Flies have overtaken my apartment. Within the past 30 minutes, I've swatted nearly 15 of them. One in midair. While I am proud of my new status as death-dealing ninja, as the flies keep dropping and the body count builds I'm beginning to get a) sick to my stomach, and b) very, very concerned about where they're coming from. My garbage disposal is clean. My trash is out. My sink is empty. My windows are closed.
I will hopefully get to the bottom of this within the next few hours. Wish me luck.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
It's amazing that I ever have cause to say this...
...but I do! I actually had the pleasure of uttering the following words: "OK, you're throwing me onto the floor, here," in the VIP room the other night.
Yes. I had been launched straight off the bouncy, jiggly, roller-coaster lap upon which I was trying to perform a dance, and gone face-first into the couch beside me. I nearly impaled myself on another girl's shoe in the process. Sexy move.
It's a jungle out there.
Yes. I had been launched straight off the bouncy, jiggly, roller-coaster lap upon which I was trying to perform a dance, and gone face-first into the couch beside me. I nearly impaled myself on another girl's shoe in the process. Sexy move.
It's a jungle out there.
Friday, July 25, 2008
"What are you doing back here?"
Well, fuck me.
Tonight marked the return of E., the one patron of the club customer who I hoped I would never, ever see again.
He's a skinny little musician, rock n' roll hipster type, probably about 30 years old. The only thing I've ever known him to come in for was to drink with his band and look for company in his misery. He'd lope up to the bar, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes cast down to the ground as if to let everyone know how dismal his life was. Never spent any money, never even tipped.
His favorite girls, the ones he considered friends, were the ones who would call him late at night, drunk or high or threatening suicide, that he would get to go save.
I was never that girl, so I could never understand his attraction to me. But after coming in for months, he started trying to get me to hang out, "outside of this place." The more he saw me, the bolder his leech-like behavior got, and eventually he started trying to make out with me.
The first time we were in the club parking lot. Somehow he had managed to get me alone.
"I really like you," he'd said.
"Well, A. (one of my good friends) likes you, so I don't think it's going to work," I'd replied.
"Naw, it's fine, she don't care." And he'd leaned in for it, beer breath and drunken, half-closed eyes moving, uninvited, towards my face. I shoved him by the shoulders and said a very hasty goodbye.
The second time, he had gotten me to give him a ride home after being "abandoned" by his friends at the club and claiming empty pockets for cab fare. My bleeding heart kicked in at the same time as my guard wore down, and I drove him the 20 or so blocks home.
He kept me parked outside his apartment, the prisoner of his coke monologue, for over an hour. I told him to get out of the car multiple times. He ignored me, then finally told me he couldn't believe what an amazing connection we had (yeah.....) before telling me, again, how much he liked me and leaning in again with his thin fishy lips and long, skinny fingers reaching for my chin.
I turned my head and told him to get out of the car.
That was all over a year ago, and I had blissfully not seen or heard from him since then.
I'm ambling around the club. It's slow, I've already hit up everyone in there for a dance. No fresh meat. Turning the corner, I nearly trip over his chair as he sits there, scrawny, annoying, depressed as usual, staring down into his glass. At first it takes me a second to realize who it is. He's wearing a big hat pulled almost down over his eyes, a trendy button-up cowboy style shirt, and faded jeans...no, no, it can't be...Damn!!
My stomach flips, and I literally turn on my heel and walk/ran in the other direction.
"D.!" I grab the bouncer. "See that scrawny little guy over there?"
"Yeah..."
"He sucks! He's so fucking annoying! I have to avoid him at all costs..."
"OK, well, I'll keep an eye on him."
"OK, OK thanks."
I watch him for a good 30 minutes, keeping him in check in my peripheral. The last thing I want is for him to come sneaking up behind me...disaster.
But the club is too small for me to avoid him all night. He'll see me, I'll have to walk by his table, there's no way around it. I finally decide to just get it over with.
I tap him on the shoulder.
"Hey there," I say.
"Oh my God," his eyes grow wide with surprise, although I'm pretty sure he's already seen me wandering around. He gives me a giant bear hug and tries to pick me up, but he's so tiny he can barely do it.
"How are you?" I ask.
"Oh, God. Down. But OK. You?"
Of course he's down. This fucking guy is always down, always near the end, always about to pop a few too many pills and end it already.
He tries to look deep into my eyes, as if he believes that he has direct access to my soul via his penetrating gaze.
"I'm fine! Just fine."
He grabs me by the shoulders, and looks at me knowingly again. God, I hate him. I wonder if he can read that in the look I give him back...
"What are you doing back here?" he asks.
Here we go. I ignore the subtext of his question, the "what has gone wrong in your life which has ended in you being 'back here'," because obviously "here," as he wants to see it, is the worst that things can possibly come to.
"Working!" I will keep my peppy persona, I will keep my peppy persona...
He looks at me for another minute before grabbing me by the arm.
"Come with me."
He walks me over to the Ms. Pacman table game and tries to pull me down onto his knee. I perch on top of the table instead. He responds by getting up from his chair and sitting next to me so that he can wrap his arm so far around my shoulders that it snakes it's way around my neck and onto my arm.
He's a fucking barnacle.
"What's goin' on, girl?" He asks me, his mouth uncomfortably close to my ear.
"This! This is going on. I quit my day job, and I'm back here. That's about it."
He hangs his head down and snorts a laugh. "Don't give me that. Tell me what's going on, personally."
