Ignore the smoke and smile.
Motherfuckers gonna get stabbed.
Needy fucking strippers man. I don't really talk about my job because sometimes I don't want to be reminded of the crazy shit I put up with on a regular basis, which in turn makes me rather, uh, jaded towards society as a whole. I don't see the flowers in the dustbin, I see the festering scumbucket garbage dumped onto my plate, the lowlife fetishistic secret desires of seemingly upstanding gentlemen influx into my cushy life. When people working in retail describe their horrible coworkers to me, it's hard to get surprised. Have you seen my drug-addled thong clad minions? Emotionally dependent augmented medicated stereotypes that erupt with truth, donning one wristband on their arm (called the "junkie wristwatch").
Whitebred Connecticut tends to favor the malnourished individuals like me, which makes the breast implants many dancers get completely worthless. They like natural, innocuous types. It's really too bad I'm neither of those, but god damn is my hustle good, so I tend to bank pretty well, especially during the summertime where I'm hunted down so I can have money lavished on me. Between that and getting to pick my own shifts, show up whenever I want, the only job where you're allowed to cuss obnoxious customers out, I have a pretty sweet deal. However, the drawbacks can occasionally get so annoying that I end up making entries like this.
Sorry!
Last night I showed up three hours late, as usual, so nothing really spectacular happened. Two regulars came in to see me, and within the span of 30 minutes they both managed to get into a brawl. I grabbed one of them to do a few dances, and he told me he just got shoved for not giving up his seat. I return to grab the other guy, and he tells me he got punched in the head while he was taking a piss. I wrote in an email to a friend that "that's all that happened tonight". Then I did a double take and realized how hilarious it was that I never noticed these kind of things that happen constantly, and don't find them noteworthy.
A bouncer also told me that a girl was openly masturbating in the champagne room. In any bar that serves alcohol, flashing the vagina is typically not allowed, and she had her g-string completely removed and fingerfucked herself, then smacked her customer in the face with her come-coated fingers.
He found it funny that girls like this existed, and yet here I am, not even showing my boobs on stage. It's true, considering I acknowledge the FANTASY aspect of the job, I thrive on the element of tease. The show. Room for the imagination, allowing my viewers to get creative. I have people unloading their wallets to me on a regular basis who haven't even seen my collarbones, nevermind my ass or mammaries. It's always revolting to me, watching people rip their entire garment off the first instance somebody throws a dollar down. If somebody handed you four quarters on the street and asked you to show them your uterus, would you? I'm known as the person who tells customers that they're classless and uncreative if they demand nipple flashes or for me to pull my skirt up.
Speaking of pulling skirts up, one time a particularly creepy guy told me to keep pulling mine down, because "daddy's watching". Female customers are just the worst. I enjoy the timid, curious chicas who sit back and let me rub my face against their rouged cheeks, stroke their cornsilk fine hair. But the ones who are unbearably grope-y, either to impress their male buddies or because they think the rules don't apply to them, repulse me (as a friend astutely noted, it's to prove how "fiesty" they are).
A fifty year old Korean woman was feeling me up to the point where I had to physically restrain her hands and tell her to knock it off.
She says, "I know. I sorry."
Five seconds later, she starts again.
"Did I tell you to stop touching me? I forgot."
"Ha ha ha. I know. I stop. You come home with me, yes?"
"I am not a callgirl."
"Ha ha. I know. I give you number."
In the wise words of Ludacris, "GET BACK MOTHERFUCKER YA'LL DON'T KNOW ME LIKE THAT."
There's this girl who always comes in, a sqautty peroxided slimeball pig who always hands me $20 and tells me to give her greasy boyfriend a lapdance. She's one of those typical cases of girls who saunter in, trying to be "down" with strip clubs by feigning and exaggerated sexual attraction to me. "Man, she sure is hot. She's getting me all horny and ready for you later, baby." Squinty bloodshot bedroom eyes, heavily glossed lips churned into a grimac-y smile, stroking, petting their toolish boyfriend. Reflexively tugging him backwards when I lean in to caress his neck with my manicured fingertips. Swivelling their childbearing hips to grotesque house music and flicking their pierced tongues at me.
"Honey, you seem upset," their boyfriend moans.
"WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" she screams, trying to squeeze my tits.
So then, as I'm in the dressing room trying to count mad dollahz, she emerges from the bathroom stall and walks purposefully towards me. It helps to know that the dressing room and the women's bathroom is in the same cluttered abyss, despite the fire department declaring that a hazard.
"Hey, remember last week when you gave a dance to my boyfriend? You gave him a hard on and it made me cry."
I swear to god, if a laugh didn't compulsively shoot from my mouth like a dart from a blowgun, I would've backhanded her. I mean how do you walk in someone's job and reprimand them for doing what you essentially paid them to do? Motherfucker, what did you expect? After chastising her for wasting my time with her possessive drivel, she later approached me with another $20. Dance for her boyfriend again?
I feel like so much has happened at this job in Connecticut alone for the past year, that I can't even do this entry justice. I haven't even described the highlights or the weirdest customers. Just the ones I can remember offhand when it's eight in the morning and I'm wired, sitting in a hotel room. Tonight I'll be in early, and how hilarious is it that I have a customer that brings in computer parts for me, even gave me a free laptop? I'm such a nerdslut.
In other news, I should probably start IV-ing orange Gatorade, since it's pretty much consumed on an alarmingly constant basis.
