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.
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