Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Slush Funds

On Monday, I took a look outside at the inches - nay, feet - of snow that were piling up and glanced sadly at my heels. I was on the schedule for work, but I wasn't sure if the club would be open or not. Also, with the entire tri-state area crippled by the snowfall, I wasn't sure if a day at work would even be worth my while. The blizzard just had to come between Christmas and New Years, the most lucrative few days each year, didn't it?

I decided to brave the storm, heading out into crazy winds and thigh-deep snow drifts. Each step I took, I glanced back at my building and wondered if I should turn back. But the fact that I'd already trekked across the street seemed like a big enough feat, so I proceeded to endure the craziest commute ever - including having to hold on to a deli door so wind didn't blow me away, switching three trains before I found one that was actually going to my club, and getting to about five feet from the club entrance and seeing snow drifts so high that it seemed impossible to cross those five feet and enter the club. I managed, though (crawling, holding onto the tops of cars as my foot sunk into ice - at one point, I swear, I got an icicle enema...) and got inside the club. I'd given up on making any money that day, but just looking forward to the warmth and refuge of the club.

There were only three girls there! I wasn't sure if there were going to be lots of customers, but whoever did come in would have the simple choice of curvacious Latina, bookish South Asian, and large-breasted blonde. Yes, the three of us had free reign over every customer that entered the club!

I guess having a snow day - office closings and transportation problems - made it easier for certain customers to show up. While it was generally a slow day, the people that did make it into the club were there to stay (there was no leaving! the wind was ridiculous!), which was good news for us. Surprisingly, I had a pretty good day! My regular Tibetan customer came in, raped my face (tried to lick my mouth during lapdances!!!) and I slapped him, but he bought a few dances anyway. Then there was this UN guy, who found himself without a return flight to Africa, who totally was able to cum during a minimal-contact lapdance (and tipped nicely as a thank-you).

And, finally, the highlight of my day: a DEAD FUCKING RINGER for Liam Neeson was sitting at the bar, nursing a vodka tonic. This guy was gorgeous, and when I went to get my stage tip from him, I said: "Oh my GOD, it's Leslie Nielson!" He gave me a playful injured look, and I realized my mistake, and we had a good laugh about it. This Hungarian hottie was totally funny, and charming - not to mention drop dead gorgeous. He was the spitting - fuck it, the SWALLOWING - image of Neeson, which made fantasizing about my celebrity encounter that much easier as we enjoyed some flirtatious banter and lapdances in an otherwise empty club.

All in all, I'd highly recommend working during blizzards. Chances are there will be no girls there (in fact, management was trying to get me to stay for a double shift because none of the late girls showed up, and they were probably going to have to close), customers will be likely to stay put once they get inside the club, and the empty/warm/intimate feeling inside is likely to spark some generosity.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

I had reservations, but I came anyway.

There's this new regular at work. He shows up early, starts drinking, and by around 7 p.m. he's totally hammered and asleep at the bar! Anyway, we had a brief encounter about halfway to his 7 p.m. demise, and he told me that he'd never been intimate with an Indian woman before. "You're so exotic," he told me. Because he seemed somewhat intelligent, I asked him what he meant, and that exotic was a fancy way of saying "not quite normal-looking" - but he got a little defensive and asked me if I couldn't just take it as a compliment. I could, sure, but show me the money! As a newbie to the strip club scene, he was nervous about getting any lapdances from me because he "had danced with that other girl earlier and I don't want her feeling bad." After a couple hours and several Jack and Cokes, those reservations disappeared and he waved me over for a lapdance. He was out of cash, and wanted to use the ATM in the club, but was too drunk to coordinate. What did he do? Told me his ATM pin # and asked me to withdraw $200! Thank his lucky stars that I'm not a thief, and curse me and my law-abiding ways (takes a long toke, continues typing). He was so far-gone, I totally could have taken cash out of his account and pocketed it, or better yet pocketed his card!

During a moment of respite in the dressing room (the club's heat was funky and it was FREEZING on the floor), we started sharing "crazy customer" stories. I told them about Sissy James, and this dancer Champagne responded with the story of a customer she used to freelance with outside the club. He would watch gay porn while she fucked him in the ass with a strap-on, and all the while be telling her "I'm not a fag, you know?" I had a similar champagne room experience once in Manhattan, minus the fucking. This ABCD took me back for an hour and, rather than lapdances, he wanted dirty talk - most of it revolving around all the things I'd do up his asshole, and how I'd share him with another man. After the hour was up and he was spent, he told me, "This is just dirty talk, you know? I'm not gay or anything." By far the best tale came from Alina, who told us about a guy who took her into the champagne room, got a bunch of clean lapdances, and then asked her to move out of the way. He unzipped, leaned back, put his legs up in the air, and ejaculated - into his own mouth - then smiled at her, saying "I like to recycle."

