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Sunday, November 21, 2010

Story Comes To Town: Hijinks Ensue

Okay. So I read a lot of random crap on the internet. And since I’m a stripper, blogs about stripping fascinate me. Also, they are relevant to my life. I’m hoping to one day figure out how not to be a lazy hippie stripper, but I have little hope, honestly. I will never shave my cunt with anything approaching razorblade status, and I will never own a hair straightener. Nor will I visit a tanning bed for my pale, pale skin, so, yeah.

Anyhow, one of the bloggy friends I’ve known online for a while, Story, has come to town. She is one of the traveling strippers I know. I’m pretty excited. We were going to do a couple of shifts at my strip club, but right now management is one big clusterfuck and so we are going to head out to a different local club.

Just trying out there was an Experience, lemme tell you. They don’t let you try out on stage, like pretty much every other club, Ever. They just take you into the hallway/office back area, and ask you to get naked. So I stripped out of shirt, hoodie, bra, and shucked my jeans down to my legs. I did not remove my cruddy full-coverage underwear, but then, the day manager didn’t ask. I did shake my ass at him briefly, for shits and giggles. It could have been a creepy scene, but it felt pretty laid back. He didn’t seem like he was checking us like meat instead of human beings – more just checking to make sure we didn’t have super saggy bellies and tits, a spare tire hiding under the hoodie, or, say, track marks.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with having something sag a bit – but the sad truth is that not many people want to see that, in this particular field. Chances are they have a wife at home that looks similar. She may look pretty damn good, but she’s not fucking Giselle. (For the record, I don’t look like the bitch either.) Sure, there are some clubs with some rough looking girls… but suffice to say, I don’t work at them, for good reason. The reason being, I don’t feel like giving $100 blowjobs in the back room. It’s not my scene.

So local club could be an interesting place. We tried to speak to the night shift manager, but were shut down pretty quickly, for he is a Douche of Douchebagginess. So, day shift it is. 11 – 7. I don’t think I’ve ever made it to a club so early in my fucking life. We shall see how that goes, tomorrow.

Story is, and isn’t what I’ve expected. She is somewhat as I imagined, but taller than I thought, my height. More like my build rather than the petite I envisioned. More forward and assertive than she comes across on her blog. I imagine this is so, because her blog is an introspective, beautiful thing, and life is also beautiful, but with more jagged pieces.

I know my writing is not necessarily equal to my personality. When I write poems, I come across as introspective, I’m sure. In real life, I’m more like a bull in a china shop. Life happens like that, sometimes. We had intended to sit at the coffee shop and write, but we couldn’t sit still tonight. We went to Monday Night Drinking Club, and tried out at local club, and shopped at the grocery. Maybe tomorrow after we exit the club with hundreds clenched in our wallets, we will take our cameras through the city in search of things for them to devour.
I thought it was funny the way we both showed up in nearly the same outfit – hoodie, dark jeans, doc martens boots.

Next Day:

Ye gods, we just got home from local club. And wow is that place a clusterfuck.
Let me start off with the kicker: $82 stage fee FOR DAY SHIFT. To be fair it’s the same for night shift too, but STILL. It goes down to $52 when you are on the schedule. The $2 is for their measly catered lunch. And I ate a teeny plate of mashed potatoes for lunch, if that tells you anything.

And was I wrong about the saggy bits. There are girls there whose bellies have obviously seen a few children, and one had a very obvious tummy tuck. Stretch marks and saggy was very present. They say it’s where the locals go – true. It’s also where the locals work.

One girl in particular stunned me with some particulars as we were all getting ready for the obscenely early (11 – 7) day shift in the dressing room. She had a great Cajun accent, and was recounting a story that would make anyone think twice about shaving. Or just resolve to swear it off entirely.

“…he’s layin’ at home with ice on his nuts, they had to slice open his bawl, remove a cyst, and pack it full of gauze. All from an ingrown hair. Doctor said he shouldn’t be shavin’ his nuts with a razor anyhow. He said he’s not gonna shave again ever, and I was like, then I ain’t suckin’ your dick, with all that hair! So he said he’d get some clippers.”