I don't want to tell you what's going on anywhere.
I decide to give him just a small slice of my life, one personal enough that maybe he'll leave me alone but one that i don't think he can get to me on...
"OK. Well, let's see - I broke up with my boyfriend a few months ago, but now we're kind of getting back together."
He snorts again. "Well, we've all made that mistake."
Ah, my mistake. Of course he can get to me on this. He can get to me on anything - simply by working off the assumption that I'm fucking up my life right along with him, the life that he knows nothing about.
"I don't think it's a mistake." I'm staring across the room, trying not to look at him.
"OK, well, we'll see." He pauses.
"Listen..." he says.
"What?"
"Naw, no, never mind."
"No, what were you going to say?" As soon as I say it I regret it, because I am 100% sure that I don't want to hear what he has to say.
"Naw, I can't say it."
I say nothing.
"OK, I mean, I guess I have nothing to lose. Fortune favors the bold." Great, now he's speaking in proverbs.
He takes a deep breath. "I've always liked you."
Really???
I say nothing. I'm incredulous, but far from surprised. He doesn't like me. He doesn't know me. Would I mind him a little less if he didn't consistently, predictably try to invade my personal space? Would I be able to tolerate him, possibly even feel bad for him in his phony attempts at meaningful personal connection? Maybe. But that's just not how he rolls.
I say nothing.
"OK." He snorts his laugh again and shakes his head. "Well, I had to say something. Like, I've always been really into you."
"Yeah..." I look away.
Suddenly he gets up. "I just need to go see someone real quick. Stay there," he says, and wanders a few feet away for a minute.
"D!!" I motion for him to come over. "You have to help me! When this guy gets back, tell me you need to talk to me about something. I have to get away from him!"
"OK, baby, don't worry about it." My knight in shining armor and a Security t-shirt.
E. makes his way back to the Ms. Pacman table after a few minutes and sits back down.
"Listen, I need to talk to you for a second." D. doesn't miss a beat.
"Oh, you do?" I turn to E. "OK, well, I need to go talk to D. about something. It was great to see you."
"Yeah, girl, go do your thing. Good to see you."
And I'm free.
Tonight marked the return of E., the one patron of the club customer who I hoped I would never, ever see again.
He's a skinny little musician, rock n' roll hipster type, probably about 30 years old. The only thing I've ever known him to come in for was to drink with his band and look for company in his misery. He'd lope up to the bar, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes cast down to the ground as if to let everyone know how dismal his life was. Never spent any money, never even tipped.
His favorite girls, the ones he considered friends, were the ones who would call him late at night, drunk or high or threatening suicide, that he would get to go save.
I was never that girl, so I could never understand his attraction to me. But after coming in for months, he started trying to get me to hang out, "outside of this place." The more he saw me, the bolder his leech-like behavior got, and eventually he started trying to make out with me.
The first time we were in the club parking lot. Somehow he had managed to get me alone.
"I really like you," he'd said.
"Well, A. (one of my good friends) likes you, so I don't think it's going to work," I'd replied.
"Naw, it's fine, she don't care." And he'd leaned in for it, beer breath and drunken, half-closed eyes moving, uninvited, towards my face. I shoved him by the shoulders and said a very hasty goodbye.
The second time, he had gotten me to give him a ride home after being "abandoned" by his friends at the club and claiming empty pockets for cab fare. My bleeding heart kicked in at the same time as my guard wore down, and I drove him the 20 or so blocks home.
He kept me parked outside his apartment, the prisoner of his coke monologue, for over an hour. I told him to get out of the car multiple times. He ignored me, then finally told me he couldn't believe what an amazing connection we had (yeah.....) before telling me, again, how much he liked me and leaning in again with his thin fishy lips and long, skinny fingers reaching for my chin.
I turned my head and told him to get out of the car.
That was all over a year ago, and I had blissfully not seen or heard from him since then.
I'm ambling around the club. It's slow, I've already hit up everyone in there for a dance. No fresh meat. Turning the corner, I nearly trip over his chair as he sits there, scrawny, annoying, depressed as usual, staring down into his glass. At first it takes me a second to realize who it is. He's wearing a big hat pulled almost down over his eyes, a trendy button-up cowboy style shirt, and faded jeans...no, no, it can't be...Damn!!
My stomach flips, and I literally turn on my heel and walk/ran in the other direction.
"D.!" I grab the bouncer. "See that scrawny little guy over there?"
"Yeah..."
"He sucks! He's so fucking annoying! I have to avoid him at all costs..."
"OK, well, I'll keep an eye on him."
"OK, OK thanks."
I watch him for a good 30 minutes, keeping him in check in my peripheral. The last thing I want is for him to come sneaking up behind me...disaster.
But the club is too small for me to avoid him all night. He'll see me, I'll have to walk by his table, there's no way around it. I finally decide to just get it over with.
I tap him on the shoulder.
"Hey there," I say.
"Oh my God," his eyes grow wide with surprise, although I'm pretty sure he's already seen me wandering around. He gives me a giant bear hug and tries to pick me up, but he's so tiny he can barely do it.
"How are you?" I ask.
"Oh, God. Down. But OK. You?"
Of course he's down. This fucking guy is always down, always near the end, always about to pop a few too many pills and end it already.
He tries to look deep into my eyes, as if he believes that he has direct access to my soul via his penetrating gaze.
"I'm fine! Just fine."