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Cultural Capital

There are a few things I *never* want to happen to me at work, even though they seem sort of inevitable.
- Getting my period on a guy's lap: I'm hopelessly out of tune with my cycle and hence don't know when to expect it, and totally worried I'll be on some married guy's white linen lap or something when Flo arrives)
- Falling on stage (or off stage, for that matter): I've never become fully comfortable with these heels, and the floor is uneven and sometimes quite slick. The physical pain of falling would be way outdone by the embarrassment of it!
- Having any sort of run-in with the cops!

I was on my way to work, running a couple minutes late, when the subway turnstile rejected me. Insufficient fare! I ran and quickly purchased a new Metrocard. There were two cops standing around the machine and, as always, I felt a sense of discomfort and annoyance as I quickly fumbled with my debit card and backpack zipper. As I ran down to catch the E train, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around, face to face with one of the pigs. Gulp. What? Could he tell I'd eaten the best magic brownie of my life the previous day? I took my earbud out and smiled at him.

"You dropped your phone, maam, and we were calling at you but you didn't hear us. What are you listening to, anyway?"

He hands me my phone after delicately inserting the battery that had fallen out.

Whew! Well, I got to work on time in spite of it all, and quickly put on my new ChristmAss outfit: this clingy red and silver gown with little rhinestone accents, fire engine red lipstick, and green and gold glitter for the eyelids. I was expecting a couple good customers and sipping a cup of coffee when the housemom comes up to me in a panic.

"I need your help. You're not only the MOST intelligent girl here, you're also the only intelligent one, and the cops are on their way. I need you to talk to them when they get here and tell them there's no prostitution or drug dealing going on."

I'm stunned. The cops are on their way? Is this cuz I dropped my phone?! And, why am I supposed to be the go-between for the club?

So apparently what happened is that someone called the cops and said there's drug dealing and prostitution happening at the club (generally not at all true, though I'm sure there's been a handjob or dime bag exchanged on the rare occasion) and the cops called to announce they were on their way.

First things first, all the girls starting talking about their relatives who were cops. One girl's father is a vice cop, and she was worried he'd be one of the raiding officers. Another girl has a detective uncle. Literally each of these women is closely related to someone who'd be there shortly to arrest their ass!

Next, the club said we weren't allowed to give lapdances for the day. So, let me get this straight, I'm supposed to sit down and wait to be interrogated by the 5-0 AND not have any money to show for it? Not at all a risk I'm willing to take. Plus, I'd already been shown some mercy by cops earlier in the day; what are the odds of having such good luck twice in a row? I wasn't interested in finding out.

Suddenly the girls were all summoned to the dressing room, where a bunch of freshly printed legal forms were there for us to sign. From what I could tell, they were statements that absolved the club of any responsibility for actions of the girls, and we were all supposed to put older dates on them so it looked like we'd signed them earlier. Sketch!

So I told the housemom I wanted to go home. She said I was being paranoid, and just to relax. "It's not an immigration raid, I promise you," were her exact words. What? I'm a U.S. citizen! I told her I was worried about the possibility of arrest, and didn't want to jeopardize my other job. She didn't want to hear it.

I spoke to our (sweet, kind-hearted) manager, who told me I should go home. He told me that he was charging all the other girls a $40 fine if they left, but I had a legitimate reason (i.e. "a university job" - I suppose the other girls who were saying "I have 2 kids at home" or "I don't want to pay the sitter if I'm not going to make any money here" don't have legit reasons?) and I should just go home.

As I was getting dressed, the other girls started asking me why I wanted to leave. They all started talking about their previous raids, arrests, and run-ins with the law. I explained that I hadn't had any such experiences, and wasn't looking to start today. "Oh, no wonder, girl! I always thought you seemed like a doctor or lawyer or something, and I was always asking people what a girl like you was doing here!" And all of a sudden all these girls (many of whom I've never spoken to) took this sort of protective stance, telling me to go home, dodge the cops, etc. It was a very strange show of solidarity, even as it seemed totally strange to me to be cast into this elite/protected category.