Then there was the guy in the striped polo who seemed rather normal at first – but seemed to have a vocabulary that consisted mostly of repeating “Damn! Damn Damn Damn Damn Damn!!!” at me while onstage. Also, he kept howling like a wolf incessantly for no apparent reason, for a few hours. This same winner (who appeared to be a regular, by the by) was also the one who whipped out his dick and presented it to Story while in their version of the (cruddy, too-cheap) VIP rooms that rent out by the hour and half-hour. That’s always a nightmare scene, especially when you haven’t gotten your money yet. She said it was her first-ever dick sighting in a strip club. I count myself lucky that in 5 years of this gig, I haven’t yet seen a dick out of its resident pants. I’ve seen plenty of other shit, but not that.

Evidently we chose the club where girls get fingered in the back for $100. Whoops. Well, you win some, and you lose some. At least this club had one perk: when you walked the bar (which was, essentially, the rack) and danced for the patrons, every one of them was required to tip you at least a dollar. So even if there were only 5 people in the club, you knew you’d get that $5 per set because there really wasn’t any other seating besides the bar. local bar was clever about that.

They’re clever about dicking people out of money as well, though. They don’t tip out the DJ, even though they could take it out of the exorbitant stage fee. They take $5 out of every $30 lap dance. I should have walked out of that club with $400+ tonight. Ended up being more like $240.

It’s not that I’m so obsessed with the numbers, it’s to show how much money they suck from every dancer who works there. So if they got $160 from me alone, and there were eighteen people working the day shift today… you do the math. That club is rolling in money. You wouldn’t know it though, from all the dirt and the crappy condition of the dressing room. Or, really, any other part of the club.
The stage was gritty and the pole was terribly scratched up, to the point of being rough on the hands. I wore my cruddiest shoes, thinking they couldn’t possibly get any worse, but they returned home dirtier from the floor, which was uneven and a total tripping hazard, forcing you to shuffle around to avoid twisting an ankle.

I spent from about 11 – 5 wondering what the fuck I was thinking, working in this club, and resolving to hightail it back to my normal bourbon street club. I got a few lap dances, but only enough to pay the stage fee and have $20 left over.

Then, the Guys With Money came in. They were Asian, and I didn’t ask, but I am going to assume they were Korean, based on actions, and I’ll tell you why. One of the guys acted completely in love with me, and bought like 7 lap dances from me. In these lap dances, he was super-affectionate and huggy – almost as if he were playing out a mini relationship.

I have a friend living in Korea right now, and she has given me a ton of insight on how couple culture is in Korea – very, very affectionate and glued-at-the-hip while in private – and so this is why I believe he was Korean. None of this made these the Absolute Strangest Lap Dances I Have Ever Given In My Life.

Of the two, the one who was most enamored of me (I believe his name was Ban, but please, don’t quote me on either correctness, or spelling) was, naturally, the one who spoke all of three words of English. (Those being “money,” “beautiful,” and “See.” As in, let me see your pussy. Which, btw, is illegal in NOLA.) Now I don’t personally care if you can or can’t speak English, but the lack of common language presents large issues – namely, how to negotiate prices for dances, time limits, rules, and the use of the word “NO!” We did a lot of pantomiming. For every song we danced to, we probably spent another half-song trying to figure out logistics, and if we would be having more dances. It was labor-intensive, but still not that strange, for I have been Around The Block and this was not my first pantomime. While we were sitting with his friend, the friend (whose name I never caught unfortunately) could translate for us and did a pretty good job, but as soon as we stepped away, we were in no-language land.

Ban was really hard to dance for, in that he was the type of customer that didn’t just let me dance. He wanted me to do certain poses, and stand up and hug/hold him, and lie down while he jiggled various parts of me. He really liked the fact that I jiggled, and proceeded to variously jiggle my butt, legs, belly, and tits for the entire time I was with him, in the lap dance room, or otherwise.

He did not relax for a dance when I was sitting on him, but would instead pull me closely and firmly in, and lean into me. I would have felt strange if I thought I was being manhandled, but I got the impression he just really wanted me close to him. Very, very close. He also tended to kiss me all over, going in multiple times for the lips, but I always blocked that. But he didn’t really kiss, per se, as much as press his whole face against mine, sans even puckered-up lips. It was thoroughly bizarre.