He grabs me by the shoulders, and looks at me knowingly again. God, I hate him. I wonder if he can read that in the look I give him back...
"What are you doing back here?" he asks.
Here we go. I ignore the subtext of his question, the "what has gone wrong in your life which has ended in you being 'back here'," because obviously "here," as he wants to see it, is the worst that things can possibly come to.
"Working!" I will keep my peppy persona, I will keep my peppy persona...
He looks at me for another minute before grabbing me by the arm.
"Come with me."
He walks me over to the Ms. Pacman table game and tries to pull me down onto his knee. I perch on top of the table instead. He responds by getting up from his chair and sitting next to me so that he can wrap his arm so far around my shoulders that it snakes it's way around my neck and onto my arm.
He's a fucking barnacle.
"What's goin' on, girl?" He asks me, his mouth uncomfortably close to my ear.
"This! This is going on. I quit my day job, and I'm back here. That's about it."
He hangs his head down and snorts a laugh. "Don't give me that. Tell me what's going on, personally."
I don't want to tell you what's going on anywhere.
I decide to give him just a small slice of my life, one personal enough that maybe he'll leave me alone but one that i don't think he can get to me on...
"OK. Well, let's see - I broke up with my boyfriend a few months ago, but now we're kind of getting back together."
He snorts again. "Well, we've all made that mistake."
Ah, my mistake. Of course he can get to me on this. He can get to me on anything - simply by working off the assumption that I'm fucking up my life right along with him, the life that he knows nothing about.
"I don't think it's a mistake." I'm staring across the room, trying not to look at him.
"OK, well, we'll see." He pauses.
"Listen..." he says.
"What?"
"Naw, no, never mind."
"No, what were you going to say?" As soon as I say it I regret it, because I am 100% sure that I don't want to hear what he has to say.
"Naw, I can't say it."
I say nothing.
"OK, I mean, I guess I have nothing to lose. Fortune favors the bold." Great, now he's speaking in proverbs.
He takes a deep breath. "I've always liked you."
Really???
I say nothing. I'm incredulous, but far from surprised. He doesn't like me. He doesn't know me. Would I mind him a little less if he didn't consistently, predictably try to invade my personal space? Would I be able to tolerate him, possibly even feel bad for him in his phony attempts at meaningful personal connection? Maybe. But that's just not how he rolls.
I say nothing.
"OK." He snorts his laugh again and shakes his head. "Well, I had to say something. Like, I've always been really into you."
"Yeah..." I look away.
Suddenly he gets up. "I just need to go see someone real quick. Stay there," he says, and wanders a few feet away for a minute.
"D!!" I motion for him to come over. "You have to help me! When this guy gets back, tell me you need to talk to me about something. I have to get away from him!"
"OK, baby, don't worry about it." My knight in shining armor and a Security t-shirt.
E. makes his way back to the Ms. Pacman table after a few minutes and sits back down.
"Listen, I need to talk to you for a second." D. doesn't miss a beat.
"Oh, you do?" I turn to E. "OK, well, I need to go talk to D. about something. It was great to see you."
"Yeah, girl, go do your thing. Good to see you."
And I'm free.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Tougher than I will ever be
J. is Israeli, like a lot of the girls who work here, from a completely different world. She's tiny, with long, straight blond hair, a sharp face, and unforgiving eyes. I never talked to her much, have no idea what brought her out here.
We were all in the dressing room, Carina sitting in the corner and starting to cry.
"What's wrong with you?" J. asks her.
"I don't know. My life used to be so good, everything used to be fine..." Carina has tears rolling down her cheeks now. She's still in her street clothes, her bleached hair undone and her face fresh.
"Don't cry," says J. "You can't do anything about it right now." She's lacing up her ankle-high yellow boots, watching herself in the mirror as she speaks. "Stop crying. Go have a drink, you'll feel better. Forget about it for tonight. Tomorrow morning, you wake up, start looking for something else. But don't think about it now. Go get a drink."
Carina sniffles, wipes her face and begins to rummage through her bag. J. goes back to lacing up her boots.
Two nights later, J. is talking to someone at the beginning of a shift.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," she's saying. "I can't wear any of my outfits. I guess I'll have to wear this." She holds up a teddy-type number that falls to mid-ass, as she simultaneously lifts her shirt. In the mirror's reflection I see her stomach, which is covered in huge, fresh scars from just below her breasts clear across her belly button.
I look away.
Later that night, I tell her I like her outfit. It's cute - the same short black teddy, with red undies peeking out from below and knee-high red leather boots.
"Oh, thanks. You know why I'm wearing it, right?"
"Something happened to your stomach?"
"Yes. I spilled a whole pot of boiling coffee on myself a few days ago." She doesn't flinch, just glances up at me from her seat.
"Holy shit, that must have hurt." I'm looking right at her in the mirror.
"It did. It still hurts."
"Did you go to the hospital or anything?" For this, being the hypochondriac that I tend to be, I would have dialed 911.
"No, don't be silly. It's just a burn. There's nothing the hospital could have done. A few hours after it happened, I went to the pharmacy and they gave me some aloe. It will be fine."
We were all in the dressing room, Carina sitting in the corner and starting to cry.
"What's wrong with you?" J. asks her.
"I don't know. My life used to be so good, everything used to be fine..." Carina has tears rolling down her cheeks now. She's still in her street clothes, her bleached hair undone and her face fresh.
