I haven’t complained about new girls in a while, because writing about how they’re silly and annoying seems like shooting fish in a barrel. There are a lot of new girls at one particular club where I’m working, so I’ve been bombarded with bright-eyed and bushy-tailed idiocy lately. (New Girls part 1 is here.)
“Hmm, what did I wear here?” chirped the perky new girl who likes to narrate everything she’s doing. I was pulling my purse out of my locker and she was squatting below me, rummaging through her bag of slutty street clothes that only barely pass as stripper attire.
“Oh yeah! I just wore my coat!”
Her newbie buddy asked why, in a tone that suggested she was concerned whether she should also start dressing like a flasher on the commute to work.
“Well yeah,” Perky explained, “You know, I’m just coming straight here to get naked so why bother getting dressed? Tee-hee!”
Impressed, the other girl answered something that was basically, “Wow, you’re so right. Good point. I never thought of that!” She may as well have added, “And I’ve been bothering to put on jeans all this time! Am I a dummy or what!?”
I continued to pretend that they didn’t exist while thinking about this logic. NO. There are several reasons that it is a smart idea to wear clothing on your drive to work, even if you have a sexy time job that revolves around shedding layers. For one, you might need to pick up food, items from the store, or put gas in your car on the way to or from work. For another, there could be some kind of emergency: auto troubles, an accident, a change in the weather, etc. You’re going to want to adequately cover all your parts in the event of something unforeseeable.
While we’re on the subject of clothes, let’s talk about the Sisterhood of the Traveling Bikini. A black floral bikini started off on the girl that we’ll call Beer Sip*. Later in the night, Perky was wearing it. At the beginning of the following shift, Beer Sip had it on again and I’m going to venture that she did not bother to wash it that day. Unclean! Unclean!
To put this in perspective, I’ll mention that one time a veteran dancer who I’d known longer than five minutes asked if I had any outfits she could borrow. I let her look in my bag. She picked out a onesie but I warned her that I couldn’t remember whether I had washed it or not. As if I had said, “You can totally borrow some of my bacterial vaginosis if you want,” she shrieked and threw it at my face with the force of a t-shirt cannon. None taken.
Speaking of clothes, there is a girl who dances in white flip flops and black leg warmers. At this point, I’m not sure if it matters whether or not they clash. She always admires my shoes as though I acquired them by knowing a guy who knew a guy who died smuggling them into the country using his stomach and a teddy bear.
Visit the clothing/novelty section at the closest porn store and buy yourself some real stripper shoes. Cut the tags out of your thongs. Don’t share your bikini bottoms (or your thongs). Wear pants and a shirt on the way to work. Get your own baby wipes/makeup/deodorant/hair brush/body spray/gum. Frenetically gyrate in front of the mirror at home on your own time and not next to me while I’m trying to get ready. There’s just so much that I want to tell them, but I won’t because I don’t dare become a mentor-type. I prefer to be “Barbie” (one of the girls started calling me this, which is really comical because I’m a dumpy Skipper at best) who’s not here to make friends.
*Why does she go by Beer Sip in my head, you ask? She earned this special moniker by having one of the worst hustles I’ve ever witnessed. I had a regular visiting me from Denver and she sat next to him at the rack and begged him for sips of his beer. I had to stare her down and bark at her. (Note: No barking actually occurred.)