The Most Disgusting Customer I Can Recall

It's possible that I may have blocked out worse, but this is the story of the grossest, most destructive, unwell person I can recall. What the hell- 'ere goes...

It was a few years ago. Dude walked in early- like 6 PM and went straight to a private room. I knew he had real money right away because he was wearing everything that went against the dress code- shorts (bright orange shorts at that), sneakers, and a t-shirt; he was smoking a cigarette as he walked through the main floor; and he was being escorted politely by a host and a security guard. You would've thought he was famous, except most famous people wouldn't have been allowed in dressed like that... except, maybe, Rodman. Anyway, we all knew how to spot the big fish and he was an obvious spender and we were right.

Although it seemed somewhat tame in the beginning as far as spending goes-early bird, bought an hour and a couple girls, got a bottle, whatever, cool- he exceeded everyone's debauchery expectations by far. Not only was he there until after closing, signing his bill to stay through past 4 AM, at one point he was doing something that made his corner of the club smell like straight feces. And I've smelled some shit in the club. With all the laxative-laden coke and bowel-loosening ecstasy in these places, the smell of diarrhea wafting from the restroom is not exactly uncommon (it keeps the girls skinny!) But this was something else, and it was coming from the room, not the toilet. It required a good air freshener spray every quarter hour! Now on that topic, I can't even tell you how the noxious fumes were unleashed, and I'm glad for that. I believe the waitress either stayed clear around this time or she spared us an explanation. We're all better off, I'm sure.

What the waitress did see in the room was bad enough but, like an adult cartoon, it was comically witnessed in strange, brief flashes from her personal light, because the customer managed to remove all the bulbs (the already dim bulbs) from the light sockets to make the room pitch black. Going in there was a challenge just to clear glasses and refresh ice. Maybe it was a blessing. Even with the lights out, the server would come out with stories about sudden scenes of fucking and coke sniffing as her flashlight scanned the room like a searchlight beam passing over an orgy. She even saw them snorting cocaine out of an ashtray filled with old cigarettes! She told us the white powder was mixed with the ashes and they were too high to even notice.

At the end of the night the waitress had to psych herself up to get the bill paid. He had already propositioned her, as they all normally do, and she had refused. It was inevitable that he would do it again before signing off on any gratuity. Do I give you money for being a waitress, or do we work something out now for a little extra, hmmmmm? She wasn't down with any of that, so it was going to be a bit intimidating. Some of these guys are known to get mad at the rejection and not tip at all. The room was still black, but with the help of the flashlight the waitress and customer found each other. She later told us she handed him the check presenter and as he took it she flashed the light on the open book only to see the bill being held by one of his hands and directly under that his penis being caressed by the other. "How much for you to give me a blow job?" He asked her without even pausing his masturbating. She politely declined and he conceded, signing the bill with an extra thousand dollars added for her and then frolicked back naked to the strippers. We all left before he did.

That's why I like to stay behind the bar. 

Ode to My Removable Shower Head

I'm much more relaxed now. I owe you less complaining about my moral dilemmas and more shallow nonsense. Why else come to a blog about a strip club, right? How about some Hollywood hearsay? We all love it...

Puffy came in a while back. His buddies mostly stayed at the bar downstairs while he spent time with some girls in a private room. When it was time to leave, which was not long after he arrived there if I recall, he took the check, crossed out the amount presented, wrote in a number that was about half the bill, and signed it without adding a tip. The management later just charged him the normal price- that club's owner, an original bad boy, don't play that. Outside I heard he asked one of the strippers who was taking a break on the curb (ironic) if she'd give him head. Supposedly she said no, and he pulled out very pissed off.