"Don't cry," says J. "You can't do anything about it right now." She's lacing up her ankle-high yellow boots, watching herself in the mirror as she speaks. "Stop crying. Go have a drink, you'll feel better. Forget about it for tonight. Tomorrow morning, you wake up, start looking for something else. But don't think about it now. Go get a drink."
Carina sniffles, wipes her face and begins to rummage through her bag. J. goes back to lacing up her boots.
Two nights later, J. is talking to someone at the beginning of a shift.
"I don't know what I'm going to do," she's saying. "I can't wear any of my outfits. I guess I'll have to wear this." She holds up a teddy-type number that falls to mid-ass, as she simultaneously lifts her shirt. In the mirror's reflection I see her stomach, which is covered in huge, fresh scars from just below her breasts clear across her belly button.
I look away.
Later that night, I tell her I like her outfit. It's cute - the same short black teddy, with red undies peeking out from below and knee-high red leather boots.
"Oh, thanks. You know why I'm wearing it, right?"
"Something happened to your stomach?"
"Yes. I spilled a whole pot of boiling coffee on myself a few days ago." She doesn't flinch, just glances up at me from her seat.
"Holy shit, that must have hurt." I'm looking right at her in the mirror.
"It did. It still hurts."
"Did you go to the hospital or anything?" For this, being the hypochondriac that I tend to be, I would have dialed 911.
"No, don't be silly. It's just a burn. There's nothing the hospital could have done. A few hours after it happened, I went to the pharmacy and they gave me some aloe. It will be fine."
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Just reminiscing...
There was a time about three years ago...the night before I started stripping and the weeks before that. I was worried that once I started, I would never be able to stop, that it would send me down a black hole of future- and career-less oblivion. That I would never recover, would become something I was afraid of, washed-up, lonely, emptied out of any genuine emotion.
No. I won't do anything like this for very long. I'll pull out of it quickly, I'll recognize if I need to leave and I will.
Three years later. I'm writing about it. I'm doing it. I'm thinking about it, talking about it, hiding it from some people and breaking the news to others.
Is this what I was afraid of?
No. I won't do anything like this for very long. I'll pull out of it quickly, I'll recognize if I need to leave and I will.
Three years later. I'm writing about it. I'm doing it. I'm thinking about it, talking about it, hiding it from some people and breaking the news to others.
Is this what I was afraid of?
Notice to Customers:
Here is a quick list of things that I do not want to do with you, under any circumstances, ever:
This list may get longer as time goes on - I don't see why it shouldn't be an ongoing project! And any other strippers or sex workers out there, feel free to add...
- Meet up with you after work. After work I am going the fuck HOME, where I will eat a bowl of fucking Cheerios and then go to bed.
- Let you take me out for dinner. I have friends and I have a man. You are none of those things. You are a customer. Check yourself.
- Anything involving actual sex. Just, no.
- Step outside for a cigarette. Can you see me? I'm wearing fucking six-inch platforms and a bikini. And a pound of make-up. Yeah, stepping outside sounds really safe and like a swell idea.
- Come meet you at your work. Whether you're a personal trainer or a bartender or a club manager or a promoter or an agent or a talent scout or a music video director or whatever, I don't want anything from you except your money, right here and now. Then I hope never to have to see you again.
- And on a side note - no, I would not rather have you buy me a drink than have you get a dance. But yes, you can pay me to talk to you. Thanks.
This list may get longer as time goes on - I don't see why it shouldn't be an ongoing project! And any other strippers or sex workers out there, feel free to add...
Friday, July 18, 2008
"We're all anonymous here"
Love this post from Hobo Stripper about her "home" club:
Coming to this club is like coming home...I walk in and Sinnamon, the nicest woman you’ve ever met, is sitting at the bar. She lifts her head, stoned, and waves. “It’s not that I ain’t happy to see you, babe, I’m just so stoned.”Definitely go read the whole thing.
...
We’re polite, but we don’t ask for details. We’re all anonymous here, even though we know too much about each other.
Beer in the Bag
It happens to everyone - such is the nature of working in a bar.
My nemesis retired to the dressing room at the end of the night to find that some liquid (which turned out to be beer) had been spilled all over her bag and the contents therein, including, of course, the clothes she'd be wearing home.
"What is all over my clothes? Something wet is in my whole bag," She was accusing the entire room. "It's not funny - it's not funny to have to go home in wet clothes."
Now, let me state for the record that I agree - it is not funny at all. As a matter of fact, it fucking sucks. I've been there. But I didn't have much to say about it - I work with some pretty cool girls, and what probably happened was that someone accidentally spilled it into her bag, and either didn't know they did it or didn't want to deal, since there would have been nothing to really do anyway, and so they left it there. It blows, but that's life.
I walked behind her to pick up my own bag. I was tired, it was the end of the night, I was sorry for her that she had to put on wet jeans, but more than that I wanted to go home.
Until she turned to look me dead in the eye and say, "I don't know what this is, but it's all over everything."
Let me state for the record - I am a classy broad. I would not ever spill beer into someone's bag. I don't even think I would have pulled that shit in middle school - and if you're going to pull that shit, that's when you do it.
I looked away. "That sucks," I mumbled. She seemed to be accusing me, but I mostly didn't want to get involved, and I certainly didn't feel like I needed to be on the defensive about this. I snuck past her and picked up the remainder of my shit, as she sniffed her pants.
"I think it's beer - it's either beer or wine."
Leah piped in at this point. "Well, the only bitch in here that drinks beer is Lolita, and she left a long time ago. She probably spilled it in there and just didn't say anything."
