls. All who came to this magical place had a gay old time. Yadda, Yadda…blah, blah, blah…and they all lived happily ever after.

Oh, wait! That’s another story…Here’s the truth about what happens to the girls working behind the closed doors of the strip club and the grotesque transformation that happens to men after they pay their $20 cover charge.

There is no good, the bad & the ugly. THERE IS ONLY ZUUL! No, but seriously…Strip clubs cater to the most fucked up stereotypes you can possibly imagine. Stereotypes of all ages, shapes, colors & backgrounds. Stereotypes I thought only existed in movies.

And, yes, I know what you’re all thinking, “but Scarlett, you do porn. How can stripping be any different?” I asked myself this same question two years ago as I was filling out my application for the strip club.

I’ve always been a Curious George type of person. Always wanting, needing to experience different things. Good experiences, bad experiences. I craved it all. Change & adventure. Fuck. This blog is beginning to sound like the opening to a Mark Twain book. Ahem…It didn’t matter what I was going through or what I went through because ultimately, the good & the bad molded me into a very well rounded person. No, really! (cue the laughter & enjoy laughing at your own jokes. I’ll wait)…

Ok, did ya’ get that outta’ your system? Great. Now shaddup & lets move on.

I may have screwed up once or twice as a teenager, but for the most part I was a great kid. I did well in school. I was involved in extra curricular activities, I didn’t drink, smoke, do drugs. My parents got really lucky with me. Shit could have been worse. Although, I did receive a Saturday school for ditching in the 8th grade, but I highly doubt that has anything to do with my decision to do porn and strip.

The usual signs and symptoms of becoming a porn star/stripper were never there. What do you look for? I am the last person on earth you would ever expect. In fact, one girl, who I loathed, told me that I was going to be a nun. Maybe my folks or my guidance counselor, whom I was sent to for a “dress code violation” because my pants had a hole in the knee, is to blame. If only they had seen the obvious cries for help. If only they had realized that by wearing jeans with holes in them, I was secretly planning my career in the porn industry while also day dreaming of being a stripper at 28 years old.

I initially became a stripper for two reasons. 1. There’s a stripper inside every female whether you’d like to admit it to yourself or not and we all have that burning curiosity about whether or not we could actually do it. 2. I was told that there was a possibility I may be booked for a Feature Dancing gig and getting some experience on the pole was encouraged. I’ve been dancing for two years and have never been booked for any feature dancing opportunities, but it’s something I’d really like to do. Pornies never say die!

However, clubs don’t want to book just some chick who does porn, yet, lacks major exposure. They want to book a porn star that will bring in fans and money. They want a name. My only claim to fame were the Lindsay Lohan parodies I shot for Hustler that got me some exposure on TMZ, E! News and other little media outlets. So, I figured this teeny, tiny bit of notoriety may give me a shot at feature dancing. This friend assured me that he would be able to get me the feature dancing gigs I needed that would somehow catapult me into the famous porn star I always aspired to be. (cough). So, off I went to audition at this strip club, which is less than ten minutes from my house in the valley, hoping to pick up a few tricks, (pole tricks, that is. not actual tricks) and hopefully learn how to put on one hell of a show.

As Britney Spears so elegantly put it, “There’s only two types of people in the world. The ones that entertain and the ones that observe…” Well, I was definitely a “put on a show kinda’ girl.”

I got dressed and gave the DJ my song requests. The first song being Shaking Hands, by Nickelback. (Yes, i like Nickelback and i refuse to apologize for this. You, however, may continue to eat Bilbo Baggins dick). I came out onto the stage dressed as a school girl, (obviously I was lacking a little creativity), shook my ass, bent my ass over, touched my toes, did a few spins around the pole, arched my back, and smiled. HIRED.

Confidence has never been an issue for me. Well, perhaps confidence is not the right word. I never felt nervous. I wasn’t nervous on my first day of school. I wasn’t nervous auditioning for my very first school play and I wasn’t nervous shooting my very first porn and I definitely wasn’t nervous for my audition as a stripper.