Little dude from Jaws- Richard Dreyfuss (man, he's small)- was nice enough when he came in, but I found it sort of creepy how he and his wife would have a long dinner surveying the girls before ultimately choosing one to take into a room together. I guess I should give him credit for bringing his wife at all... NAH

Dennis Rodman used to come in a lot- surprise, surprise. I could tell from VIP that he had arrived when the DJ started to play consecutive Pearl Jam songs. He could then usually be seen on the main stage dancing with the girl who was in the middle of a set, or some random girl he brought with him. He had far too much power for a guy who never bought rooms and asked for one thousand dollars in singles as soon as he walked through the door. He got off on throwing them at people and watching them grovel. Some girls were too good to bend over and pick any up off the floor, but the barbacks would do it for them. I picked them up. He was usually quite sloppy while tipping like that at the bar and if you kept sweeping the piles up they would amount to a decent gratuity considering he didn't ask for much and would do it consistently. It was especially good for me when they finally denied him the stacks of ones and gave him fives. I cleaned up once because of that.  It was the only time you saw me on my knees in that club- cursing him out under my breath while smiling and scooping. I'll never forget that time because it was such a slow night I actually stayed in a room with him, his minion of a "friend" and a couple dancers while the two men bragged to us about Dennis' awesomeness. We kept the door open (that was the deal since he didn't pay for the time) and I ran in and out to fetch drinks in hopes that he'd drop more fives on the floor each time. He did.

Jacob the Jeweler was a regular up to his arrest. He's a jerk. He never tipped and he just walked around with a stuck up attitude that stood out from even the general stuck up attitude of the club clientele. While going through his legal woes in the very beginning I heard that his friend had an altercation with one of the security guards and was ultimately thrown down a flight of stairs. They threatened to file charges against the club, but I haven't heard anything of it since. Too many 'suits' in his closet already I suppose- or maybe they settled out of court. I dunno.

I saw David Blain, the magician, not too long ago. It was uneventful.

I know an America's Next Top Model runner up who strips.

The Skankees I've already written about- that's worth a trip to my archives if you haven't read it.

BLADDDOWWWWWWW!  (That's the sound of spots being blown up). I'll try to think of more for later.

Making Love in the Club, The Truth

Anya's Theory of Relativity states that if you do something naughty in the presence of people who are doing something even worse, it doesn't feel so wrong. It's why company we keep is so important that it's made many a cliche status- birds of a feather.

The regular ol' nine-to-five may just now be opening up to the acceptance of romance in the workplace as people spend more and more of their time in the office, but the counterculture of the service industry never had boundaries written into their company policy handbook. When getting people intoxicated is actually a job responsibility, keeping sex out of it is too much to ask. Add getting naked to that as well. Basically, as I've probably mentioned before, there's lots of hooking up in the club. But love in the club? Never seen it. Has there been a restaurant or club reality show yet? I'd be surprised if the sensationalism-seeking producers of Hollywood hadn't already come with one.

If you're paying attention to what's considered today's popular culture, you already know that sex has become an American national pastime. It's true in other places as well, but since we own the media and spread our ideas all over the world, I think we're a major catalyst in the creation of the Recreational Sex League. The League is made up of bed-hoppers who are openly indiscriminate- because according to the world of new music videos, movies and television it's the way of the future. If she's a whore and she's okay, then the fact that I have sex now and again with only a couple must not be a big deal. Ugh.

Of course there are other bad behaviors that go hand in hand with this. Drugs play a huge role- alcohol included. It's easier to abuse alcohol when people around you are snorting cocaine and popping pills of ecstasy. Lying is a common theme as well. Not only are people in these atmospheres lying about the way they look, how much money they make, how promiscuous they are, or what they do for fun- they lie about everything. After working in a strip club off and on for years and claiming people from there as my friends, I actually can count the number of people I trust from there on my one hand. Half a hand, maybe. Lying just comes with the territory. Two girls I thought I could trust at one point now hate each other and call the other a liar. Who to believe? How about nobody? Whether it's big or small, people lie for all different reasons: to keep up a false appearance- hide a lover or a habit, to avoid responsibility, to hide money, to maliciously start trouble out of jealousy or boredom, etc. etc. etc. Hell, most of us are hiding the job all together and keeping the public us a separate entity. We lie about our names! It's impossible to keep up with or predict. I've witnessed lies between people who claim to be best friends just to cancel plans because the liar didn't feel like hanging out. It becomes second nature, impulsive. If it's a cold cold world, the tittie bar is Antarctica.

This environment has caused me great depression as I simultaneously try to hold on to my values. I've gone running from it before, only to come back with my tail between my legs needing money. What's a good girl to do? Grocho Marx said, "The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you've got it made". Funny, but I hope that's not true, although it certainly seems to be. And even if things aren't always what they seem, does it really matter what things really are? I've tried to do the right thing, and I'm not sure that it's paid off. Caring can be very painful while selfishness looks very fulfilling and easy. Where is the genuine happiness I'm entitled to for NOT being a liar? Where are the men who have seen this side of people, but have the willpower and desire to go against it? Do I need to lie about where I've been to find an honest man?

