Tales from the Boobie Bar!
Last week, from the 4th to the 11th, I worked at a bikini bar in Wildwood, NJ. The first two stories are from that.
I worked with a lot of nice girls over there-one of which was a sweet young Russian girl we'll call A.
Now, the bikini bar I was at was packed all week because of the biker convention in town.
A was making her way through the sea of people to get to the dressing room, when she was quite suddenly grabbed by her side and yanked into the mens room.
She got away, fortunately. But since she was grabbed from behind, she didn't see who did it. And she wound up with a huge, huge bruise on her side, right on her ribs.
To that guy, I'd like to just say fuck you, buddy. You scared her and freaked the rest of us out. You got lucky that she didn't see who you were.
Now, as I mentioned, this was a bikini bar. Not a topless bar. It can't BE topless, since it was in the middle of the tourist area of Wildwood, NJ. Regardless, you still have exotic dancers pole dancing up on a stage, wearing thongs and tiny triangle tops.
The bar had a cover charge of $5. Pocket change.
So.
I get into work one day, and before I can even get changed, a guy pulls me aside.
Me=Doesn't have time to stand here and argue all night
C=Customer who didn't quite understand that
Me=*weaving my way towards the dressing room*
C=HEY! You!
Me=*turns, eyebrow raised* Yes?
C=How come there's no DANCERS here?
Me=*looks up at the stage where not one but two girls are, you guessed it, dancing* *points*
C=No, I mean TOPLESS. You should be TOPLESS.
Me=That would be nice, but unfortunately I guess the zoning in this area doesn't allow it.
C=I had to pay $5 to get in!
Me=You have to pay at least that much to get in any other bar in this area, and we're the only one with dancing girls.
C=It's not fair! I paid to see titties!
Me=I don't see how, since this place is not billed as a topless club, but as a bikini bar.
C=You need to tell your manager about this!
Me=He's not my manager-I'm here from Pennsylvania to just work for a week. So I don't technically HAVE a manager.
C=*starts swearing*
Me=Bye now.
C=Where do you think you're going?!
Me=To get dressed. To dance. To make money. You know.
C=Well I'm not done talking to you!
Me=Woo, sucks to be you then. *finally makes it to the damn dressing room*
Sorry dude-we don't make the rules. Leave the pretty ladies be.
And then I came home! Back to the same old shit ^^
A message for the clueless gentlemen (and ladies):
"No" means no.
It does not mean yes, yeah, sure, absolutely, fishsticks, or any variation of an affirmative answer.
So if you ask a girl if you can do something, and she says "No", that means "no".
I know, I know. You reeeeeeeeeeeeally want to. A lot of people reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally want to do a LOT of things with us. Wanting to is okay. Wanting to is natural when you have an attractive, mostly naked woman dancing sensually in front of you.
I get that.
What I don't get is a 50 year old man throwing a full-out temper tantrum because I won't let him play with my tits. Way to make an ass out of yourself AND almost get yourself thrown out. I know we're short on bouncers tonight and they're all busy. But you see that guy up there, sitting in the DJ booth? He works just as well. And he's very protective of his girls.
So just sit back, keep your hands to yourself, and watch the pretty girls dance-cuz it's the only way you're ever gonna see any of us in this particular state of undress, ever.
This next one isn't quite a suck, since the guy didn't do it on purpose. But it was definitely an ewww.
So I'm doing my thing. Walking around for tips, dancing, etc. I approach a group of five or six guys, some standing and some sitting. They were a bachelor party, which is cool. A guy with a pint of beer in his hand stood and watched me dancing for them.
He went to take a drink of his beer. As he got a full mouthful, one of his friends said something funny...
...and the guy pulled an honest-to-God spittake. I was covered from head to toe in a fine mist of Coors Lite and spit.
I stood still for a minute and counted to ten in my head. The guy felt awful about it, and he and his friends kept shoving money at me to make up for it.
One bar towel, a dozen baby wipes and a bottle of Germ-X later, and I was okay. But ewwwwwwwwww.
And I now have the dubious honor of being 'that stripper the groom sprayed with beer' in the stories at the reception.
And thank you-
To the guy who was kind, tipped well, and called me "Lady K" all night.
To the DJ for flat out telling the bar patrons that we work for dollars and not smiles; and to stop being so cheap.
And to the dancer Taz down in Wildwood who made that crappy week a little better.