*Note To Aspiring Strippers: Do not reference movies like Striptease or Showgirls…That is all. *

I love dancing. I like risqué, seductive dancing even better, which got me some attention at the Middle School/High School proms & winter formals. I was never trashy, but I definitely wanted people to look. Stripping is supposed to be a tease. Humans like a good tease just as much as we like a good chase. It’s not enough to just “get it over with.” We’re visual creatures attracted to beautiful images and colors. It’s hot to put it all out there, but it’s far more enticing to leave something to the imagination. I know. It’s terribly cliche, but if you’re given anything all at once & too easily, you lose interest.

For those of you still with us, assuming there’s actually more than one person reading this other than myself, I promise that there’s a point, a message & an actual story to this tale. Bare with me.

Ahem…back to being seductive…while on a stripper pole, dressed like a baby prostitute…

Being in cross country and track taught me mind over matter. Becoming a Thespian in theatre and playing different parts in many plays taught me to act, to create a character & make that character my own. While also never losing myself in the process. Scarlett Fay is my character and I may amp things up a bit while on set or on stage, but I’m always me. You’re not going to experience two different people sharing one body, but I definitely know when to play the part and when to turn it off.

Porn was a crash course on how to utilize all the things puberty had given me, but what my mother failed to teach me when I was younger. Smart woman.

There is a certain high that comes over you when you see how fast and easy the money is as a stripper. Having guys throw money at you or spend money on you, just to be with you for a few minutes gives you this Wonder Woman type feeling. Well, maybe not Wonder Woman, but you definitely feel like a “boss bitch,” as the kids would say.

At this point, I had been shooting porn for four years. I figured stripping would be a cake walk. A goddamn bake sale. I. was. WRONG.

Stripping has never matched anything I’ve made in porn, but at the time I was only shooting GG scenes, so, my bookings were few and far between. Making a couple hundred dollars for five hours of work just seemed way too easy and at least I would have some cash on me while I was in between work or waiting for paychecks. Not to mention there is something about commanding the attention of these complete strangers that made me feel in control and fucking sexy. At the time, I was working pretty steady for PlayboyTV, so, I didn’t spend much time at the club. On the nights that I did come in, I only stayed from 5pm-10pm. I wasn’t ready to work a late shift. I didn’t feel I was experienced enough or mentally capable of competing with thirty other girls. Picture that for a moment. Thirty girls in one room. I know it sounds very erotic, but it’s actually terrifying. Girls are very wicked creatures. Females were not a well thought out plan. As strippers we have nothing and everything in common, but we all share the same goal. Money. Many of the dancers I work with are natural born hustlers and then there are those, like myself, that have no fucking clue what we’re doing. My first year as a stripper was pretty pathetic. I never approached customers for dances and sometimes the only money I would make would be from the tips I received on stage. Some days I would get lucky and a customer would approach me for a dance and buy several. But for the most part I kept to myself. I was still adapting to my new surroundings, getting the lay of the land and studying it’s indigenous people. A strip club is an anthropologist’s wet dream. Everything you need to know about human behavior is on full display.

A strip club is like walking into one of those weird oddity museums that have strange beasts mounted on the walls from the far corners of the world that you never knew existed and a two-headed stillborn baby is forever preserved inside a mason jar.

Cue the dark and ominous music…

I’ll try to keep you on the sunny side of the street while we’re here. After that, I should probably list a suicide hotline number below. Hopefully, most of you are so medicated you’ll barely feel a thing.

Stripping, being a stripper, has a way of breaking you down and molding you into someone completely different and usually not for the better. It’s like the military, but with G-Strings and stilettos. Only the strong will survive. Or the mentally ill. Sometimes I wish Morgan Freeman would appear out of the bathroom stall to give me a pep talk before my stage set. However, the only thing appearing out of the bathroom stall is a young, stumbling drunk girl with a broken heel and different food stains from different days of the week lingering on the outfit she pulled from her locker. I’m sure she’ll get to that when she can, but right now, she’s on a drone strike. Her target? Anybody. Her mission? To make money. With a little help from liquid courage and her newfound love for self medicating, she’s ready and wiling to do whatever it takes to make that money. Anything. That’s what I like to call Army Strong. With a shotgun dose of uppers and downers, she is ready for duty.

Thankfully she’ll have enough drugs on board to  wipe out her memory when she wakes up at four in the afternoon….(*to be continued.* This is a work in progress. Pardon our dust. Just wanted to get this out there)………