Kat started stripping in 2003 at the Adult Supercenter in Northeast Portland (you know, that strip mall with a Mexican restaurant in a double-decker British bus and the short-lived fish-themed strip club called Pink Marlin). Since then, she has worked at over 30 clubs in Portland and a few clubs in other states (and one US territory). She credits her sense of humor with keeping her grounded working in the sex industry, which is good because she has no immediate plans to quit. She is a co-founder of Tits and Sass, which is another blog that may interest you if you like this one. This blog is probably NSFW and definitely 18+ only.
Friday night was so bad that a girl ran out the back door to avoid paying her stage fee. There was a blur of a person carrying a bag, and the sound of the bar on the door being slammed, and a gust of cold air. By the time she was already to her car, the short, round bouncer reached the door and started muttering instead of chasing after her into the night. I felt a twinge of jealousy.
But I’m sure everything is going to change once we introduce stripper cagefighting. I don’t believe anything up-and-coming in the strip club until I see it, but the new cocktail waitress who looks like a lost twelve year-old does. She was so excited that she could barely get all the details out in order. MMA fighting! With a cage! Cagefighting! With real helmets! But topless! Yeah, she’s going to do it! She was making my boobs hurt almost as much as my head. I pictured a crowd full of guys who looked like they just cleaned the garage.
Saturday was better than Friday by virtue of being my last shift before my days off. This means that I rolled in late with wet hair and a bag full of garbage from 7-11, including a Bu$ted paper. I offered it to a coworker to peruse while I got ready.
“That guy was here last night! He was sitting at the rack!”
“That’s the sex offenders page!” I probably sounded too excited, but everyone knows that reading Bu$ted and not spotting a single familiar face is a huge disappointment.
“What’s he in there for!?” the minor girl joined in. She was scared like he was waiting for us outside the dressing room.
“Girl, rape!”
The minor said we should go show the new GM so that he wouldn’t let that guy in again. I wasn’t going to do it. Neither was the other girl. She was already looking at all the Salem mugshots. She picked out a hot guy who wasn’t a sex offender and was cooing over him.
“Ooh, I bet his hair’s all curly when he gets out of the shower. Mmmm.” She is the kind of person who sees the beauty in everyone, which is a quality I always liked about her. Until she chose the same person who gave me butterflies and sweatiness and dry mouth. But now that person is gone and neither of us watches the door or checks our phones anymore.
I shared the rapist’s mugshot with the DJ. Not for security reasons, but just because I know he likes being let in on the gossip. “I think I went to elementary school with that guy!”
He asked me how my other club is, the one where everyone knows that the weird girls are always doing weird things. I told him I witnessed a dancer stick a lollipop inside herself.
“Wa-hoa! That’s serious!”
And then I told him that apparently she uses a female condom for the lollipop. He asked me if those were the big thingies that look like UFO’s and I answered that I was pretty sure he was thinking of diaphragms.
“So then what’s a female condom?”
I tried to explain what a female condom is, and then realized that I didn’t really know. “I just know that I don’t want to do anything on stage that requires a condom!” We were both satisfied with that answer.
Recently a girl was either slapping another girl repeatedly on the vulva or fingering her, but either way it was very noisy. I didn’t look to identify what I was hearing because I was trying to hold a customer’s eye contact, lest he realize he was missing something far more exciting than talking to me. I kept apologizing, asking him to repeat his answers because I was distracted by what sounded like—to copy a really, really crass expression—soldiers running through mud.
The music at that club is so shitty that it would be an improvement if they just put a mic up to those girls’ crotches and let us dance to the sounds of wet skin rubbing. On Thursday night alone:
“Where did they find this DJ? I’m going to go up to him and tell him how much he sucks.” –hick in camo sweatshirt
“This isn’t the right music for you. You need something more smooth like how you dance.”–older black business guy
“Why is he playing Limp Bizkit?” –hipster nerd
The worst part isn’t even that the music is complete dogshit, but that I am expected to tip the DJ 10% of my earnings for playing complete dogshit. And that I am not allowed to choose my own music. And then there’s the way that he grabbed my wrist and rubbed it with his thumb and said that he was just checking my skin color when I had told him what kind of music I like to dance to. And the fact that he displays every dancer’s tip out amount on a dry erase board.
