Ho Ho Ho

It was a very Christ-less Christmas in the club- as is to be expected. Lights and holly were hanging from railings (holly, not Holly... although that may have happened on a night I wasn't there). A lit tree stood proudly above the main stage from a balcony. And, ironically, nutcrackers stood at attention in random places. I haven't been back to work yet, since before the holiday, but yesterday's start to Kwanzaa's got me wondering whether or not any of the African American strippers will now be out for the week. At the end of one of my shifts last week I heard a white dancer announce to the dressing room that she was leaving and hoped everyone had a great "Christmas and Hanukkah," and then after a short pause, "And Kwanzaa!" Then, right on drunken, late-night, dressing room cue, a black girl jokingly and loudly rang back, "Yeah you better wish me a happy Kwanzaa, bitch!" Everyone laughed and went about their business. Just another day in the office.

Halloween Flashback of a Flash Dancer...

I'm surprised I failed to mention my favorite stripper Halloween costume in my Halloween entry. "Callie" was one of those funny, smart dancers with a plan to save money, invest it and then get out, which she successfully did- a rare exception. Today she's in school without debt and owns New York City real estate. It was she who dressed as a conjoined twin, and it was classic.

Complete with a cloth diaper, an oversized bib to just cover both breasts between each dance, a pacifier, bonnet, and stripper heels- the coup de grace, of course, was a small baby doll she strapped to the side of her head.  The stiff piece of plastic was the sad, deficient, disposable, conjoined twin, blinking with each dip and lean of her lap dances. She told me her friends said she wouldn't make money dressed like that, but she did.  There's always a demand for the witty stripper because the supply is low.

MY Nosebleed is Fake

I dressed as Mrs. Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction for Halloween, complete with a bit of fake blood dripping from my nose to mimic her coke overdose (or heroin, whatever). Unfortunately, I had to explain to a number of dancers that it was not a real nose bleed. The constant concerned looks and discrete nose wiping in my direction got a little annoying, but I suppose it's good to know they're looking out for me. For the most part the customers got the reference and appreciated the attempt; plus I got to wear pants and a regular shirt, so it was a good night at work.

Hall 'O Weenies

Halloween's approaching, and it reminds me of Halloweens spent with my father at his Goodwill shows. Pop's band would perform for the mentally disabled population of our home town at their annual party in the Goodwill housing. He'd do it free of charge, but, in truth, he was paid with something  other than good karma. We got a video.

Some people are a little shocked when I tell this story. Like there is something disrespectful about being entertained by retarded people. Yeah I said it. The fact is that my family has always been very involved in their communities, all aspects- the elderly, the homeless, the handicapped, and whoever else may need a hand. It's not surprising to find a silent, unrelated, Lithuanian, straight-off-the-boat import sitting in the corner of my grandmother's house at holiday gatherings. We're good people in the grand scheme of things. We just happen to be good people who look for a good laugh in the face of the challenging and often unfunny. My cousin, for example, is a middle school special ed teacher and I'll be damned if her stories of unabashed behavior from pubescent, mentally ill teenagers she tells aren't hysterical. She deserves to be funny with all that she does and cleans up for such little pay!

Anyway, I'm done defending my father's behavior. Moving right along.

Like I was saying: Pop would videotape "the show" at the Goodwill downtown, and to our personal, later-viewing delight his camera would catch a lot of entertaining moments from the ecstatic, mentally challenged audience members. In one classic moment an older gentleman dressed in a vampire costume straight out of a CVS was invited up by my father so he could live his dream and play a triangle to his favorite Elvis Presley song. With a vacant look in his eye, the man swayed back and forth on the balls of his feet, monotonously rapping on the instrument while repeating "hound dog, time, hound dog, time" subsequently adding a shiny coat of saliva to the microphone Pop set him up with. It was possibly the best day of the man's life, and we got a good giggle. Situation win-win!

So what does this have to do with the strip club? The costumes, for one. In the middle of the show, during a musical break, a psychologically sound woman took over the stage to announce the winners of the costume contest. She then went on to call up large groups to collect paper certificates. In the end, every Goodwill resident managed to win due to the general lack of creativity and the organizers' determination to include everyone. True, strip club owners and managers don't care about whether people's feelings are hurt, but the whole lack of creativity part along with the contestants' inability to control their behavior entirely- eerily familiar!

"And the winner of the funniest costume..... ALL THE CLOWNS!" And after the chaos eased, "Winner of the scariest costume... ALL THE GHOSTS!!!" I even remember one of the categories requested that all those dressed as a Disney character should pass by the stage. 

Replace the clowns, ghosts, and Disney characters with cops, nurses, and dominatrix and you've got yourself a stripper's Halloween party.

I Can't Believe I'm Such a Bitter Bitch

From T-Pain's 'I Can't Believe It':

"I could put you in a log cabin

somewhere in Aspen

Girl aint nothin' to the Pain

It aint trickin' if I got it- what you askin' for

Put you in a mansion

somewhere in WiscAnsin

Like I said it aint nothin' to the Pain

We could change our last name, what's happenin'

Cause you look so goooooooood

Tell me why you wanna work here

put you on the front page of King magazine, 

but you gone get yourself hurt here

Ay baby, I brought you in the back just to have a conversation

I really think you need some ventalation

lets talk about yoooooooou and meeeeeeee.

(CHORUS)

Ooh I can't believe it

Ooh, ooh she all on me (on me)

Man, man I think she want me (want me)

No I can't leave her lonely, naaaaaaaaaw

You don't understand, she make the people say yeah, yeah, yeah

She hit the main stage, she make the people say yeah, yeah, yeah"

Wait. He took her to a back room and can't believe she's all over him? He doesn't want to leave her lonely? This girl is good. She definitely got that champagne room renewed for another hour. Isn't this the same rapper whose last single was called I'm in Love with a Stripper? Well, I hate to be the one to finally break it to you, Mr. Pain, but I think you're the one who's gonna get hurt here. And YOU'RE the kind of idiot that's got her wanting to work there. Why would she move to WiscAnsan and relinquish her power, and how the hell did I miss this guy when writing my last entry on pleasure and PAIN? It is painful to listen to these lyrics, but it kinda sorta sounds okay. It's catchy?