The empty beer bottle sitting next to her bag seemed to be a good enough indication for everyone that this was the real story.
So I walked out. I felt bad. I've had that shit happen, it's horrible, especially at the end of the night. But that bitch better not spill retaliatory beer into MY bag.
At least I can be sure it's her if she does.
My nemesis retired to the dressing room at the end of the night to find that some liquid (which turned out to be beer) had been spilled all over her bag and the contents therein, including, of course, the clothes she'd be wearing home.
"What is all over my clothes? Something wet is in my whole bag," She was accusing the entire room. "It's not funny - it's not funny to have to go home in wet clothes."
Now, let me state for the record that I agree - it is not funny at all. As a matter of fact, it fucking sucks. I've been there. But I didn't have much to say about it - I work with some pretty cool girls, and what probably happened was that someone accidentally spilled it into her bag, and either didn't know they did it or didn't want to deal, since there would have been nothing to really do anyway, and so they left it there. It blows, but that's life.
I walked behind her to pick up my own bag. I was tired, it was the end of the night, I was sorry for her that she had to put on wet jeans, but more than that I wanted to go home.
Until she turned to look me dead in the eye and say, "I don't know what this is, but it's all over everything."
Let me state for the record - I am a classy broad. I would not ever spill beer into someone's bag. I don't even think I would have pulled that shit in middle school - and if you're going to pull that shit, that's when you do it.
I looked away. "That sucks," I mumbled. She seemed to be accusing me, but I mostly didn't want to get involved, and I certainly didn't feel like I needed to be on the defensive about this. I snuck past her and picked up the remainder of my shit, as she sniffed her pants.
"I think it's beer - it's either beer or wine."
Leah piped in at this point. "Well, the only bitch in here that drinks beer is Lolita, and she left a long time ago. She probably spilled it in there and just didn't say anything."
The empty beer bottle sitting next to her bag seemed to be a good enough indication for everyone that this was the real story.
So I walked out. I felt bad. I've had that shit happen, it's horrible, especially at the end of the night. But that bitch better not spill retaliatory beer into MY bag.
At least I can be sure it's her if she does.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
In Relation to Each Other
"I could really use some cheering up right now," Sasha hadn't even made her way to the dressing room before she had wrapped her long, spindly arms around the neck of the older man that I was talking to.
Normally this would be a bogus move, but he's just some regular who all the girls know and who I don't know that well. I wasn't hustling him, just chatting him up.
He was obviously very happy to see Sasha.
"My car is in the shop, and the preliminary estimate is over $200," she said, and gave him another long hug. "I need a shot."
The man isn't bad looking - he has silver hair and leathered skin, but it's smooth and his features are chiseled and that makes his sky blue eyes stand out. He had just finished telling me about the stroke he had six months ago, and how he shouldn't be drinking. And about the hotel that he's been living in downtown, alone, for the past ten years.
"Nina, get her a shot, and get D. a shot, and get her (gesturing to me) another drink too. And I'll have one more also," he said.
Sasha, with her wild blond hair and twitchy, skinny body, stands next to him, resting her arms on the corner of the bar.
"Well, I saw R. this weekend," he tells her, his eyes brimming with the anticipation of her response.
"You did?" She widens her eyes like it's the most scandalous thing she's ever heard.
He smiles. "Ah, yep, I did..."
"What ever happened to, I'm never gonna see her again, she's bad news?" Sasha suddenly looks over at me and opens her mouth as wide as she can to let out a big, shocked-seeming laugh. It reminds me of my own fake, strip club laugh, the one that by the end of the night has my face so worn out that I can barely talk to customers, let alone force another guffaw.
"Well, I guess that went out the window." He smiles a little, her overreaction obviously just the kind of attention he was looking for.
The line between them has been blurred. This guy isn't a customer. Sasha is not looking for a lap dance or a tip. She's still in her street clothes, sitting at the bar drinking with him. Their relationship has spilled out onto the street, into her possessions, her car (that he very possibly bought her) into her "real" life.
And he doesn't seem to notice or care that what she's giving him still has hints and traces of "strip club" in it - the draping of her body over his when she hugs him, the exaggerated laugh done to make him feel good.
I've never gone there. I don't know what it feels like to want anything more - to accept anything more - from a customer than a few dances, some money, and a clean break. I want my lives to be as separate as possible, no overlap, no bleeding edges. Sometimes I don't even want to write about it because I'd rather keep it confined to the literal walls of the place I work.
For a fleeting second I try to imagine what his life is like. It makes me think that Sasha is one of the most giving and generous people I know. I think that if he did buy her that car, it was deserved.
Maybe their relationship is as well-defined as it gets.
Normally this would be a bogus move, but he's just some regular who all the girls know and who I don't know that well. I wasn't hustling him, just chatting him up.
He was obviously very happy to see Sasha.
"My car is in the shop, and the preliminary estimate is over $200," she said, and gave him another long hug. "I need a shot."
The man isn't bad looking - he has silver hair and leathered skin, but it's smooth and his features are chiseled and that makes his sky blue eyes stand out. He had just finished telling me about the stroke he had six months ago, and how he shouldn't be drinking. And about the hotel that he's been living in downtown, alone, for the past ten years.
"Nina, get her a shot, and get D. a shot, and get her (gesturing to me) another drink too. And I'll have one more also," he said.