I owe two young hipsters for helping me turn around my mood early enough to redeem the night. At the start of every song, they would ask why he was playing it and how it was possibly a good choice. They had me fired up, waving my hands around and yelling, “You don’t even know!” Then I remembered to ask if they would like lapdances. That’s my hustle; first I complain for forty-five minutes and then I go in for the kill.
I don’t really feel like blogging because this past week didn’t seem too extraordinary to me. I did see some Human Centipede action, set to the soundtrack of Rage Against The Machine’s “Killing In The Name.” According to the Wikipedia page for the song, it’s either about the Ku Klux Klan or the military.
I also witnessed a girl stick her index finger in a customer’s mouth during a dance and wiggle it around like she was taking a sample of his cheek cells with her nail. What do they say, that the human anus actually has less bacteria than the human mouth? Or was it that dog mouths are cleaner than human mouths?
It was a typical stripping in a recession week, which is to say that I had two average shifts, one where I left in the negative and wanted to die, and one where I did 20 dances without even having a single regular visit.
Bad shifts are just part of the cycle of life at the strip club, I guess. Assholes and people who are really cool are also a part of the cycle. One of the worst people I encountered was a man who came into the club with who I presume was his wife. She told me that she wanted a couple’s dance and then he took over the conversation like they were purchasing a used car. Yes, it is $40, I said. Yes, that is $20 per person. Yes, for one song. I was asked to reiterate my answers as if he couldn’t believe his ears. I assured him $40 is actually the going rate for a couple’s dance. He scoffed, making cough/laughing sounds and repeating my words.
I considered putting it into perspective by explaining that a dance for one person is $40 at my other club and it would be $80 for the two of them there, but that seemed like too much breath. Then he told me that they were going to pass because they “didn’t want to be taken advantage of.” THEY DIDN’T WANT TO BE TAKEN ADVANTAGE OF. I got up and walked away.
The other asshole was an early forties Portlander guy who asked me about my tattoos so that I would ask him if he had any tattoos. He was ready to tear off his jacket before I could even get the words out. They were names of family members in all different fonts on his forearms. They may as well have read, “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.” But hey, they were well done for what they were and I’m a big believer that if a tattoo makes a person happy then that’s all that matters (obviously, I’m not talking about swastika face tattoos).
We chatted a bit longer and then I asked if he was ready for a dance. His tone hardened as he announced that he wasn’t going to get a dance after all because I hadn’t touched him once. Whuh??? I had given him nothing to indicate I was competent at lapdances because I hadn’t touched him while we were talking. He said it like he was imparting wisdom on me so that I wouldn’t suck so hard at my job in the future. Jesus Christ, man. Sorry I didn’t stroke your typeface tattoos. I couldn’t help myself, “I don’t think that’s actually a good litmus test for how someone’s dances will be.” And then he told me that I’m wrong, and then I told him that I was sorry that he felt that way. And then he told me that I didn’t have to be sorry, to which I cut him off with, “I’m not sorry” and got up. Then he left because he is a sad man who plays games and will never get what he wants.
If I ever see him again, I’ll be sure to grab his wrist and ask for the time, pick some lint out of his hair, yawn and put my arm around him, pull a quarter from his ear, ask if he’s ticklish, and give him the Heimlich Maneuver.
The cool people included a guy who said that he didn’t buy dances and would rather tip me on stage and then tipped me twenties and a biker couple who seemed genuinely in love and happy. They had seen some burlesque at a biker rally recently and loved it. They also had second row seats at an MMA fight at the same rally. They were so cute together and funny. She had tried to sext him and autocorrect had changed it and confused him and they were finishing each others’ sentences and dying at their own story. Sometimes it is so nice to relax and not be haggled, talked down to, secretly tested, or judged. They may not have bought dances, but they tipped on stage for hours and I couldn’t ask for better strip club conversation than hearing what they had sung at karaoke the night before (him: George Strait, her: Pat Benatar, Stevie Nicks).