It seems clear to me that we're to the point now, in this crazy world, where comedians either have the best or the worst job; I'm still unsure which. Obviously there's a lot to make fun of, but it's so bad that commentary isn't always necessary- or possible. This shit is so dumb that all you need to do is point at it and make a face. What more can you really say? And it's not just the media. Yes, music, TV, even books are dumbed down more than ever- it's all certainly becoming dangerously unintelligent- but, whether it's because life is imitating art or art life, one can simply walk down the street and see the same kind of lechery and wickedness that's on TV. It's real. 

I'm not just talking about hip hop anymore.

From the streets all the way to the corporate penthouses, our priorities are screwed up. Men have a false sense of what they deserve and women are feeding the belief with a false sense of what's important. The strip club is a microcosm of the real world! Greed is good and honest people are a dying breed- these near extinct individuals barely appreciated. They're looked down upon!!

Case and point- I used to hang out with a ridiculously rich, elderly man and his mistress. I know, I'm not proud. To give myself some some credit, 'hang out' is a poor choice of words. What happened was occasionally I would fold to the invitations of a certain billionaire and his much younger girlfriend when they dangled tickets to events I could never obtain on my own. It wasn't exactly painful to be around them, it was just awkward. They were nice. Front row seats, however, didn't mask the fact that we were a suspicious crew of which I was uncomfortable to be a part of. If I was looking from the outside, I'd laugh at me. I also would assumed we were both sleeping with the old man (and then I guiltily remember a lecture from my old man about the importance of my reputation). Ugh. Still I went along at times, seduced by a lifestyle that I've come to grips with only being able to dream about since I will not sleep with an old man until I, too, am old. 

Still, even though I'm blatantly open about this boundary and she was kind, every time I hung out with The Mistress I was subjected to her rants about my poor choice in men. These vampires of youth were always trying to pull me in! Think like them! It took all my energy to stand my ground- refusing to meet with The Billionaire's friends outright only to be besieged in a sneak attack of wealthy, unattractive suitors once I fell into the expensive dinner trap the next time I saw her. Damn I'm such a sucker for free food. I know, I know, your other young 'friend' is now a working model with a billboard in Times Square paid for by a gentleman you set her up with, blah, blah, blah. Good for her! It's just not for me. Would you pass the black truffle canapes? Do you think he'll put me in a car back to Brooklyn after we're done or should I get going and get on the train before it's too late?

Of course my old school values only made me more desirable to these people who always get what they want, and so I was invited to other places in spite of my refusal to go along with the program. And the cringeworthy moments followed, as I deserved. Once we attended a rap concert, fifth row center, when I was embarrassed by The Billionaire's attempts to be acknowledged by the performer while he was on stage. I wish it was in vain, but apparently we were there specifically because of some business deal between the two, some investment in this rapper that the smitten, old man had agreed to. And so The Billionaire texted the musician from the floor of Madison Square Garden to prove their connection, even going so far as to show me the rapper's responses. "Wow! He knows you! Congratulations?" ...and he just noticed me with you. Awesome. It was so lame. 

"Illusion is the first of all pleasures." -Oscar Wilde

Apparently the uncool old money types are not the only ones falling victim to the illusions of our modern world. T-Pain sounds like just as big a loser as The Billionaire. Let me remind you: crooning towards the end of the above quoted song T-Pain says, "She hit the main stage, she make the people say yeah." We sing praise to stripping in our pop music. 'Pop' as in 'Popular', the most popular in the world. For those of you that didn't realize...

Who's fault is it? Dirty old men? And there it is, my tell, what I think may be my biggest obstacle in the way of my happy ending: the temptations of the testicles... or is it the teasing of the trimmed and taught? I dunno. I blame somebody. Something's wrong. While I'm busy reading books, drawing pictures and going to museums in Brooklyn, just across the bridge women are spending their time and money (and other people's money) on perfecting the way they look. As if growing up subjected to the illusionary methods of the media- airbrushing, lighting, makeup, etc.- wasn't enough, today's women are aiding and abetting those same illusions into the real world. Now everybody's jaded and I can't compete! Or, rather, I don't wanna play. The more aesthetically beautiful women become, the more the entire natural dynamic of the world is tangled and confused. Closer and closer to physical perfection, farther from mental stability, more capable of toying with the minds of men they used to not be able to attract with their God-given traits, love is in a state of anarchy; men don't even know what it is or how to recognize it! Too busy looking for the kind of beauty that has haunted them since the first porno they watched at ten, men may be the biggest victims... after me.

Look at Janet Jackson and her ugly, short beau Jermaine Dupri. The first reaction of most is something like, "What the hell is she doing?", but consider what I'm saying. What does Janet really look like? What's under all that work and money? Maybe they're, somehow, a cute couple in a normal world. Maybe he's out of HER league. Will we ever know? 

Mom was right. Life really isn't fair. 

So what will happen to me in this skewed life? While the 'others' tan on exotic beaches, vacations paid for by pathetically hopeful men, I'm stuck working night shifts and holding tight to my values, refusing free trips even with the promise of a separate room because, well, it just seems WRONG. While 'they' are peeled and pulled to perfection, I decide to keep my spots, scars, and crooked teeth (from a ski accident and a great story, by the way). My 'worth' drops and yet my mind expands. How does that work? The more I learn, the fewer options I have in men. Sometimes I wish for my ignorance back! It's like the more I know the more intimidating I am- "overly opinionated", "bitchy", "bossy". While the secretly kept women buy the perfect haircut, designer clothes and shoes and handbags, perfume, lotions, sprays, makeup and surgery, I opt for a wardrobe from Target and a trip to visit old friends across country- quality experiences and time spent. They get free dinners from high class restaurants, doggy bags and all, while I eat the cheapest food I can find until my body screams from MSG poisoning and I'm forced to detox or shop for expensive organic food and follow recipes alone. Hmmmm. I suppose I could have the unwanted peach fuzz on my lower back lasered off- all the unsightly hair on my entire body even- make myself as smooth as an Asian baby because that's what men want, but I'd rather take an exotic vacation or go back to school. Electrolysis can wait for now. Who really wants a landing strip when they're ninety anyway? The bush could come back!