Of course he liked to bounce my tits as most men do, but he did so in a very strange manner – instead of going for both, he favored the left (in his right hand) and bounced it vigorously over and over, much like a jerking-off motion. I didn’t even know how to handle any of this, but since he wasn’t really crossing any boundary lines of mine, I just shrugged.

Although I will say that I LOATHE it when people try to stimulate my nipples. Mostly because I am extremely sensitive, and most people yank like they’re trying to start a fucking lawn mower, and if I let them, I go home at the end of the night aching and feeling like I rubbed my nipples with sandpaper for hours. No thanks. Also, Ban and his partner in crime (to whom I gave a single dance) were both trying to get into my thong ALL FUCKING NIGHT LONG in spite of repeated nice and not-so and not-at-all nice warnings about staying The Fuck Out of my drawers. Not the best customers, but also not as bad as the other guy I gave a dance to that night.

This particular guy was older, looked nice, but as soon as we got back into the dance room began harassing me to “show something,” a.k.a. take off my thong. Now I’ve had enough experience dancing at all nude clubs that I don’t give a shit, but it is illegal in Louisiana. Plus local club has cameras, and lots of them. But this guy was annoying the fuck out of me, so I went ahead and flashed him a few times.

Guy didn’t really know what he was in for, though, because I was bleeding today, and had a nice tampon string hanging out in full sight, once I moved that thong. I did notice he left directly after that dance. I hope he got his bloody eyeful. People like that piss me off. If you are nice to me instead of demanding, I am far more likely to let you do cooler things, but if you are a douche, I will absolutely let you have the absolute minimum air dance, or “accidentally” grind your foot with one of my heels. Or in this case a nice gross-out, for bad behavior.

Morals of the story: local club probably isn’t worth working at on a regular basis, at least. Also, don’t piss off the strippers. They have really great ways to take their revenge.

Tomorrow, we are going to my usual haunt. And we are going to see how that goes.

Next Day:

Oh gods, these long days are killing me. I usually work between 5 – 8 hours, but I’ve been putting in 9 – 11 hour shifts the last 2 days – Story is a fucking trooper.

She leaves her things scattered all over my house. Some people would hate that. My mother does; every time I come to stay and sleep on the couch and leave my suitcase with its contents vomiting out I can feel her twitch a bit. I like it. I like that people are in my house visiting. It makes me feel like a grown-up in the good way. My cat is sleeping on her boots, and her valuable things are on one of my altars. It’s a good thing. (I have altars to nature. I find it’s something I can actually prove to exist. I like rocks, plants, shells. So I have them in profusion, with a ton of candles.)

Today was an average day at my club. So slow all day, and it finally picked up decently around nine. Money was average. But it’s such a better working atmosphere. I left happy tonight. That was partly from talking to a great man. I’ll call him The Atheist. He was so much fun, talking about his family and how he hates religion too. He’s from Atlanta.

He told me when I came to talk to him that he had an issue with getting dances after he’d gotten to know a person. So I told him to come and do a few dances first, and then we’d spend some time getting to know each other. So we did just that. It was a good conversation. We were both band geeks, similarly politically frustrated (read: libertarians who know better), and we loved talking about the silliness of religion.

I was completely honest with him, which is rare – except for one thing. One stupid thing – a pronoun switch. From he to she, because when you are in a strip club and you don’t want to lie about having a Someone but you don’t want to own up to Boyfriend, sometimes you make that little switch. Because men find it “fascinating.” Because I gauge what type of person you are, based on how you respond. And it’s not like I’ve not been with girlfriends… it’s just not true right now. I have one boyfriend, and other possibilities, none solidified.

But I told him the truth at the end of the night because I also talked with him about writing, and I gave him the URL of my blogs. Because he was cool. Because, ultimately, writing is about sharing a story. And I have hundreds of them.

It’s now light outside, and I can’t sleep. I’m thinking too much about hitting the road. I really want some way to travel, a way to get the fuck out of dodge when it’s all too much for me. I am tired of being stationary and it hasn’t yet been a year. I know Matt would like to stay put. But I know what I want, and it’s not to stagnate in the same place.

Sometimes I wonder if this will be what separates us: a wanderlust, and an equally fierce desire to have a home to return to, versus wanting something stable, somewhere to build a life. I am not sure I’ll be able to build a life in only one place.

1 comment:

Sixty said...

So glad you got to hang out with story!