The guy who tipped the twenties ended up sitting with the biker lady while her boyfriend was at the rack. I joined them as he was asking her if she got jealous. She said the only time she ever got jealous was when a lady with “shiny spurs” had hit on him. The way she said “shiny spurs” was so disdainful. Sure enough, the story involved her calling the lady out for her shiny spurs and telling the lady that if she wants to dance with her boyfriend, she needs to ask first! I hope I see the couple and the $20’s guy again.
Oh yeah, a “Shit People Say To Strippers” video is up on Tits and Sass today. I hate it when people want to know what my long-term career plans are and want to remind me that I can’t “do this” forever, especially when those people happen to be coke dealers, strip club DJ’s, or middle management.
So, my old old club (the downhill, drowning, sinking into the ground one) is undergoing a regime change in a desperate attempt at resuscitation. I want to write more about it, but unfortunately I don’t feel like I have enough anonymity anymore to properly do so. I’m curious to see how it plays out and know where I’d place my bets. I will say that it’s funny to see a stock image of a blond white girl in an angel costume suddenly appear on the website for the black club.
I decided that life is too short to work at the “nice” club with all the rules and the radio edits, but I might go back eventually.
I finally crossed the last audition off my list and have been working at the club that is odd but good money. My burnout level is pretty high, and it doesn’t help that customers keep doing rude things. Last night I had a customer trick me into holding hands with him by pretending he was going to shake my hand and then just holding it instead. And not letting go. Not. Letting. Go. No amount of pulling was going to work. I had to explain to let go of my hand because I had to move because I was in the middle of dancing on stage. A man came out of the bathroom, and—I’m not sure if they were out of paper towels or what—shook the water from his hands onto my back. Not even my dog would do that. Another customer shoulder checked me so hard that my clutch fell out of my hand onto the ground and the clasp completely broke and all my cash fell out. I didn’t get so much as an apology, let alone money for a new purse. I felt so downtrodden huddling over the ground, gathering my things like an untouchable.
When it comes to the new club, I’m just going to say it: the girls are weird.
“Oh, so you’re Kat. I was like, ‘Who’s the new bitch that already got Thursday night!’ But I can see why he gave them to you. You are prettier than me. I want to stab you with this hair brush!!”
“Um, that’s my brush…”
“Oh, well I was just brushing my bangs with it!”
Then she asked me what club I was coming from and then she told me that everyone was mean to her there because she’s white. And then she carried on about how nice the girls are at this club and that I’d see what she was talking about. I mumbled one word replies and wished I could pretend not to hear her.
Later I walked into the dressing room to find her helplessly struggling to clean a big smear of mashed up blue gum off the knee of her boot. Another girl was helping. I was shocked that one of the dancers had been rude enough to spit out gum on stage. Then I realized that the one helping her was guilty when she said she had meant to “pick it back up” but “forgot.” They were laughing like it was a hilarious misunderstanding.
“It’s a good thing you’re friends,” I couldn’t help myself.
“We’re ALL friends,” retorted Gumboot.
Then she went on to lecture me about how not only are they ALL friends, but they’re “FAMILY.” Sorry, but if you’re trying to sell me on something, “family” is the last word you should use. To me, family means dysfunction and abuse. In a work setting it also means nepotism. And at that place, shaved heads and Flavor Aid.
Then I found out that the one girl had spit her gum out in order to go down on Gumboot on stage. Family.
Speaking of oral sex on stage… a girl who apparently works at the club and also works for a large sports apparel manufacturer brought in a group of colleagues from other cities, in town for a big meeting. By the end of the night, she was naked on stage and eating another girl out from behind in front of all her work contacts. They were bummed. Lady, these guys don’t think you’re a down-ass bitch. They think you’re insane and are never making eye contact with you again. You know why? Because they’re never not going to think of you, nose buried in some girl’s ass, looking like The Human Centipede. Pull on your track pants and lace up your sneakers. And wash your hands. And come back when your hair isn’t in an O bun. Please and thank you.
I think the best thing I’ve overheard so far is a girl who complained to the owner that she needed to go home because she was constipated and hadn’t pooped in two days. Directly after that, without skipping a beat, another girl pulled down the neck of her shirt to let him know that she went to the doctor and it turned out the thing she had been worried about was only a boil. Only a boil!