Aren't I doing what I'm supposed to do? Will I be rewarded? In the end, the highly maintained woman wins something I don't, because she is mysterious along with physically perfect. She is hard to get, busy hiding her secrets from the regular guy she's dating- the one more on her level. He is intrigued. I am too real, too obvious, too game-free because I DON'T WANNA PLAY!

Is it obvious I'm bitter?

I won't even get started on the article I just read about a new Reality TV College. I'll just point it out and make a face. Do people pay to "learn" how to be on REALITY TELEVISION now? I give up...

Ho-ing Pains

From Paulo Coelho's novel Eleven Minutes:

"'You experienced pain yesterday and you discovered that it led to pleasure. You experienced it today and found peace. That's why I'm telling you: don't get used to it, because it's very easy to become habituated; it's a very powerful drug. It's in our daily lives, in our hidden suffering, in the sacrifices we make, blaming love for the destruction of our dreams. Pain is frightening when it shows its real face, but it's seductive when it comes disguised as sacrifice or self-denial. Or cowardice. However much we may reject it, we human beings always find a way of being with pain, of flirting with it and making it part of our lives.'

'I don't believe that. No one wants to suffer'

'If you think you can live without suffering, that's a great step forward, but don't imagine that other people will understand you. True, no one wants to suffer, and yet nearly everyone seeks out pain and sacrifice, and then they feel justified, pure, deserving of the respect of their children, husbands, neighbors, God...  ... Does a soldier go to war in order to kill the enemy? No, he goes in order to die for his country. Does a wife want to show her husband how happy she is? No, she wants him to see how devoted she is, how she suffers in order to make him happy."

I wanna copy more! I dunno- maybe it's because I'm detoxing and on this whole personal journey of extremes, but I got into this book. It was sexy and smart! Maybe it's just because I'm not having sex... Anyway! Coehlo is a smart dude and he wrote a book about an intelligent prostitute. It came to me right on time. Not to give it away, but the ending was quite Pretty Woman-ish and so I wouldn't say it was exactly realistic. Still, all in all, it was a good read.

It got me thinking about the relationship between pain and pleasure, this passage especially. Of course there are the obvious cliches: 'No pain, no gain', or 'Pain before pleasure'. The peculiarities of nature. Like tickling. What's the deal with tickling? It's extremely annoying, it hurts, and yet we laugh; the sounds of pleasure cause more tickling. It's not fun for the tickled. And what about how sex in its most rapturing and physically gratifying moments can look and sound agonizing? What does it mean? There are also the famous quotes to consider when approaching this subject, like Aristotle's, "The aim of the wise is not to secure pleasure, but to avoid pain." I even Wikipedia searched Freud's Pleasure Principle concept and was surprised to read that it is something we are expected to mature out of- the desire to achieve pleasure above all other responsibilities. Around what age does this kick in for males? 

Side note- if it's true that too much of a good thing is bad, is too much of a bad thing eventually good? From what I can tell from watching a lot of successful Family Guy jokes, sometimes this is true.

On that note and the others I wonder, how can the sex industry be created and succeed off the backs (or on the backs, I should say- snicker, snicker) of pained, damaged women? Even without my obvious and repetitive assumption sneaking in to the argument that strippers have all been sexually abused, isn't it weird to think that these women are pained just being in a stripclub? They all hate it! None of them really want to hang out with these men, and yet those same bored women put on a smile and make men happier than they've ever been. Later the strippers leave happily paid and the men sulk home miserable. Is that a win-win situation or a lose-lose? I mean what's worse, the psychological impoverishment and financial desperation behind stripper motivation or the affection-starved, reality-ignorance of their gluttonous customers? Can we really blame the guy who's 4'3'', the burn victim or excessively sweaty nerd for wanting to be hugged by a chick way out of their league? What about the regular dude who worked his ass off to become filthy rich? Everybody needs to eat and be loved, so who's wrong? Is anybody? Perhaps the strippers and their clients are really peas in a pod... 

Which reminds me, a professor of psychology once pointed out that life is not linear and so when two things are considered to be on opposite sides of a spectrum they are instead more likely right next to each other in a three dimensional world. It's not that deep- connect the ends of a line and you've got yourself a circle is all. It was a better analogy in person with the hand gestures, I suppose.

Keeping with the theme- then this other book, Sue Miller's While I Was Gone, added to the discussion in my brain about pain and pleasure. And since I'm already on a roll with the copyright infringement, I'll close with part of a sermon from a character, Daniel, a minister who recently helped to comfort children after the passing of their young mother:

"But pain may be a gift to us. To us, and to that child. Remember, after all, that pain is one of the ways we register in memory the things that vanish, that are taken away. We fix them in our minds forever by yearning, by pain, by crying out. Pain, the pain that seems unbearable at the time, is memory's first imprinting step, the cornerstone of the temple we erect inside us in memory of the dead. Pain is part of memory, and memory is a God-given gift."

From the Strip Club Archives...

Here are a few more excerpts from old diaries of mine:

*One of the managers (who is supposed to be in a monogamous relationship with one of the waitresses) brought in a young blond Texan who he's obviously gaga over. Being the impartial employee that I am, I was chosen to train the new girl behind the bar. Professional behavior aside, what a ditz this chick is! And blatant ditziness provokes unabashed question and answer time.

Now I know better than anybody that if a girl is a real flake, you can figure her out right away, and so I filled my down time at work by asking this new girl "Missy" questions about herself that she was too slow not to answer. Turns out she was fired from another strip club for being caught in the bathroom with a customer AND she's not even yet 21. Still, she was hired as a bartender.