Needy fucking strippers man. I don't really talk about my job because sometimes I don't want to be reminded of the crazy shit I put up with on a regular basis, which in turn makes me rather, uh, jaded towards society as a whole. I don't see the flowers in the dustbin, I see the festering scumbucket garbage dumped onto my plate, the lowlife fetishistic secret desires of seemingly upstanding gentlemen influx into my cushy life. When people working in retail describe their horrible coworkers to me, it's hard to get surprised. Have you seen my drug-addled thong clad minions? Emotionally dependent augmented medicated stereotypes that erupt with truth, donning one wristband on their arm (called the "junkie wristwatch").
Whitebred Connecticut tends to favor the malnourished individuals like me, which makes the breast implants many dancers get completely worthless. They like natural, innocuous types. It's really too bad I'm neither of those, but god damn is my hustle good, so I tend to bank pretty well, especially during the summertime where I'm hunted down so I can have money lavished on me. Between that and getting to pick my own shifts, show up whenever I want, the only job where you're allowed to cuss obnoxious customers out, I have a pretty sweet deal. However, the drawbacks can occasionally get so annoying that I end up making entries like this.
Sorry!
Last night I showed up three hours late, as usual, so nothing really spectacular happened. Two regulars came in to see me, and within the span of 30 minutes they both managed to get into a brawl. I grabbed one of them to do a few dances, and he told me he just got shoved for not giving up his seat. I return to grab the other guy, and he tells me he got punched in the head while he was taking a piss. I wrote in an email to a friend that "that's all that happened tonight". Then I did a double take and realized how hilarious it was that I never noticed these kind of things that happen constantly, and don't find them noteworthy.
A bouncer also told me that a girl was openly masturbating in the champagne room. In any bar that serves alcohol, flashing the vagina is typically not allowed, and she had her g-string completely removed and fingerfucked herself, then smacked her customer in the face with her come-coated fingers.
He found it funny that girls like this existed, and yet here I am, not even showing my boobs on stage. It's true, considering I acknowledge the FANTASY aspect of the job, I thrive on the element of tease. The show. Room for the imagination, allowing my viewers to get creative. I have people unloading their wallets to me on a regular basis who haven't even seen my collarbones, nevermind my ass or mammaries. It's always revolting to me, watching people rip their entire garment off the first instance somebody throws a dollar down. If somebody handed you four quarters on the street and asked you to show them your uterus, would you? I'm known as the person who tells customers that they're classless and uncreative if they demand nipple flashes or for me to pull my skirt up.
Speaking of pulling skirts up, one time a particularly creepy guy told me to keep pulling mine down, because "daddy's watching". Female customers are just the worst. I enjoy the timid, curious chicas who sit back and let me rub my face against their rouged cheeks, stroke their cornsilk fine hair. But the ones who are unbearably grope-y, either to impress their male buddies or because they think the rules don't apply to them, repulse me (as a friend astutely noted, it's to prove how "fiesty" they are).
A fifty year old Korean woman was feeling me up to the point where I had to physically restrain her hands and tell her to knock it off.
She says, "I know. I sorry."
Five seconds later, she starts again.
"Did I tell you to stop touching me? I forgot."
"Ha ha ha. I know. I stop. You come home with me, yes?"
"I am not a callgirl."
"Ha ha. I know. I give you number."
In the wise words of Ludacris, "GET BACK MOTHERFUCKER YA'LL DON'T KNOW ME LIKE THAT."
There's this girl who always comes in, a sqautty peroxided slimeball pig who always hands me $20 and tells me to give her greasy boyfriend a lapdance. She's one of those typical cases of girls who saunter in, trying to be "down" with strip clubs by feigning and exaggerated sexual attraction to me. "Man, she sure is hot. She's getting me all horny and ready for you later, baby." Squinty bloodshot bedroom eyes, heavily glossed lips churned into a grimac-y smile, stroking, petting their toolish boyfriend. Reflexively tugging him backwards when I lean in to caress his neck with my manicured fingertips. Swivelling their childbearing hips to grotesque house music and flicking their pierced tongues at me.
"Honey, you seem upset," their boyfriend moans.
"WOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" she screams, trying to squeeze my tits.
So then, as I'm in the dressing room trying to count mad dollahz, she emerges from the bathroom stall and walks purposefully towards me. It helps to know that the dressing room and the women's bathroom is in the same cluttered abyss, despite the fire department declaring that a hazard.
"Hey, remember last week when you gave a dance to my boyfriend? You gave him a hard on and it made me cry."
I swear to god, if a laugh didn't compulsively shoot from my mouth like a dart from a blowgun, I would've backhanded her. I mean how do you walk in someone's job and reprimand them for doing what you essentially paid them to do? Motherfucker, what did you expect? After chastising her for wasting my time with her possessive drivel, she later approached me with another $20. Dance for her boyfriend again?
I feel like so much has happened at this job in Connecticut alone for the past year, that I can't even do this entry justice. I haven't even described the highlights or the weirdest customers. Just the ones I can remember offhand when it's eight in the morning and I'm wired, sitting in a hotel room. Tonight I'll be in early, and how hilarious is it that I have a customer that brings in computer parts for me, even gave me a free laptop? I'm such a nerdslut.
In other news, I should probably start IV-ing orange Gatorade, since it's pretty much consumed on an alarmingly constant basis.