I flew home on Southwest on Christmas Eve. The stewardesses demonstrated the plane’s safety features in “The Night before Christmas” form (“The air masks were hung from the ceiling with care”) and were met with hearty applause from the other passengers. They probably would have received a standing ovation if the seatbelt sign weren’t on. I was wedged next to a grown woman and her mother. They were fighting about how to use the mom’s smartphone that she clearly did not know how to use.
This felt familiar, coming from where I had recently heard that “You’ve got mail!” greeting and realizing that people still use AOL, and that they google search “Facebook” when they want to use Facebook. I picked my battle and made the case for changing the batteries in the remote. My relative was pretty sure it was Xfinity’s fault that the remote barely worked. Then the replacement batteries were expired, which should have been surprising but wasn’t. And yes, I put the batteries in the right way. Yes, I was sure. My brother told me that his mother-in-law still uses the actual yellow pages. Not only that, but she even flips through them really slowly, licking her index finger.
It was time to turn all electronic devices off, so they went from squabbling about the phone to filling out what looked like college applications. Except, then I spotted “pre-K.” This was some Charlotte from Sex and the City shit. One of the preschools was in Massachusetts and had a name that sounded like a law firm. From what I could eavesdrop, the mother was the child-too-young-to-grasp-the-concept-of-an-admissions-application’s pre-school teacher and the daughter was helping her fill these things out when she shouldn’t have, because there was some talk of how the comments should be in the mom’s handwriting. It was obvious that they both agreed the kid didn’t deserve to get in. I decided to rest my forehead on my tray.
Patience can be finite, especially for those you don’t love. On my last shift before vacation, I was at the point where I didn’t want anyone gross’ twenty dollars, which is a horrible business model at the strip club. Take the guy who reached his veiny hand out and grabbed my thigh as I was sitting down. I was actually a little shocked that he couldn’t at least just count to three before pawing at my body like an animal. I guess if you’re going to be inside an anomaly where you can touch me without getting pepper sprayed, let alone before even asking my name, you may as well live it up.
I tried to ignore the fact that the skin on his hand felt like paper and focus on the mind-numbing small talk at hand. This club is mostly white collar businessmen and has reminded me that there is such thing as a stupid question. There is also such thing as a conversation that consists solely of a series of the same stupid questions and these conversations are remarkably almost verbatim. The customer will ask a question, and then ask another question based on my answer, and then ask another question based on that answer until I’m letting him know the hospital in which I was born. I wish I were joking, but if I don’t take the reins, the conversation will always follow this rigid formula until there’s nothing left to ask about except maybe where I was conceived.
With some dude who just got done working on the new light rail line, I can ask him what the different keys on his key ring are for and then we can talk about what TV shows we both watch. Then maybe he’ll show me his sick dragon tattoo and we’ll do some dances without his ever having assembled a detailed timeline of my life to date.
I lied to Hand that I was from Arizona for no reason, really. He suddenly lifted his hand and flipped his iPhone over. The stopwatch was running and he stopped it and nodded proudly. I asked a question I already knew the answer to: if he had been timing the song that just ended. He answered as though he had just cracked a code and was the first cheapskate in the history of strip clubs to record the length of a song, a big consumer advocate. I couldn’t believe I had been sitting with him for under four minutes.
He had empirical evidence that the VIP was too expensive. I said something about how it’s not just about time but my heart wasn’t in it. I already knew that it wouldn’t work out between us. He told me he did want a $20 dance and asked if we should go before his food arrived. I said that I thought we should wait until after he ate and then got up. Lazy stripper. Or maybe intuitive stripper.
The DJ who plays the radio edits was there. I’ve only worked with him so far, so I thought that G-rated versions of strip club music was a club policy. There is something so ridiculous about hearing the “Forget You” version of Cee-lo’s “Fuck You” when peoples’ assholes are exposed. Not even just swear words are missing. Words that are sexual in context are gone. When Gucci Mane’s “Freaky Gurl” plays, the “get some brain” in the “get some brain in the front seat of a Hummer” is gone, so it’s like he and a moderately freaky girl are just in the carpool lane or something.
I was trying to bond with the DJ, so I was all, “What’s up with those cheesy radio edits? I can’t believe that make you play those. So weak!” which was when I found out that he brings all those songs in himself. Whoops. I do understand his rationale and see how hearing lots of cussing and n-bombs might be off-putting to clientele like ol’ paper hands, even if they don’t know what “brain” is. And at least that DJ is nice.