CUT TO A COUPLE MONTHS LATER

Missy is sneaking in on my good shifts.  It's nothing crazy, but it's obvious and extremely unfair. She's not a good bartender. She comes in on her nights off and gets drunk. She's got nothing interesting to say. She's not, in my opinion, much hotter than other girls in the club... However, she is definitely easy. The barbacks and bussers have told me that she doesn't wear underwear and shows them- plus they see her sitting provocatively in front of customers. A waitress reports that she walked into a private room and caught her fooling around with a waiter, and that's not the first time I've heard such a rumor. I wouldn't really care but my schedule is being arranged not only so Missy has shifts she doesn't deserve but also so she and the manager's girlfriend never work together...

IN THE END

Missy was suspended and then fired after everyone had their turn with her. The manager that hired her told me all proud of himself for personally doing it. Yeah, way to go. Now I'm stuck filling in twice as many shifts while you look for your next victim.

*The owner gave the female service staff Christmas cards (he's Jewish) that said 'HO-HO-HO!' on the outside, and nobody noticed the irony. I bet he was giggling with every signature.

*One of the funny waitresses tells a story about having the age-old conversation with a stripper: What are your plans with all this money you're making? Apparently this girl told the waitress and a manager that she was going to med school to which she was then asked, 'What kind of medicine are you going to study?'  She answered in the high-pitched, baby voice that is so common among these girls, 'I'M GONNA BE A DOCTOR!' And that was it. She couldn't elaborate any more.

*The manager asked me again today why my boobs look so big. I am premenstrual, but I kept it simple and just told him to fuck off. The worst part is that being a bitch only turns him on more.

*One of the Skankees..er...I mean Yankees, comes in regularly with his wife. Recently they both took a liking to one of the waitresses (who continually came to my bar while serving them to gush about how much of a fan she was and how excited she was that they were talking to her). Perhaps it was the way she was throwing herself at the couple, but whatever. The waitress, "Sandy", was eventually asked to accompany the athlete, his wife, and a stripper into a private room and she was ecstatic. 

When Sandy returned from the hour she was glowing, relaying to me that all she had to do was eat out the wife and so 'of course' she did. She wanted to! Then, when Sandy and Mrs. Skankee were finished, the ball player asked Sandy to do the same for the stripper. Sandy refused because, she said to me later, "Gross!  I don't know where that girl's been!"

*Whether it be insecurity, jealousy, trust issues, competition or all of the above, I'd say most strippers have a hard time making friends with other females. However, I have noticed that when a man comes in and picks two random girls to either dance simultaneously for him or go into a room together with him, all obvious cattiness goes out the window (even when there's a bad history). A couple minutes of bumping boobs, looking at each other seductively for the benefit of that man (or way more behind closed doors), and finally the exchange of money and all is well. Until those two dancers are pinned against each other for some new (financial) issue in the future, they act as if they are best buds; I think they all really wish they were.

*Of course nobody's perfect- even with all the money in the world. There are a number of girls who dance with one arm always above their head for the sole purpose of making straight an uneven boob job. It takes a trained eye to notice these things... or rather a bored eye connected to a brain that's got nothing else to do other than pick apart what going on around it, a slick mouth to ask questions, and the absence of the all-distracting penis organ (i.e. Me). I've also seen a dancer with a harelip and one that's cross-eyed. Fortunately they're bodies are hot and their illusionary skills are keen enough to have hidden these imperfections during the audition. Well done, ladies. Keep makin' that money and you'll be perfect in no time!

*My barback was upset the other day about the fact that one of the hot waitresses was always getting drunk while at work, but was never reprimanded. He was frustrated because the rules were strictly enforced against him and his Hispanic coworkers. I told him that one day the world was going to change and all the non-white, ugly, broke, struggling people would rule the world. He told me that when that happens he'll still be nice to me. It was the sweetest thing anyone had said to me in a while.

Are You Not Entertained??

You would think that with all my big money talk and the excuse of cash to explain such a debauched job, I'd quickly have my computer up and running again- but it's worse than I thought. It seems the more I continue to help men cheat on their wives over their lunch breaks, the worse my karma gets; the most recent backlash of my behavior is the absolute breakdown of my new laptop. Warrantee you ask? Well I may be in a bad place right now, but I'm not an idiot. Of course I had a warrantee, and of course Karma found a way around that.

But I'm not here to vent about THAT...

I was tempted to go in and adjust the dates to create a number of entrees from the past few weeks as if I never stopped, but that just seems lame and deceiving. While I may protect myself somewhat with name changes, unfortunately I'm not lying about this stuff- so why lie about the frequency of my blogging? Instead I'm going to give you some short, succinct, entertaining stories from my older strip club day diaries. Here goes, in no particular order:

*I used to work where one of the strippers was a well-known porn star. She never told me or any of the other female service workers outright, but it wasn't a secret in the club. Every time she made a new DVD she would bring in multiple copies and hand them out to the male staff- even the guys in the kitchen. The last one they showed me had something to do with 'triple penetration'. It took me a minute, but I got it.

*One of the best impressions of an entertainer I've seen during Stripper Charades (a game the staff played when it was slow where we imitated the dancers), was by a waitress who acted out the routine of a girl with extra long hair. The give-away move was when she pretended to catch the ends of her hair between her butt cheeks and then run her hands through the strands after. We all wondered how sanitary it was for her to swing her locks around as she danced in the dining room after this signature move. Did she ever get a dingleberry on someone's steak?

*I knew a shot girl who used to be a stripper. Rather than take her clothes off and grind on the clients, she decided to sit on their laps, press her barely covered breasts in their faces and poor alcohol down their throats. She legally changed her name to Moet Productions.

*A couple years ago there was an older dancer who decided she could confide in me and started telling me about how depressed she was about getting old. It got to the point where she would come to the bar and start crying and calling herself ugly pretty regularly. That was a pain in the ass to deal with when I was busy. Damn my conscious! 

*Once a stripper told me that her regular hustle was to tell the clients that if they take her to a room she'll give them a blow job. Then, once they're in there and everything is paid, she plays it off like she's too scared she'll get caught.  However, she admitted to 'finishing' the 'big customers'... and by 'big' I mean rich, of course.

