Rihanna just can't win, can she? (And by "can't win," I mean "make millions of dollars before hitting 30".) She's getting her skin lightened on November's Vogue (which Vogue vehemently denies, of course - but there's no denying that blonde wig, Ms. Wintour!), Dutch magazine editors are making overtly racist comments about her, the results of an ugly, abusive relationship are in the public spotlight, and finally, she gets critiqued for collaborating with her former abuser! Yes, everyone thinks Rihanna's an idiot for collaborating on Birthday Cake with Chris Brown, overlooking all the very real, nuanced, living dynamics of fucked up relationships, abusive or not.
Well, my friends, I'm no Rihanna, but I totally dig what the article linked above gets at. Thankfully, I've never been in a relationship that escalated to any physical violence (though I did hook up with a big-dicked guy who refused to use lube - ouch!), but in June this motherfucker basically finger-fucked me while I was giving him a dance and I had to pry myself off him...as soon as I got to the dressing room, I was all in runny-makeup tears yelling at management "Where the fuck were the bouncers while this fucking asshole tried to rape me?!" and caused a big scene. Two weeks ago, the same dude was back at the club, nursing his beer ("I get Budweisers here because the bottle is metal and so no one can tell when I've finished it so I just have to buy one drink the whole day.") and I totally hustled him for lapdances. On my walk back to the lapdance section, I gave the bouncer a stern look, letting him know I actually wanted him to watch me (yeah, the bouncers at our club don't do that unless specifically asked) and gave the guy two shitty "air dances" for $40. Is that bad? I have a knee jerk feminist response inside me telling me the best thing is to just walk away, that I don't need his $40, but for some reason, a savvier, stripper feminist in me tells me that, if possible, he should pay for that unwelcome finger-fuck for the rest of his miserable life. Yeah.
There's this other guy, "teacher nurse." (He used to be a teacher, and is now a nurse. I am considering revising the nickname to something more caustic, like "Rapist Molester," but then how would I tell him apart from the others?) He is fantastic for money. He doesn't want to talk; he finishes his drink and takes me for 6 or 7 dances, then leaves. His demeanor, though, is less than desirable. First, he always asks me to remove my lipstick before I dance for him "in case I get any on his shirt" or something. Bullshit. The reason he has me take off my lipstick is because, every time, without fail, he puts his hand behind my head and force-kisses me as I try my best to pull away. I hate it (mostly because he's old, ugly, and an asshole) and renegotiate space by putting my booty on his lap, or turning around for him, but he always manages to get me in a compromised position and uses his jabby little tongue to rape my face, chin, and cheeks.
I was in a bad mood when he last showed up and didn't feel like getting mouth-violated by him. I strapped a dark lipstick to my ankle in my rubberband stash (it was Mac's Matte Diva, for those interested - great under the blacklight on my tan complexion!), but approached him clean-lipped and took him back to the lapdance area. While he put his coat and drink down, I quickly applied two or three coats of Diva, turned around, sat on his lap, held him down by his hands and said, "You wanna kiss, rapist?" and proceeded to put my lips all over his face for a whole fucking song, leaving smeary burgundy all over his mouth. I'm sure he gave his face a good scrub-job before pathetically going home to his wife, but I'm also sure he was freaked when he saw my pouty dark lips coming at him.
In other news: After work yesterday I went to Duane Reade for some vitamins, and I had forgotten to change out my singles before leaving work. I paid for those $60 fucking pills in singles! The (cute, but too young) cashier looked at me, smiled, and said "coming from a strip club?" I smiled right back.
Also, and this is me on brand new territory, do people ever make friends with their customers? I know people date, fuck, and escort with guys they meet at the club, but how about just friends to shoot the shit and catch a movie with? I've met this guy a few times at the club and (in addition to being rather cute) him and I just have terrific friend chemistry! He's never explicitly asked me to hang out with him, but he always says stuff like "You're hella cool! If I hadn't met you here, we could totally have become friends." And I got to thinking, what's the big deal? So, he's seen me in a G-string (Elena, most NYC strip clubs are topless only) and thinks I'm 2 years younger than I am - does that rule out the possibility of being pals? This last time I saw him, I unabashedly told him to take my number down and smoke a joint with me sometime. Stay tuned...