I left before the cops got there, but realized as I saw my reflection in a deli window en route to the train that I looked more like a prostitute out on the street in my full stripper make-up in broad daylight than anything in the club. (I also quickly emailed all my customers from my phone, telling them I wasn't there today. Customers first!)

Ugh! A few options:
1) Go back to my Manhattan club, which is full of bullshit, fines, fees, and being pimped out in the champagne room
2) Get a 'straight' job for a while to keep the income a-flowing
3) See what happens at this club in a few days and possibly go back

Regardless, fuck.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

Cunning Linguistics

Ah, holiday season at the club. It's always a jolly time, and the months of December and January always seem particularly lucrative! Last year, my Manhattan club had us dress "festive" (I had a long strapless sequined red clingy gown that worked well, and a short white and silver dress that did the trick too). This year, though, my new club wants us to dress in either green or red with white (faux, I'm hoping) fur trim, basically looking like Mrs. Claus back in the day. They want us to be ho, ho, ho's! Of course, they are selling outfits that fit convention for like $90 each at the club, which is a total rip-off, so now I have to spend time this weekend trying to find cheap alternatives in the real world.

In other news, yesterday a customer, clearly aroused by my gentle ear-whispering at the bar, expressed his interest in a lapdance. I told him to follow me to the lapdance area, but he seemed hesitant. "Do you think I should go the bathroom first and jerk off so that I don't cum during the lapdance?" he asked earnestly? (Of course, I was right to be skeptical of his desire to buy a lapdance immediately after getting himself off...)

Another customer, who is always at the club and a very generous tipper on stage, finally waved me over to sit with him. I introduced myself and we started chatting, and I asked him what his holiday plans were. "I'm going to be with the kids." "Oh, that's nice! How many kids do you have?" "I have 57." (quizzical look from me) "I am not their father, but I built them a halfway home. They are orphans or abandoned. I was just trying to do my part." "I see. So are you on the board of this organization?" "I am the only sponsor, I'm a philanthropist." "I got it. So what do you do for a living otherwise?" "Oh, it'd probably all go over your head. But let's just say I have several businesses and properties everywhere, and at this point they're all making me so much money that I don't have anything to do." (he pulls out a bundle of $100 bills and puts them on the bar in front of him) The conversation continued, with him bragging about all the countries he has beach homes in, assuming I was geographically/historically completely challenged, and then him bringing up Slumdog Millionaire and how much he loved it. I was so irritated with him at this point that I said, "yeah, if you love poverty porn" which sparked a conversation about how this film would never have been successful if it actually brought up issues of neoliberalism, postcoloniality, and a general contextual discussion of why India has such concentrated wealth and extreme poverty. At this point, he decided I was "smart" and asked me if I got bored having uninteresting and unintelligent conversations with people in the strip club. I always loathe such questions that pit me against my colleagues and customers, especially when they come from arrogant douchebags, but that pile of $100s was reflected in my dollar-sign shaped eyes so I endured. Anyway, basically the conversation turned into how, at this point in his life, the only thing that excites him is getting in bed (or a shower, pool, limo) with three girls at a time. Then he told me which of the girls in the club were lesbians, which would fuck me good with a strap-on, which were boring to him since they weren't into girls. I told him I was totally into girls, but he dubbed me a "cherry" - someone inexperienced in the world of threesomes and foursomes. He said he wanted to get me in on some of his world travels with his posse of lesbos (I guess I'd be the "cherry" on top!) The best was that he had me pick a girl to get lapdances from, and he gave each of us a handful of cash to retreat to the lapdance area for a bit. (We just sat back there and chatted and laughed, cuz he wasn't even interested in looking.) Then I came back, told him that this girl had gotten my pussy real wet and even gone down on me for a while, and thanked him for the good times.

Speaking of lesbians, I got into a conversation with another dancer about cunnilingus, and she told me how much she hated it. "God gave men a dick so they could fuck!" she told me excitedly. "If I wanted someone to lick my pussy I'd just be a lesbian. You have a dick, man, now use it!"

One of my favorite old customers resurfaced (the one whose whole family is on Lexapro) and we had a blast together. He's really nice, and (back to the topic of erections at the strip club) he popped a boner for the first time ever in our year and a half of friendship! He said he hasn't gotten a non-Viagra induced erection in several years and was very pleased with himself for getting some all-natural wood.