*I always wondered why if there is supposedly no touching during the lap dances, how come we had a regular customer who was blind?

Set the Alarm for 3pm!

I can't stay long. I've been running on borrowed computer time since my own laptop crashed which has clogged up my normal, creative juice flow. I know I have an immature club job, but I swear I'm not a flake. I'll be back.

Until then, just thought I'd make a little note here about how much these kinds of circumstances suck when you have the kind of schedule I do. It took almost a week for me to get my computer to repairs. Nine to five is usually my sleepy time, after all.

Sleeping at Night

"And this is the condemnation, that light is come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil. For Everyone that doeth evil hateth the light, neither cometh to the light, lest his deeds should be reproved. But he that doeth truth cometh to the light, that his deeds may be manifest, that they are wrought in God." -JC (John 3:19-21)

As The Times crossword advances to a place out of my mental grasp, I am reminded that the week is almost over. Thank you, GOD, and you're welcome for the shout out! I've survived four day shifts in a row. The positive side is that I've had evenings off and enjoyed them (too much yesterday, actually, when I spent more than I made). The bad thing was the realization that men are perverts 24 hours a day with no shame. As if I didn't know this to some extent, but the reminder of how far some go was a bit painful.

Irish Santa, Obnoxious-Short-Patron-Shot-and-Goose-Back Man, and Paulie were there every day like clockwork, and they weren't the only outed addicts, just the exceptional ones. Paulie, the old guido who subjected me to the sight of a clitoris and outer labia last week, managed to make my stomach turn again when I served him and a couple girls a full on lobster feast. He reached across the table without pause ripping meat from the carcasses in front of each girl and handing out the family style vegetables with his fingers. I never got a chance to see if he had a greasy butter stain all over the front of his pants after he got up, but I pictured it (as much as he plays with his crotch). But the worst part was watching the chicks eat the food after his cooties were all over it! I had to wash up to my elbows in the bathroom after bussing dishes off the table! Where are your boundaries, ladies!

Which reminds me- another truth that's been solidified in my What I Already Know brain file is that I'm a much better bartender after a couple drinks... well duh. No seriously though, it's especially difficult not to drink at a strip club. During the day, though, I can't do it like that. I read! My laugh is painfully fake, and some people I decide to not even wait on occasionally forcing a dancer to track me down because she was counting on me to help her waste time. Then I go in a sober pushover. I do try to get into a friendly groove at the end of the day when I know I'm about to go home broke, but without any real sense of pride. Right after the corporate work day ends and right before we do the shift change it starts to pick up and I start to push back. Ask and you shall receive! It's the truth, but it's awkward to do (especially sober and as a well-trained people pleaser). Still, I do just enough to walk out happy about a work to pay ratio above average and the fact that I have the night off.

Of course the truth is, I suck. The dancers-turned-waitresses do the best all around and I do my personal best with the protection of the bar between me and my prey (or am I the prey), AND I'm even better with a few drinks in me... at night. It's the only time that place could ever be acceptable in any way: drunk and at night. Serving drinks to couples in dark rooms when I know it's a sunny day out and I'm missing it is very different. Perhaps I should guilt the guy into buying a bottle of something because I know his little secret, maybe I should sit on his lap and tell him what he wants to drink because he'll probably listen, but instead I'm the girl taking their order from as far away as possible and then walking away as they're answering. I don't care- the line only blurs at night, but during the day it's lit up and obvious. Ewwwww, you're a perv!

Luck for me I can stomach a lot of gross.

My rational? It's just financially worth dealing with when factoring in a return of way lucrative night shifts. I made a respectable amount of money this week working the day shifts. It's worth it. Really. The day shift's not bad. The night shift is almost fun sometimes. It's cool. Did I say that already? Oh God.

Afternoon Delight

I'm working the day shift all week. It's cool because I get to keep a pretty normal sleep schedule, it's easy, and the money is decent. Better than most lunch shifts at a restaurant, that's for sure. I get there at 10:30 and leave before eight. Since it's summer it's not completely dark when I get out, but if I get on the train home immediately then by the time I get to my neighborhood it is. I can't imagine doing this for an extended amount of time- at least with the night shift you can will yourself to get up after a few hours of sleep and enjoy some sun from the next day... or stay up into the next day. But working all day the lights especially kill me in that dungeon. I'm happy to sit by myself on the separate V.I.P. floor where there's AC, lower volume on the music and I can read my book without much distraction- but it's hard to read under the black lighting. I should start taking vitamin D before I go crazy. It's like working in a casino.

The day shift has been interesting in its own way. Like how I've noticed who the real addicts are- I didn't even realize how I was naively assuming that some of these guys just happen to come on the same days I normally work! The truth is some go every day. There's this one guy who's been in the last two days, which is about as long as he's been in New York on business, and the hostess knew him from a previous trip. It sounds like I might see him tomorrow morning again, too. Strangely enough, though, this one guy I don't mind. He's got a cute little Irish accent and looks sorta like Santa Clause. I've imagined him a jolly, old, fat, lonely man who just enjoys the affection. Maybe his beautiful, legend marriage ended when she passed away from some rare cancer that he nursed her through, and he vowed to never love another women and now resorts to paying for human contact. Hot stripper human contact. Anyways, I may not give him any affection (gross!), but I do feel drawn to sit with him when he's waiting alone for the host to get him a new girl for another new hour in the room (he was still there when I left!) I can't tell if any of the girls he goes in with are finishers*, since I haven't worked at this club long enough to figure all the dancers out, but they don't seem to be. 

Mark Twain says to never wake a woman up from her dream!

So yeah. When working the day shift I head out of the house early, grab an iced coffee, The Times, The Post, and my novel and head to the strip club. I put on my sexy little outfit in the basement (skipping the hair and makeup routine mostly since I'm rarely seen anyway) and head up to the top floor where I make sure everything looks right before I sit down at a table to read the headlines and the 'Strange But True' section, do the crossword puzzles, then the Sudoku, order my ten dollar three course lunch (Holla!) and eat it. That reminds me, I forgot my chocolate cake doggy bag on top of my locker. Damn.

