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.