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.

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.