I do all this, usually, before the first guy comes up from the main floor to get a private room. Afternoon delight after lunch. When he gets up there I ask him if they want a bottle of wine, champagne (How about a bottle so I can just leave you two alone?) or drinks, they put in an order, I make it, serve it, close their curtained door with a heavy duty paper clamp, and finish the paperwork that the hostess has prepared for the payment of the room. Then I go sit back down with the walkie-talkie and listen for the signals that someone else might be coming up. The guys leave good tips cause they're ballers, plus they don't usually want me making another trip to get change as that's only cutting into their private time. Simple stupid.

And as always- one guy can make the whole day. Come to think of it, the Irish Santa tipped me big on every drink all day. Maybe that's why I liked him. 

*Finisher: a woman who poses as an exotic dancer but then prostitutes herself when in the private room. Synonyms: fun girl; one who 'does the right thing'; closer; hooker; ho; etc.

Pa Ruski? Habla Espanol? Arabee? English??

"May God be merciful with everyone, and may He remove from their eyesight the grim affliction that compels them to interpret everything I say as morally deprived and wanton. I have no recourse but to pray for these unfortunates, that God might enlighten their vision, so that they would truly see at least some of what is going on around them, as it really is, and guide them to the ways of respectable dialogue, without attacking others as unbelievers, without humiliating them, and without rubbing them in the dirt." Excerpt from 'Girls of Riyadh' by Rajaa Alsanea

Another really cool thing about working in a strip club is not just the money that you make, but the traveling the money can afford you (uh, yeah, my brain has to rationalize this way in order to build up the positive side of my pro/con list- "more available cash" would be another example... let it slide). I recently returned from over a year abroad where I was able to work a meaningful job as a writer, live comfortably and enjoy myself thanks to Third World prices and a strip club piggy bank. Now I'm home and able to slide right back in to get myself city situated again. Thank you service industry! 

So I moved to the Middle East a couple years ago after busting my ass through a busy season at the first strip club I bartended at; took the money and ran, as they say. It was in my last days upon leaving when I was working one of my lucrative VIP shifts during the early dinner rush and the owner approached my bar as he had habitually done over the past year or so. I got him a white wine, I'm sure, and we got to chatting. How I hate to waste my charm in these places! Eventually I was relieved by a visiting minion or ass-kisser or someone and my boss said to him about me, "Can you believe this girl? She's leaving us! Going to the Middle East." Then he looked me in the eye and went on, "They hate women over there." 

This guy. Who is married with grown children and grandchildren, and spends every day after work in his club with his stripper girlfriend, his best buddies and their own exotic dancing mistresses-AASLUTSCHOOOO! - sorry, excuse me. This guy who eats a big bloody steak, buttery and cheesy side dishes, drinks alcohol and smokes weed, and has sex with a prostitute every night. This old man who had a family party at the same club he cheats on his wife in- parties where his toddling grandchildren roam a place with poles and glowing pictures of fake breasts and jewelry in ass cracks on the wall. Curse the creators of Viagra! How is this old man still alive?

Am I giving myself too away here?

It just gets me thinking. When This Guy said that to me it stuck. Who the hell was he judging?But you 'love' women, is that it? Of course I just smiled and pretended to take him seriously as always. Stifle the opinion! And then I moved to a conservative country where I saw a whole other kind of screwed up. It made me truly realize how men and women are messed up all over the world. Crazy can look like many things. Some women stay virgins until they marry a man they don't love. Some have hymen repair surgery to trick a husband into believing they're a virgin when they're not. Some take their clothes off for money. Men want sex and women find many ways to deal with that- EVERYwhere.

The major languages of the club I'm in now are Spanish and Russian. English isn't popular in the dressing room. Although I'm American through and through, my father's strong Eastern European blood shows up so much on my face that girls are constantly asking me things in Russian. What's most interesting to me is how there was also a reputation that preceded Russian girls in the Middle East. Don't tell me you weren't picturing girls from the pages of Russian Mail Order Bride catalogue too. In Arab countries they were the call girls disguised as belly dancers or the dates for the traveling, rich Gulfie men. They must be the poorest white girls in the world- that's the only rationalization I can get out of that: laws of supply and demand. Stereotypes grow from a small but very real seed, I believe.

Of course I think many things are what they are and happen for a reason. They better- otherwise my good girl reputation was a huge waste of time and I've lost critical hustling years!

The After After Party

When you finish working at 5am (last call's at 4, and then we do our cash outs), you can't go right to bed.  It'd be like going to sleep before dinner time, for the nine to fivers. So, of course, in this great city that doesn't sleep there are a number of options for the service industry folk to wind down.

First stop is always right next door where there's a bar that reopens after they close specifically for my club's staff. There's a doorbell and the manager will come answer each new ring to approve or disapprove the guest. You have to know him or he'll tell you they're closed. It's a dark pub for us to get a quick buzz and talk shop while the sun comes up. From there one can always hit up Korea Town at any hour because these Koreans are the lucky holders of a legal 24 hour liquor license giving them the ability to openly sell sake and beer with the food (the afterthought to the liquor pull). No secret code to get in. There are a number of restaurants on this midtown strip to choose from, and going at dawn always results in a funny story.

On Friday and Saturday there's an after hours party downtown that goes until 8:30 or so. The basement club has a full bar, and plenty of druggies, drug music and drugs. Although liquor is my only vice, I brought some of my coworkers to this spot last night and enjoyed the guido fist pumping and glow stick dancing show. It was pretty intense as always. People there are so high that they have the nerve to strike up conversations with complete strangers, and as the three newbies who seemed to know the important people there (I'm friends with the promoters), me and my two guy friends from work drew a lot of attention. It's also quite the cockfest, so I was being schemed on from every angle by men with sly grins, big pupils and more drugs. And hats- you've never seen so many hats in one place without uniforms involved. It's like a mini hell, but it's so intriguing to me. There was one girl who did a run/dance from wall to wall the entire time I was there. And she was having a blast! Good times.