Sasha, with her wild blond hair and twitchy, skinny body, stands next to him, resting her arms on the corner of the bar.
"Well, I saw R. this weekend," he tells her, his eyes brimming with the anticipation of her response.
"You did?" She widens her eyes like it's the most scandalous thing she's ever heard.
He smiles. "Ah, yep, I did..."
"What ever happened to, I'm never gonna see her again, she's bad news?" Sasha suddenly looks over at me and opens her mouth as wide as she can to let out a big, shocked-seeming laugh. It reminds me of my own fake, strip club laugh, the one that by the end of the night has my face so worn out that I can barely talk to customers, let alone force another guffaw.
"Well, I guess that went out the window." He smiles a little, her overreaction obviously just the kind of attention he was looking for.
The line between them has been blurred. This guy isn't a customer. Sasha is not looking for a lap dance or a tip. She's still in her street clothes, sitting at the bar drinking with him. Their relationship has spilled out onto the street, into her possessions, her car (that he very possibly bought her) into her "real" life.
And he doesn't seem to notice or care that what she's giving him still has hints and traces of "strip club" in it - the draping of her body over his when she hugs him, the exaggerated laugh done to make him feel good.
I've never gone there. I don't know what it feels like to want anything more - to accept anything more - from a customer than a few dances, some money, and a clean break. I want my lives to be as separate as possible, no overlap, no bleeding edges. Sometimes I don't even want to write about it because I'd rather keep it confined to the literal walls of the place I work.
For a fleeting second I try to imagine what his life is like. It makes me think that Sasha is one of the most giving and generous people I know. I think that if he did buy her that car, it was deserved.
Maybe their relationship is as well-defined as it gets.
Monday, July 14, 2008
I Am Going Stir Crazy
I've been sitting in my studio apartment by myself all day, and have done the following:
- Checked my email
- Transferred funds from my checking account to my savings account
- Watched a few minutes of the Tyra Banks show
- Washed dishes
- Checked my email again
- Watched a repeat of What Not to Wear, a really good one though where a 22-year-old Ren Fair accountant (I think?) gets an amazing makeover, including chopping off her long hair which I have to admit is my favorite part of any makeover
- Ate some mashed potatoes
- Did laundry (big accomplishment)
- Watched "Byte Me: The 20 Hottest Women on the Internet"
- Transferred funds from my savings account to my checking account
- Checked my email again
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Don't Mind My Honey
"Come sit down with me, I'll pay you enough to cover a dance," the big guy says.
"OK." I walk over to the DJ to check on my place in line for the stage, then walk back over to his table and pull up a chair.
"How are you tonight?" I ask him.
"Fine, beautiful, how are you?"
"Good..."
By this point I've noticed the tattered little white paper bag he has out on the table. It looks as though maybe he's brought a pastry with him.
I don't say anything.
"So, tell me, what sign are you?" he asks.
"Guess."
By now he's begun fumbling with the bag, organizing the contents therein and looking like he's about to make a move to pull whatever it is out. A cheese danish? An apple turnover? Who brings a pastry to a strip club?
"Well...there's four different kinds of signs." He's gazing at me, then looking off into the distance as he rummages in the little bag and ponders my astrological make-up. "Air, wind, earth and fire."
"Yeah..."
"I'd say...." He's about to pull it out. I don't know what I'm more excited for - finding out the contents of the bag that this man has thought to bring along, or hearing what he has to say about my intrinsic personality traits, having known me for all of 45 seconds.
"...air." He's right, and as he says it, out from the bag comes a small plastic bottle of honey. For his tea, that is sitting on the table in front of him.
It will probably be the first and last time I ever see that inside the club, and that is something I can rarely say.
"OK." I walk over to the DJ to check on my place in line for the stage, then walk back over to his table and pull up a chair.
"How are you tonight?" I ask him.
"Fine, beautiful, how are you?"
"Good..."
By this point I've noticed the tattered little white paper bag he has out on the table. It looks as though maybe he's brought a pastry with him.
I don't say anything.
"So, tell me, what sign are you?" he asks.
"Guess."
By now he's begun fumbling with the bag, organizing the contents therein and looking like he's about to make a move to pull whatever it is out. A cheese danish? An apple turnover? Who brings a pastry to a strip club?
"Well...there's four different kinds of signs." He's gazing at me, then looking off into the distance as he rummages in the little bag and ponders my astrological make-up. "Air, wind, earth and fire."
"Yeah..."
"I'd say...." He's about to pull it out. I don't know what I'm more excited for - finding out the contents of the bag that this man has thought to bring along, or hearing what he has to say about my intrinsic personality traits, having known me for all of 45 seconds.
"...air." He's right, and as he says it, out from the bag comes a small plastic bottle of honey. For his tea, that is sitting on the table in front of him.
It will probably be the first and last time I ever see that inside the club, and that is something I can rarely say.
Friday, July 11, 2008
One of these days...
I'm going to live-blog from the club. Shit begins happening that I want to write about sometimes before I even set foot inside, and then it just goes on and on and on.
"A Closed Mouth Don't Get Fed"
11 dances, not one tip. And so, I easily manage to blame myself. I should have told each customer who decided not to tip me after a dance that they were being cheap assholes. Normally I say, "It's $25, not including tip," but when they pay me before I can say anything, I am often left with just the base rate - $5 of which, of course, goes to the house.