If you think I could make it through a single blog post without mentioning that I miss the closed club, you are wrong. I love how that place is basically a shitty acquaintance that I borrowed a pencil from one time, but whom I shall revere as my best friend in the world now that she died in a car crash. Maybe I wouldn’t even be working there if it were still open.
I convinced a friend from that club to come to the “fancy” club with me that night. She’s in town on Christmas break from nursing school. We worked our asses off together all summer and it was really nice to see her. Once we got out onto the floor and it was just the two of us, she whispered that the other dancers were kinda bitchy. “Um, YEAH,” I laughed. Before I had arrived, she had asked the whole dressing room where the bathroom was. They all shrugged and told her they didn’t know. What the hell kind of mean girl shit is that? Pretending not to know where the bathroom is? Who does that?!
I have one audition left and then I’m all done with the list of clubs I thought I wouldn’t hate too much. I feel like Goldilocks of the strip clubs. There’s the one that has a cheap stage fee and amazing food, but the music sucks and it’s just…boring. Then there’s the one with pretty okay music, a really cool stage, but it’s far away and the private dance area layout seems like it will only be a matter of time until I inevitably get assaulted and no one hears my cries. There’s also the one where the booking agent texted me too many times and made me feel suspicious of his desperation.
I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground or my hands glued to my phone or whatever, trying to find out where the “good money” is, having text conversations like this:
Her: I make at least 400-600 when I work
Me: In shows or dances? [Club Name] or [Other Club Name]? I am so curious!!
Her: But some girls offer sex, okay maybe most girls so I don’t mind doing handjobs.
Me: OH. Gotcha.
(I don’t know why she couldn’t have mentioned that detail first either.)
Mostly though, I’m back at my old club reminding myself why I left in the first place. But hey, the music’s good, it’s comfortable and I love the girls. You gotta appreciate a girl who will raise Hell and threaten employees of the caramel corn place in Lloyd Mall because the flavor of popcorn her boyfriend wanted to sample wasn’t available.
The customer from this entry and this entry was thrilled to see me return. He recently had 8-hour aortic reconstructive surgery. It sounded serious from what I could decipher from the way he was explaining it. (Anything involving the aorta seems never not serious.) He now also has a deep scar over one brow from where a suitcase apparently fell on his head when he was recovering from the surgery. Between the unintentional expression on one side of his face and the way it sounds like his tongue is too big for his mouth, I assumed that he must have had a stroke. But no, the speech impediment is a side effect of medication. It was hard to decide whether he had gone downhill mentally or if it was just the new packaging.
He seemed so weak that I was surprised when he asked me if he could get a dance. I gently asked if he was sure he could afford it. He assured me he had plenty of money. I tried to be mindful of his recent medical history during the dance since he was acting cavalier enough for the both of us. He told me that he was living at a hotel and invited me to come hot tubbing. I had forgotten about his wacky texts and the fact that he signs them.
Him: My suggesting we eat sushi and simmer in the hot tub was not a solicitation for sex. More likely some one to laugh at my attempts at what I think at I find hilarious. Also sunset walks on the beach with kittens while dipping strawberries in chocolate bunnies. Sorry, self entertainment. Nite, R
Me: Haha, no need to explain the hot tubbing :)
Him: Yagotta admit sunset walks on the beach with kittens, dipping strawberries… can only be trumped by walking with strawberries, dipping kittens in chocolate bunnies. Shouldn’t have gone down this path. Not that funny. CU later. R
The next time I saw him, he couldn’t get any dances because his bank account was mysteriously eight hundred dollars overdrawn. The next text after that was the stats on a boat that he thought he was about to purchase. Subsequent texts in the following days asked if I wanted to go in on the boat with him. When I saw him, he asked if I would rent a room to him. He didn’t first ascertain whether I even have an extra room, let alone rooms that I am prepared to rent out to my customers. I kindly recommended Craigslist. He said that he didn’t want to live with weird people he didn’t know.
