There's always one dickhead

An internet troll - yeah, the guy who thinks he’s swinging a big dick just because he can type out some pathetic little insult from behind a screen. But honestly? In 2025, it’s just cringe. Trolling was never cool. It only ever got attention because, once in a while, someone would come up with a perfectly worded burn, clever, funny, and it’d get screenshotted, go viral, maybe even become a meme. That’s what gave trolling a bit of spotlight. But everyone always knew the truth: trolls are cowards hiding behind a screen.

Most of them wouldn’t dare say any of that shit in person. One, because deep down, they probably knew it was wrong. Two, because they didn’t have the balls. Or three, because they knew they’d get punched in the face.

I’ve dealt with plenty of trolls in my cam and online work. At first, I found them entertaining. If the cam room was quiet, at least it gave me something to talk about. But now? I can’t even fake being amused. It’s so high school. It’s embarrassing to be a troll in this day and age.

I think part of why I used to enjoy handling trolls was because it gave me the space to stand up for myself, which was something I rarely did growing up. I felt empowered. And eventually, that little troll with a username full of numbers would vanish from my page. The best part? The men in my cam room, the respectful, solid ones – they would stand up for me, too. They weren’t going to let some random asshole come in and try to tear me down.

That troll would think they were about to make me cry, shake me up. But instead, I’d hold my ground, and the guys would have my back. That troll would slink away, probably more humiliated than he ever expected.

But then I started stripping again. And I realized: the brat behind the screen is now the dickhead at the party. Not the one brave enough to insult me in front of his friends-no, of course not. He waits until it’s private. During a one-on-one moment. A dance. A whisper. A sliver of cowardice.

But I don’t call these trolls. I call them what they are: dickheads.

“There’s always one dickhead at the party—who’s it gonna be?!”
That’s my opener. My boundary. My way of saying, "Don’t fuck with me." Because if you do, I can be a real bitch. And I won’t let it slide.

It’s the guy with the most money, who thinks his wallet gives him permission to act however he wants. Or it’s the class clown, the one who can’t handle the spotlight being on me instead of him. And surprisingly? It’s usually the class clown.

I walk into every party knowing my worth and my boundaries. I know what a titty flash costs. A lap dance. A dildo show. A girl-on-girl show. But more importantly, I know exactly what I won’t tolerate.

Call me a bitch? That won’t even register. Call me ugly? Honestly, I’d laugh. I know I’m beautiful. The stack of cash I was paid just to show up says it loud and clear. But treat me like an object without feelings? Try to hurt me on purpose? Game on.

You can view me as a sex object. I get it. I’m a stripper. I’m being sexual. I’m the fantasy. That’s the job. But don’t forget I’m also a woman. I have a body that feels. I have a heart that beats. And if you cross that line, you’re not just playing a game, you’re picking a fight.

And unfortunately for the dickhead, I’ve learned one very specific move. It doesn’t involve my hands. It doesn’t need to. It’s the kind of move that makes all his friends - physically or emotionally - slap him across the face. And trust me, that sting lasts way longer than anything I could’ve done.

I’ll never forget the night I pulled the slickest move of my life. The universe must have seen the level of disrespect I was dealing with from the dickhead of that evening, and instead of just giving me the satisfaction of clapping back, it handed me a full bladder of karma.

Let’s just say… he learned his lesson.
And now? He’ll never be able to claim he’s never had a golden shower.