It takes absolutely nothing to make me defer to beating myself up. This wasn't a bad night - I did better than a lot of the other girls. And yet here I am, leaving sulky and mad at myself for not taking my customers by the ankles and holding them upside down to shake out their pockets after each dance.
I'm running this by D., the bouncer, as he walks me to my car. I'm seeking validation, and not very subtly.
"What should I have done? Should I just say, 'it's customary to tip?'"
"No - you should just say, in your sweetest voice, 'I wouldn't mind if you gave me a tip.'"
This makes me feel worse. If I had thought of the right thing to say - if I had thought of what he just said - I would have made more money, I wouldn't feel so bad about myself for not having spoken up. I had to speak up to someone important in my life earlier tonight, maybe I can only handle one major confrontation per day...?
"Yeah - I guess that's true. that's a good way of putting it. I mean, I had one guy spend $200, he kept me back there for hours, and he didn't tip me at all."
"Well, a closed mouth don't get fed."
It's so true that it makes me want to cry. It's the last thing I wanted to hear - my inability to say anything, or inability to find the right way to say it, has bit me in the ass again. And I worked hard tonight.
I swear to god, if I were a baby bird, I'd die of starvation.
It takes absolutely nothing to make me defer to beating myself up. This wasn't a bad night - I did better than a lot of the other girls. And yet here I am, leaving sulky and mad at myself for not taking my customers by the ankles and holding them upside down to shake out their pockets after each dance.
I'm running this by D., the bouncer, as he walks me to my car. I'm seeking validation, and not very subtly.
"What should I have done? Should I just say, 'it's customary to tip?'"
"No - you should just say, in your sweetest voice, 'I wouldn't mind if you gave me a tip.'"
This makes me feel worse. If I had thought of the right thing to say - if I had thought of what he just said - I would have made more money, I wouldn't feel so bad about myself for not having spoken up. I had to speak up to someone important in my life earlier tonight, maybe I can only handle one major confrontation per day...?
"Yeah - I guess that's true. that's a good way of putting it. I mean, I had one guy spend $200, he kept me back there for hours, and he didn't tip me at all."
"Well, a closed mouth don't get fed."
It's so true that it makes me want to cry. It's the last thing I wanted to hear - my inability to say anything, or inability to find the right way to say it, has bit me in the ass again. And I worked hard tonight.
I swear to god, if I were a baby bird, I'd die of starvation.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Chicken and Waffles - Yes Please
If you've never been to L.A., it's possible that the phrase "chicken and waffles" is meaningless to you. But if you have, or if you live here, you know that it refers to the legendary Los Angeles eatery, Roscoe's.
I was worried this afternoon that a huge helping of comfort food would be a little much for lunch. But let me assure you, it was no such thing. I fell into an entranced, food-induced groove under the dim lights, seated on the side of a long table and smushed in silent contentment between other patrons also quietly delighting in the goodness. I played the three plates that contained my meal like a harp - cut off a piece of fried chicken, reach out to dip it in gravy, chew, follow quickly with a succulent waffle bite soaked through with maple syrup.
Alternating between the salty and the sweet turns out to be a genius combination, I might add, a surprisingly happy switcheroo in my mouth, like a stripper popping off her top at just the right moment.
Thank you Roscoe's - I will be back.
I was worried this afternoon that a huge helping of comfort food would be a little much for lunch. But let me assure you, it was no such thing. I fell into an entranced, food-induced groove under the dim lights, seated on the side of a long table and smushed in silent contentment between other patrons also quietly delighting in the goodness. I played the three plates that contained my meal like a harp - cut off a piece of fried chicken, reach out to dip it in gravy, chew, follow quickly with a succulent waffle bite soaked through with maple syrup.
Alternating between the salty and the sweet turns out to be a genius combination, I might add, a surprisingly happy switcheroo in my mouth, like a stripper popping off her top at just the right moment.
Thank you Roscoe's - I will be back.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Hey Mr. DJ, Thanks for the Disaterous Song Choice
By the time I'm in the car, I realize that I've forgotten my CD's. It's too late to turn around, and really, this isn't such a bad thing in the grand scheme. Forgetting my make-up would have been worse. I am kind of particular about what I dance to - lots of White Stripes...OK, fine, the entire self-titled album...some Nine Inch Nails, sometimes Tom Petty if I think it'll be appreciated by the crowd... - but not so much that I can't improvise, make a gametime decision here and there, and generally be happy with other song choices.
Plus, I figure, hey, that's why we have a DJ. That's why I tip him out every night. That's why I'm nice to him - cause maybe he has some choice picks up in his stash (and because he introduces me...and because, fine, he's nice too).
So the first request I make to him, to enliven the completely empty room, is little hip-hop. I have no idea what he plays. It's horrible. I don't know how it's possible for hip-hop to have no beat, but this song - perhaps the only song in the genre to match that description - doesn't. Not a single beat, not anywhere.
But unfortunately, I'll find out later, that is not the worst of it.
All of our songs onstage get cut at three and a half minutes, so I think, I'll just ask for some Zeppelin, because there are a few really fucking obvious songs to pick. Kashmir, D'Yer Mak'er, You Shook Me....etc., and even if he does make some truly offensive decision...like, let's say, Stairway, at least I won't be up there climbing up and down the pole like a crazed, sweaty squirrel for nine minutes.
But even within what seems like fairly safe perimeters, our DJ, our beloved DJ, still manages to make the worst possible selection - a song that he later describes as "one of their biggest singles!"