One of my better nights recently was thanks to a jockey. As in, one of the little men on top of the horses. He was extremely drunk and coked out, lamenting on how his girlfriend had dumped him for drinking too much and doing too much coke. He kept asking me why I strip when I’m too good, too beautiful, too blah blah blah, to be “doing THIS,” blah blah blah. You know, just regurgitating the same empty words of all the White Knights who ride through the club for a night, returning to their castles to jerk off to their altruism.
Then he told me over and over how hard he has to struggle to maintain his weight in order to work, starving himself and doing coke. He was so tiny. I was sure I would hear the sound of bones snapping if I rested all of my weight on him. Touching his bony, emaciated body made my hand want to recoil, like petting a rescued street dog. His obnoxiousness muffled the sadness of straddling a poor kid with Body Dysmorphic Disorder. But then it wore off and I had to stop taking his money and hide from him because it was just too goddamned depressing.
Anyhoo, I had my first shift at a new club last week. It’s fancy-ish. The girls are not the type to yell in the middle of Joe’s Caramel Corn like they’re sticking the place up. They have all these rules. A giant man appeared out of nowhere to yell in my face within seconds of taking my phone out of my purse on the floor.
I think I forgot what it was like to work at a “nice” club. My bag was full of whatever outfits were just in there. My good shoes were in my locker at the other club. I realized that my hairbrush was on the seat of my car when I was walking to the club but hadn’t looked in the mirror and decided that it was probably fine. I felt like a total street urchin next to the other girls. I should have brought my A game, but had brought my D game at best. I somehow actually made money, but more importantly, saw how much more money there was to be made.
Tomorrow I’m not recycling old lashes. I’m going to brush my hair. I’m painting my nails. I’m packing my most flattering outfits. I’m going to fuckin’ look in my bathroom mirror and repeat things like “My dances are fanTAStic. My dances are VERY provocative. I do the BEST dances here.”* I’m bringing protein bars and Sugar Free Red Bull. I’m really going to try, damn it.
*Not really
PS. I will try to blog at least once a week. No promises. I’ve barely been over at Tits and Sass, but at least the other ladies are holding it down with things like this fanTAStic piece.
PPS. Thanks to Hannah for surprising me with Myth & Knowing from my Amazon wish list. Seriously, that made my week. Now I understand my favorite episode of The Simpsons.
I miss my old club, but it’s a seafood restaurant now, so what can you do. I thought the final week would be more fun than it was instead of just being depressing. I should have already been trying new clubs. It’s what I imagine it feels like when a couple has a trip planned and then they break up but decide not to waste a nonrefundable itinerary and then they use up all their vacation days for the year to have a really horrible time. Even the resident drug dealer knew to jump ship and only stopped by to share his forwarding address at a new club he felt was “safe” for him.
Also, I said I was going to go to the party store but all of those are in the suburbs. I looked on Yelp for the closest party store but it turned out to actually be strictly for quinceañeras and didn’t even have glowsticks. I decided that I didn’t like any of the bitches I was working with enough to get them tiaras or rolls of lace. Something about how they were acting in the last week was really disappointing. Maybe I was paying more attention than usual. I never tried to keep track of who was BFF’s with whom at any given moment, what with so many enemy of my enemy alliances being formed almost as fast as they were broken.
There’s the one who didn’t like me because she thought that I stole her money from across the dressing room, which would make me a master magician. She would watch my stage sets, staring so hard that you know she’s either counting the fat rolls on your back or looking for ingrown hairs. If I’m in the dressing room, she has a habit of hugging people who aren’t me.
It was almost the last shift and there were a few of us getting ready at the start of the night. As soon as she walked in and saw me, she hurled herself onto one of the other girls. She started talking in a baby voice. Not a “Happy Birthday Mr. President” baby voice or a “Who’s a good dog!?” voice. It sounded like a loud, aggressive, Betty Boop impression. Needless to say, it’s not remotely appropriate for social situations and it leaves me with no choice but to assume that she is a deeply disturbed individual.
She clung to the other girl like a starfish on a rock as the demented Betty Boop voice came out of her body like a demon, “I liiiiiiike you. I liiiiiike youuuuuu. I don’t liiiike sooooooome peeeeopllllllllle.”
Don’t worry lady, if liking me means that you would use me like a human shield while you fire off veiled insults, then no thanks. You can keep your disingenuous hugs.
