I’ve actually gotten a request for more info on the person I lovingly refer to as The Stressed Out Italian Stripper. So since it’s almost Christmas and since I don’t think she’ll ever find me on the net, I’ll roll over. But let me make this clear. I still have love for this women and I’ll always wish her the best, cause all bullshit aside she’s a good person and in the end that’s what counts. Like I said before, my friends would talk to me and always ask me the same question. “Why are you with this chick? She’s a fuckin walkin nightmare?” Well yeah, but she was my nightmare. Actually its funny how we first met. I lived near the Country Club Plaza and would spend most weekends seein whatever movies happened to playing down there. I’d usually do some kind of lunch then catch the flick. So one day I’m sitting at this bar after the movie when this chick walks in wearin this madass killer body and asks me for a drink. I buy a drink and small talk then excuse myself to the bathroom. I come back and she’s gone along with all the money I had on the bar. I write it off as my just rewards for being such a dumbass and head to my car. As I’m waiting at a red light I spot the same chick wiggling across the street. I honk and she cops this serious fight or flight look, but actually turns around and gets into the car. Without a word she hands me my money and puts her feet up on the dash and say’s “where do you live?” That was it, no apologies or remorse. Looking back on things it was akin to catching a small kid fuckin up and once they realizes that they’ve been busted the kid would settle down. I take her over to my place and the first thing she does is crawls on the couch and falls asleep for the rest of the day. Every couple of days she’d show up and ask me if she could crash. She always arrived late in the evening and the next morning she’d wake up when I did and leave goin about whatever business she had to do. But one night I happened to come home and found her sleepin on the front steps of the apartment building. Now this was circa 1980 or so and Main Street off the Plaza in Kansas City was a very uncool place for a chick to be on the street, so I let her move in. I never asked her age but I knew that she had to be a few years younger then me and I was just twenty-one. She stayed with me on and off till I was forced to move due to the construction of the fuckin Twenty First Century Towers. I lost track of her for a few years and it wasn’t until I moved into the apartment on Warwick that she showed back up. I get a knock on the door and there she was, a few years older and a bit harder but still sporting that body. You know she actually begged me over a week’s period to let her move in. I was real hesitant to do so because we had parted on less then shaky footing. But there’s something about a nekked huge breasted women begging on her knees that I find hard to pass up. So I let her in and that’s when things started. Without getting overly porno on you The Stressed Out Italian Stripper fit my head like a hat. We tried everything we’d read or see. We were like smackin that ass pioneers. We would go at it like freaks off the leash. As a matter of fact I had this old biker for a next-door neighbor, this cranky muthafucker wouldn’t give me the time of the day. But one night The Stressed Out Italian Stripper and me went at it with the windows open and I guess we made a lot of noise. The next day this cat shook my hand and gave me a cold beer. If it involved getting nekked we were game for it. Memories, memories on my mind. Oh sorry, I got lost for a minute there. One of my favorite Stressed Out Italian Stripper moment’s was one night we were on the couch watchin the Movie “Who framed Roger Rabbit”. Watchin TV with her was an exercise in patience, “who’s he? Where did she come from? What time is it? I’m cold”. Get my drift? Well out comes Jessica Rabbit and The Stressed Out Italian Stripper tenses up, and I knew another question was coming. She turned to me and asked, “who’s better lookin, me or Jessica Rabbit?” And get this, she was serious like a muthafucker; I asked her if she realized the rabbit chick was a cartoon and that she wasn’t real. “So, who’s better lookin?” The Stressed Out Italian Stripper was of Italian decent, and she always told me that her father was a made man for the Mob in Florida. I always called it bullshit until the time I found out it was true. She was a very healthy little hump (38DD’s) and always dressed in small clothes that showed off the rack. I always knew when she hit the bar I was workin in because all the men in the club would turn to face whatever direction she was coming from. One of our constant arguments was me trying to tell her to dress down whenever she came to see me. But the more I bitched the less she wore. But one night we were both at the bar in this blues club when about half a dozen cats of Italian decent started fuckin with us. I took all that I could and got up to deal with em when she said that she had this. She walked over to the young Italian’s and said that her father would be very upset if he knew how she was being treated. “So what bitch, we don’t give a fuck about your old man or that mook you’re hanging all over.” So she tells these muthafucker’s her last name and the name her father uses. All I can say is that they paid for all our drinks and came over and shook my hand and basically acted like her little bitches for the rest of the night. The Stressed Out Italian Stripper just looked at me and grinned and said, “I told you my father was a badass.” I got to meet this muthafucker about a year later and I’ll tell you what, he made Charles Bronson look like a pussie. He grabbed my hand and told me that he didn’t like my kind but that his little girl seemed to dig me so until I fucked up I was cool with him. I shook his hand and counted the bulges in his jacket and said yes sir. The reason I call her The Stressed Out Italian Stripper was that everything was high drama to her. All she seemed to care about was makin money, her cat and me, in that order. She was like a bad dog sometimes. I would have to walk her up to my good friends and let her see em and tell her that she needed to play nice with this person cause they were close to me. Cause if I didn’t do that she was an uber bitch to everyone she came into contact with. I was at work one day when I got an emergency message to come home. I rushed into the apartment expecting the worst and what did I find? The Stressed Out Italian Stripper had in the process of putting on her bra had gotten her hair tangled up in the clasp and both of her arms hooked behind her back. It was like a tittie straitjacket, she’d been that way for over an hour until she figured out how to dial the phone with her one free finger. Then there was the year that I spent New Year’s alone at home with her cat while she worked a party somewhere. When she came home there I was on the couch drunk and next to me was her prized Persian cat with all four feet up in the air passed out from all the champagne I had stuffed into em. My bad, but it took her a month to calm down over that one. Then the time came when she took a vacation down to Dallas. She came back with two things, a brand new Porsche and a seventy-year sugar daddy. She’d meet this cocksucker at some club in Dallas and he swelled her head up with bullshit and a Porsche. Until that time I thought we were doing pretty good. She’d gotten into her head that we were an item and had even started takin classes at the nearby Jr. Collage. But after she met the old Texan her shit just went off the chart. We still dug each other and we kept our living arrangements but now it was all about her and what the old Texan could give her. Until this time we had lived together for almost eight years on and off, but it was time to call it quits. There’s more to the tale. Peace