Of course, I could be lying about who I am right now... 

VD

Valentine's Day has come and gone again. Ugh. An old friend who I worked with at my first strip club job sent me a text that said, 'Happy VD, I'm burning for you'. Clever. She's been working as a manager-slash-bartender in a regular ol' bar in the city for the past few years, but with times as hard as they are she's now looking for shifts back in a gentlemen's club. Unfortunately even though many of our old colleagues from years ago (the 'dedicated' male service workers, go figure) have now penetrated the upper echelon of today's clubs, she's had no luck getting back in. Everyone wants a job in the vice industries. Wall Street brokers are even sending resumes to managers for jobs in an attempt to get back some of the money they 'invested' in the clubs before the economy crashed.

Ha ha! I said gentlemen's club. I can't help but want to change up the vocabulary so as not to repeat 'strip club' often, but 'gentlemen's club' is such a euphemism! What a crock. And the 'hosts' are not pimps, the 'lap dances' not over-the-pants frictional jack-offs, 'dancers' not strippers... or hookers. We're even told to never use the word 'cheap', but 'inexpensive' instead. I need to snap out of the gentlemen's club vernacular- NUDIE BAR! SEX SHOW! BROTHEL! NIPPLE DERBIE!!!! Yeah, I looked that last one up. What the hell is a nipple derbie anyway?

Anyway. In the name of St. Valentine, the patron of lovers, let me at least mention those patrons who might be occasionally considered gentlemen. Still, my pseudonym allows me to skip the euphemizing and get straight to the point: the dumb, the dwarfed, the obese, the disturbingly ugly, the crippled- these are the guys who are excused. They are also the ones you're more likely to see on Valentine's Day because they really can't get it on their own. The rest are not gentlemen. They are liars, cheaters, and overindulgent- brokers, lawyers, CEOs, actors and trust fund babies. Those guys spend Valentine's Day with their girlfriends.

Happy VD! I'm itching to make some money.

Perkies

There are so many different perks to consider in the business, budump-bump. Perks in the added bonus sense of the word, I mean. The bathroom guy once had the best answer when a customer asked him, "What's the best thing about this job?" He told him, "I can take a piss whenever I want." It was right on cue, I'm sure. I have my own jokish answers to common questions as well. You might even consider that its own perk: to have jokes memorized as a job requirement; it aids in my popularity, no doubt. The hosts and the managers laugh about service punctuality and free upgrades gained from the power of their business cards. They can get a cellphone fixed and delivered back to them at work in the same day. Buy the deliverer a drink if need be, but the new connect is usually ecstatic just to be in the club- especially on company time. I'm sure the hot girls checking coats and taking admission fees, and the security dudes at the door can get a food delivery stat, maybe even free, although I'm never there to see it. And when assigned indoors, the security guards are ultimately getting paid to look at naked girls. Fights just don't break out like in regular clubs, so the need to actually secure is somewhat rare.

Stories are a perk for me, and others. That chick that wrote Juno in her off-stripping time signed on for a series with Steven Spielberg. I WISH! Well... I don't wish that everyone I know find out that I work in a strip club and accept it, but I'd take a deal with Steven Spielberg as a result of having so much extra creative time, transparency aside. What else? Hair and makeup is a perk in a couple ways. That place is a wealth of beauty tricks and illusions, the dressing room its classroom and the club its research lab. It's a free lesson if you want it, or beauty is an all-too-easily-available option to just pay for and have applied to you. Take it from a girl with a big 'ol head of hair, having a hair stylist on site and ready to tame your mane for twenty bucks is a fringe benefit.  That leads me back to cash. Cash in hand, especially these days, now that's big. And, of course, the job can be a lot of fun (although that fact is more dangerous than a bonus).                                                                                                                                                                          

Strippers, its worth mentioning, are exempt from this topic except to mention that the downfalls of their job far outweigh the perks (as is true for every position, in my honest opinion). Let's just assume they have all of the above mentioned plus some. 

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.