I can't believe I stayed so late this time that they turned the lights on at the after after party.

A Stripper's Soundtrack

One of the best parts about working in a strip club, besides the money, is the music. Because it's not a genre themed party (i.e. hip hop or house), all kinds of music can be played. Naked chicks are the theme. Mostly what we hear is based on what the girls request to dance to when they're on stage, but most of them are pretty lame and don't care so it leaves room for requests. If we don't request then the obvious dirty strip club jams will play- I'm In Love With a Stripper, She's Only 17, one of the many appropriate 50 Cent titles- you know, tacky stuff. 

That would be the DJ job I would want. All the girls tip him out every night too- 20 a pop and we get upwards of a 100 girls a night. Crazy. And they've got a nice set up, since they need a lot of technology back there in the booth to keep track of the rotation and which girls are in private rooms and therefor unavailable. The computer gives them the ability to download new music on command. Plus they're constantly saying crazy stuff and making growling and whistling sounds over the mic. I would have fun with that part especially. "And here comes Fantasy ready to fulfill your fantasies in a private room- GRRRRR... don't forget to tip your servers!"

I love it when the dancers pick conscious artists like Lauryn Hill to strip to. They so don't notice the irony. "Showin' off your ass like you thinkin' it's a trend, girlfriend lemme break it down for you again." Hilarious.

Everybody Poops

It was a slow holiday weekend in the city.  At one point in the middle of my shift a curvy Latina with a platinum blond wig passed by me (while I held up the wall).  She paused and smiled, leaned to look at the hidden tables under the stairs where a few new guests were drinking beers. Then she looked back at me and said, "I should go over there, but I'm gonna go take a dump first". I laughed and she headed down to the dressing room. 

Clits and Tits

Not only was it a crappy day shift that I had to endure today, but I was also presented with a full on clitoris shot.  I was just minding my own business and serving a drink to the guilty girl and a very perverse (and rich) regular when he asked me to come sit by him.  I knew something was up, and as I came to his side I realized that he was the one who was up and we were both facing a spread eagle stripper without any underwear on.

He then asked me if I liked it, I told him it wasn't for me and he replied, "Can you believe she had a kid? Looks tight, no?" Now it usually takes a lot for me to be at a loss for words, but all I could do was laugh. When she preceded to ask me if I liked girls (no) and if she could turn me out, I refused. Then she wanted to just 'look' at my covered parts, Tony offered money to comply, but I smiled politely and shook my head. She went on, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours".  Looking at her still exposed labia I answered, "You're not very good at negotiating are you?"  That was the end of the conversation and they headed off to the private room. He's so gross.

Dirty Money

I'm always getting a whiff of cocaine at the club.  Okay, I just gave myself away. Obviously I'm no saint- I don't do coke, per se, but I have tried it. It's been a really long time, I swear, but I'll never forget that distinct dirty coke smell and I think I smell it at the club.

It's especially strong by the cage- the window in the basement by the changing room where strippers pay their house fees and bartenders pick up and drop off their bank. The money room. When I'm flattening out and organize our tip jar I smell cocaine too. It's all over the cash, I think. At first I didn't say anything, but recently I made a comment about it and someone answered, "Everyone says that."

Rich Boys

One of my customers disappeared into a private room a little after midnight and then reappeared at closing time.  He was a young guy, decent looking and buying everyone shots.  His friends were cool enough too- those rare groups of young men who don't need to be there but were looking for something different to do.  One didn't like to be touched- especially by strippers.  

When 'Chad' showed up at 4am he started complaining immediately to me about being ripped off upstairs.  "They kicked us out 15 minutes before our time was up," he told me, "I'm never coming back.  Even the girls agreed that it was too soon."  As if the stripper would disagree with anything he said.  I apologized and asked him if there was anything I could do- careful not to give him the real name of the host that he was accusing (since he was calling him by the wrong name anyway).  Chad told me everything was fine and that he would call management the following day to complain.

Ten minutes later or so, with the lights on and everyone being ushered out, Chad approached me again and laughed, "I'm fine.  I have a trust fund so whatever.  I'll probably be back tomorrow."

The Last Days

A friend of mine quit. She had been working at a different gentleman's club in the city, one I used to work at with her, and said she couldn't do it anymore- it's slow and a lot of the girls are selling themselves (an impossible service to compete with). Another popular strip club in the city was recently shut down over prostitution and drugs.

If the strip club circuit is a litmus test for the state of societal morality, it appears the worst of the worst is getting worse and worse.

Bianca, we'll call her, is a massage girl. Or was. She moves from guy to guy making twenty a song to rub their neck and shoulders on the floor (equipped with lotions, money clip and Purel). It used to be commonplace for Bianca to be paid by the hour and brought into a private room -just to massage- whether because one guy fell for her or because a group of ballers wanted another luxury along with the strippers they purchased. She used to be able to knock on closed room doors to see if anybody wanted a back rub.

Not anymore.

Long gone are the days of the looking without touching, bachelor parties where a topless dancer is the highlight, and parties on the corporate credit card. If a guy comes out of his own pocket to take a girl to a private room, he's expecting sex. You don't want to poke your head in on that room.

Does Aunt Flow Know You're a Stripper?

My girlfriend asked me yesterday what the dancers did when they got their period. Tampons with a cut string, I told her. She really wanted to know about the whores, and we discussed the alternative options they had. But do they have an honest relationship with the managers to tell them, 'I can't work for the next 5 to 7 days'? Probably. Recently I listened to a girl's loud, sexual moans from a room for a good half hour and the manager did too, but she was never reprimanded as far as I can tell. 

I have had conversations with girls about the ways they tricked their regulars so as not to have to do it- ketchup on a pad, tampon in anyway, crying and complaining, etc. But what does the menstruating hooker do when she's supposed to appear to only be a stripper (keeping the days she's agreed to work)? Take a loss, pay the fee and sit around?  Resort to... clutching my pearls... getting naked on the main floor for less money? I don't think I know the answer, but I bet the master manipulators that make up the sex-for-money crew have plenty of answers and rationalizations.