I'll just go ahead and say it - one of the biggest singles doesn't necessarily mean one of the best songs to gyrate to. Because when the song in question is "Whole Lotta Love," you know what happens, like, mid-song? It starts to sound like a whole lotta cars revving their engines. For at least a minute. Which is a long, looooong time to do modern interpretive dance.
I grind on the floor, I swivel my hips, I even execute a complicated pole trick to kill some time. I shoot the customers seductive "I picked this song on purpose" looks, interspersed with shooting the DJ "WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF SONG IS THIS TO PUT ON FOR STRIPPER TO TRY AND DANCE TO" looks.
Finally I have to signal to him to cut it - it's just too awful. And then I remember something.
Back in my very first month as a stripper, I worked at a place that had lunch shifts, and during them there was no DJ, so we had to pick from a jukebox (classy, I know). It was well before I knew which way was up, I just knew was that there were some good Zeppelin songs, so I selected the only one available on the 'box.
It was Whole Lotta Love. And it was so bad, so very, very wrong, that the bartender somehow found a microphone only so she could say, "Get those dollar bills up there for her, she's managed to pick the absolute worst song that she could have."
Oh, how it all comes full circle...
Plus, I figure, hey, that's why we have a DJ. That's why I tip him out every night. That's why I'm nice to him - cause maybe he has some choice picks up in his stash (and because he introduces me...and because, fine, he's nice too).
So the first request I make to him, to enliven the completely empty room, is little hip-hop. I have no idea what he plays. It's horrible. I don't know how it's possible for hip-hop to have no beat, but this song - perhaps the only song in the genre to match that description - doesn't. Not a single beat, not anywhere.
But unfortunately, I'll find out later, that is not the worst of it.
All of our songs onstage get cut at three and a half minutes, so I think, I'll just ask for some Zeppelin, because there are a few really fucking obvious songs to pick. Kashmir, D'Yer Mak'er, You Shook Me....etc., and even if he does make some truly offensive decision...like, let's say, Stairway, at least I won't be up there climbing up and down the pole like a crazed, sweaty squirrel for nine minutes.
But even within what seems like fairly safe perimeters, our DJ, our beloved DJ, still manages to make the worst possible selection - a song that he later describes as "one of their biggest singles!"
I'll just go ahead and say it - one of the biggest singles doesn't necessarily mean one of the best songs to gyrate to. Because when the song in question is "Whole Lotta Love," you know what happens, like, mid-song? It starts to sound like a whole lotta cars revving their engines. For at least a minute. Which is a long, looooong time to do modern interpretive dance.
I grind on the floor, I swivel my hips, I even execute a complicated pole trick to kill some time. I shoot the customers seductive "I picked this song on purpose" looks, interspersed with shooting the DJ "WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF SONG IS THIS TO PUT ON FOR STRIPPER TO TRY AND DANCE TO" looks.
Finally I have to signal to him to cut it - it's just too awful. And then I remember something.
Back in my very first month as a stripper, I worked at a place that had lunch shifts, and during them there was no DJ, so we had to pick from a jukebox (classy, I know). It was well before I knew which way was up, I just knew was that there were some good Zeppelin songs, so I selected the only one available on the 'box.
It was Whole Lotta Love. And it was so bad, so very, very wrong, that the bartender somehow found a microphone only so she could say, "Get those dollar bills up there for her, she's managed to pick the absolute worst song that she could have."
Oh, how it all comes full circle...
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
"Dude, You Have to Check it Out"
It was right after a lap dance - no wait, right after two lap dances. He was a young, hipster-looking guy who I hadn't expected to take me up on my offer (usually they're much too ironic and clever to pay for something as obvious as a lap dance as a strip club) but who turned out to be a lovely customer. Respectful, clean, wearing an amusing t-shirt.
He had told me during the requisite pre-dance chat that he worked for a comedy website that I've never actually looked at but that I hear is hilar.
Post-dance:
Me: (Killing time and making coversation as he reaches for his wallet) So anyway, I guess I'll have to check out your website, I've heard it's really funny.
Him: Dude, you have to check it out. It's hilarious.
Me: (Blank stare)
Him: (Fumbling for wallet)
Me: (Incredulous pause) You know, I have to tell you, I think that's the first time anyone's called me "dude" in this setting.
Him: Oh, really? (chuckles) Yeah, I guess that's probably true.
Me: No, it is.
He had told me during the requisite pre-dance chat that he worked for a comedy website that I've never actually looked at but that I hear is hilar.
Post-dance:
Me: (Killing time and making coversation as he reaches for his wallet) So anyway, I guess I'll have to check out your website, I've heard it's really funny.
Him: Dude, you have to check it out. It's hilarious.
Me: (Blank stare)
Him: (Fumbling for wallet)
Me: (Incredulous pause) You know, I have to tell you, I think that's the first time anyone's called me "dude" in this setting.
Him: Oh, really? (chuckles) Yeah, I guess that's probably true.
Me: No, it is.
Friday, July 4, 2008
It's 4th of July!
Time to let your freak flag fly (as well as your American one), bbq some good old fashioned American cow, and celebrate your cunt(ry).
Yay!
Yay!
You Know A Stripper Is Half-Assing It When...
...she can only bring herself to shave from the knee down, like this stripper (thumbs point to chest) did last night. I know it's a trick women employ all the time, but it's pushing it a little when your very livelihood depends upon, as Lily Burana so eloquently put it, "reasonably depilated" all the way up to your labia.
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