Sarah TresslerLike many who are just trying to get by in today’s harsh economic times, Sarah Tressler has two jobs.

By day, she’s the society reporter for the Houston Chronicle. By night, she takes it all off as a stripper.

Tressler isn’t too worried about concealing her identity, it seems. She keeps her social media bases covered by maintaining a blog called “Diary of an Angry Stripper“, a Facebook page, and a Twitter account too.

On her blog, she describes her life dancing at local clubs.

Her most recent entry, on March 12, discusses how a man who was tipping her as she was dancing accidentally spit some lettuce on her. The perils of an exotic dancer!

Her LinkedIn profile says she has a bachelor’s degree from the University of Houston, where she’s now apparently an adjunct professor, and a master’s degree in journalism from NYU.

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Thing is, Tressler’s media colleagues are reportedly seething.

They’re upset that Sarah Tressler hardly bothers to conceal her identity (or much else for that matter). They’re also worried about the reaction from the “ladies who lunch” when they eventually learn that they’ve been hosting an active stripper at their benefits.

They also say she “flaunts” her “stripper money” around the office in the form of designer clothes and expensive handbags.

Hey, look, if you’ve got it, flaunt it.

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UPDATE: Looks like Sarah’s made her blog “private”. I imagine the sea of publicity may be a bit more than she can handle at the moment.

Here’s a peek at her January 1 blog post, “The 10-Hour Day Yields an Icky Fetish“, courtesy of the Houston Press:

I worked from 1:30 to 11:30 last Thursday, which is long enough to hang out with some friends, make some new contacts, eat lunch and pull down about $750. I also had a run-in with one of my least favorite of the weird fetishes: guys who like to have their nipples, um … bothered.

Foot suckers aside, the nipple guys freak me out the most. I personally hate it when guys try to reach out and rub or tweak mine; getting a dude who likes to have his … ew … stroked or pulled or WHATever, gawd, it’s so gross. Sorry. And just kind of bumping up against the general area outside the shirt is never enough. They aren’t ashamed to lift their shirts up and bare their man-nips, which, incidentally, are usually longer than what may be considered normal, the result of which I can only imagine must be from sexual apparatuses sold at stores like Nasty Pig on W. 19th in Chelsea.

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