A while ago a girl was giving a well dressed man a lap dance and bled on his lap. She was horrified, he was disgusted, and the club paid for the dry cleaning. Wonder if that's tax deductible for them.

No Sex in The Champagne Room?

What would be the point then?  The girls are rubbing up against the Johns on the floor during their lap dances enough to get them off, so what's left to do in the rooms besides sex? Besides drugs?

Those are the two most popular room activities: sex and drugs.  They're the promises that lure the men into the private areas for massive amounts of money. I immediately think of some close, clean stripper friends of mine. One insists on going in to rooms with coke heads because they can't get aroused, she says, and they just sit and talk all night. I have a hard time believing you can do this without partaking in the blow. My other friend doesn't get into the drug hustle.  She just dances, no touching, but she has to work almost every day and all night. Drunk. Her rooms are rarely renewed for additional time, because she's lucky to trap them for whatever they initially decide.  And nine times out of ten he's going to leave frustrated. Every now and again one might fall for her and come back, become somewhat regular- but those guys take a lot of time and energy outside of the club to maintain, i.e. texting and dinners. 

When I started my first strip club shift I remember assuming that the dancers who worked every night, the girls who moved around the room a lot from man to man, must be more crazy. It's so intense! Do they like it? Are they spending their money on drugs, and that's forcing them back every night? Aren't strippers supposed to have lots of free time? She works as much as I do. Then I learned the truth. The girls who show up sparingly and sit calmly at the bar when they do, they're more likely crazy. The money is even faster and the attitude is more lax when you're a high end Manhattan hooker. That kind of girl waits for that one guy to make their night - she could've set it up already. Bang. Big money. Or if she hasn't made 'a date', she knows that she's in a place where men with too much money and a buzz on are going to eventually come... pun intended.  She's willing to give them that, and for that the men will be willing to pay. It only takes one. A straight up stripper has to work for it- one by one by one. House fees are high (the cost to be an 'independent contractor', or dancer, in a club), and you don't want to get naked only to break even, so if you're only dancing then time (or songs) are money. Go go go. 'No I won't suck your dick, gimme 20 for the dance, NEXT!'

Another shift passes.

Beer with your lap dance?

I work in a strip club... with my clothes on!  I have to remember to throw that in right away. 

People judge so quickly, so first thing's first: I'm not a stripper, I'm a bartender.  Not that there's anything wrong with stripping, but there is a difference between the service workers in the strip club industry and the strippers (like strippers might actually 'service' someone). These spheres of employment do sometimes share a grey area, I won't deny that, but they definitely are separate. 

Oh.  And I actually do think there's something wrong with stripping (many things), but we'll get to that.

The thing is, my formative years were only semi-traumatic and dysfunctional, so although I have trouble dealing with much of the behavior I see at 'the club'- even from behind a protective bar, rail full of booze, ice bin, thin layers of clothing, and sarcastic attitude - I can handle it. While I was exposed early to some of the corrupted side, I was also raised in a great small city, loved, supported and taught by intelligent people. A village! I can handle AND report back.

But I must warn you, it gets disgusting. I notice every millimeter of contact my exposed skin makes with something or someone for the full 11 to 14 hour shift at a strip club.  Have you ever seen a champagne room in daylight? It's quite literally a dirty business- dirty money, dirty people, dirty couches, carpets, forks and glasses. Use your imagination. You can't see it with the flashing lights, but I know all the dirt.

A blog is the next logical step. To deal with my inability to process what I witness at work, I've gotten into the habit of writing down the most horrific stuff.  Then there's also some just plain funny crap.  Another grey area.  While the idea at first was that I'd write to get the visuals off my chest so I could sleep better, I don't know that it's really working.  It's adapting to an overnight schedule and building immunity to general debauchery that have probably helped my sleeping patterns most. Still, this is better than a stack of notes on napkins and receipt papers stuck in full notepads anyway. Slap on a pen name and send it out into cyberspace! Turn my nausea into someone else's laugh! Ya know, I forget that some people don't know how to play Stripper Charades, and don't know what funny money looks like or what a house mom does. Then I find myself defining something as simple as a knee job to set up a story worth telling. Perhaps an education in Gentleman's Club 101 is my calling.

Disclaimer: What I can't do is reveal the real me, the real name of the club or the people in it. 

Besides obvious common sense and polite discretion, I won't be outright for two specific reasons: I don't have the nerve to step on the toes of any major strip club owner AND I've had nightmares of my father coming in looking for me. In my dream Pop's pissed even though I'm only bartending when he walks in. He points at me from across the room and I wake up.  I never remember what I'm doing exactly behind the bar at that moment. I could've been making a drink; giving a customer shit for calling me something inappropriate; laughing with my new coworker friends; or leaning over to serve a coked up, drunk pervert while wearing a short skirt and my cleavage hanging out. Maybe I was the only girl dressed in the room. Is everything still relative then? Still the weight of that feeling stays for a few very real minutes of humiliation after his angry eyes wake me. I really don't want my father to find out.

Moving right along.  It's too interesting to ignore.

My mother and stepfather know where I work. I joke about it with them - they're bartenders too.  I give some credit to them for my first few layers of thick skin with all the time I spent in a 'regular', alcohol-only serving bar while growing up.  Their daughter, my teenage sister, knows about my employment history as well, while my other, much younger sister on my father's side obviously doesn't. Blah blah blah... point (again) being, one has to be a little screwed up to deal with the strip club environment to begin with, and I grew up pretty quickly. Even the protective father who haunts me in my dreams is a musician- hardly innocent.

I think I've deemed myself qualified to embark on a behind the scenes strip club blog. And what's more is that I need the outlet- obviously. Once extended time is spent peering into the deepest of the dark side (like working in a brothel... er... strip club), no matter how much you actually partake, your own center of moral gravity can potentially shift away from the, well, The Light.  I have to be careful and keep perspective and writing seems to help.

It's not like I can quit. The money's good.