The second time this happened was just recently at a new club. We spotted each other and I’m not sure who got the honor of snubbing the other first, but I’ll be damned if she expects me to be civil just because we are both castaways in unfamiliar territory.
There was another girl there that we used to work with. I was delighted to see her. She is beautiful, kind, and makes lots of money. Her presence was a good sign, like finding another mushroom hunter out in the field. Her face lit up when she saw me, and we mutually hugged (how dumb is it that I even have to clarify?) and caught up a bit. It was great to see her and I wasn’t going to let Huggy McSureShowsMe watching in the mirror bring me down.
Probably about an hour and a half into the shift, all three of us happened to be in the dressing room when Huggy embraced my friend from behind and commanded her not to be a stranger. I think she also said something about how she “gets no love.” Doesn’t she know that there is a window for when it’s acceptable to hug a person? You can either do it when you greet or when you are parting, or maybe if one of you is crying. Social cues aren’t a better late than never thing.You don’t high five someone half an hour after she’s said something or start waving and yelling “hi!” when you’re already in conversation… HELLO!
Can we talk about the girl with her ex-boyfriend/most likely pimp’s name tattooed across her chest? I really, really, want to include what the tattoo says, but I shouldn’t. Even more than I want to say what it says, I want to share the nonsensical phrase that she said she would simply change it to in the event that they broke up, as if she had thought of everything. On the day that she debuted it, I asked her how he had reacted when he saw it. He hadn’t seen it, because it turned out that he was “kinda in jail.” They broke up within two months.
She’s a natural redhead who bleaches her hair into straw and keeps her skin covered in enough erythrulose and dihydroxyacetone to stay a healthy orange. She would hang out at the club every night that she didn’t work, which was just as well because she never really made money anyway. When I asked her what club she was going to after they closed (simply out of politeness because I had asked the person next to her), she told me that she was going to go back to caretaking because stripping was “never her whole life like some of these girls.”
I would have more compassion, but I heard her talking shit the last night on someone I just adore and it was so mean-spirited and ugly. And she was doing it with the woman who would meets customers at their hotels after hours when she wasn’t too tired from doing extras all night. And of course, Uglytattoos.com and Huggy were conjoined doing two-girl-white-girl-frenetic-lower-back-jutting-out-in-unison sets all week like they were sooo cool. Did they not understand that we were about to close forever and it wasn’t a good time to be dividing their money in half?
I don’t know. Can’t we all just ignore each other like adults?
I had my first experience with a strip club ministry recently. These extremely friendly ladies were in the dressing room giving out pink cupcakes and being vague. They were all, “It’s just really important to us that you enjoy these delicious free cupcakes. You’ll understand in due time.”
The old red-faced owner was also in the dressing room, extremely intoxicated with one stripper trapped under each arm. I was kind of bummed that he was making us look bad in front of the Christians. It’s hard to tell, but I think he’s gone downhill. But maybe it’s just that he has a beard thing going on that makes it look like he’s been shipwrecked for about two weeks. My approach to dealing with him is to physically stay out of his way and his entire range of vision, and also to never make eye contact if I need to walk by him.
I thought I was safe, but heard slurred grunting and knew that he had somehow spotted me through his drunk goggles. The girls by his side smiled and beckoned. It was obvious that they just wanted someone to relieve their posts.
I stalled by playing dumb, saying that I couldn’t hear him. Since he wasn’t really using words, I figured he was used to people who thought they couldn’t hear him. He lifted his hands from the bodies of the girls just enough to motion when the cupcakes caught his eye. He immediately turned his attention to the earnest, cute/frumpy cupcake lady. He was macking on her in his own special way, which is to say that he sounded kind of like a sarcastic schizophrenic person. It wasn’t clear to me whether or not he understood that he wasn’t her boss.
I kind of felt sorry for her, but also knew that she would understand that God was testing her just like Job.
When I was falling asleep that night, I thought about what it would look like if all the club staff and strippers had an intervention for the owner. I pictured each girl holding her own crumpled loose leaf, pouring her heart out and crying about the ways his alcoholism had affected her. I saw him hitting on the interventionist and then firing everyone, saying that they’re all too fat to be working at his club.