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Red Scare.
Ah, those damn tampon commercials! They always show a girl in white pants riding a horse, or someone in a leotard doing yoga. Here's a real tampon ad for you: a girl, freshly flow-ing, in nothing but a teeny tiny g-string, grinding her crotch hard on a dude in white linen pants. (Incidentally, this may also be a great way to get straight men interested in the range of Tampax products...)
Today, I got my (red)wings halfway through my shift, and I was more interested in the cash-flow than the one between my legs. Still, I managed to make my rounds and get that money: This one guy was like gushing over me during a lapdance, but little did he know I was gushing over him too! I mean, the DJ should have been playing 'rag'time, because that's what it was. (Puns runneth over, I know, now that the floodgates have opened...) This one customer who's on the production team for some hip-hop label came in - and I was thinking, the only flow he's gonna catch today is mine.
Meanwhile, dudes in the club didn't hear the rule about wearing white after Labor Day (though, I'm not sure I know that rule either - isn't it always technically after the previous Labor Day?. I guess the only time you could actually wear white was before 1882...). Man, I actually turned down a dude in pale khakis who I know likes hardcore grinding. And I was relieved that one of my regulars showed up in black track pants (normally, anathema to a respectful lapdance).
The girls in the dressing room were remarking that they think men tend to spend more cash on you at that time of the month - talk about blood money! Whew! I thought giving a lapdance was a 'no-strings-attached' kind of fun, but I guess not on the first day of the cycle!
Today, I got my (red)wings halfway through my shift, and I was more interested in the cash-flow than the one between my legs. Still, I managed to make my rounds and get that money: This one guy was like gushing over me during a lapdance, but little did he know I was gushing over him too! I mean, the DJ should have been playing 'rag'time, because that's what it was. (Puns runneth over, I know, now that the floodgates have opened...) This one customer who's on the production team for some hip-hop label came in - and I was thinking, the only flow he's gonna catch today is mine.
Meanwhile, dudes in the club didn't hear the rule about wearing white after Labor Day (though, I'm not sure I know that rule either - isn't it always technically after the previous Labor Day?. I guess the only time you could actually wear white was before 1882...). Man, I actually turned down a dude in pale khakis who I know likes hardcore grinding. And I was relieved that one of my regulars showed up in black track pants (normally, anathema to a respectful lapdance).
The girls in the dressing room were remarking that they think men tend to spend more cash on you at that time of the month - talk about blood money! Whew! I thought giving a lapdance was a 'no-strings-attached' kind of fun, but I guess not on the first day of the cycle!
Monday, February 20, 2012
You can't sink your (bell) hooks into me, man.
Yet another type of experience I've accumulated from my 3 years of stripping? I am (tooting my own horn-y guy radar here) extremely attuned to guys' bullshit, emotional immaturity, and possessiveness - even in the surprising guises they may take.
Something about being paid to fulfill club customers' fantasies - many of them not sexual in nature - has helped me, immensely, in dating situations in which I feel a guy is being disingenuous, sexist, or clingy (though those things often go together like oversized plastic glasses frames, jeans from Buffalo Exchange, and the Lorimer/Metropolitan stop in Williamsburg). Conversely, it's also enabled me to recognize those rare dudes who are emotionally mature, straightforward, and respectful of women (the only type of guy I've ever been lucky enough to fall in love with).
In the club, a man might put his hand on the back of your head during a dance to facilitate giving you an unwelcome kiss (and by kiss I mean, a face-raping suck job). In the rest of the world, a guy may subtly or explicitly censor what he tells you about himself or how he relates to other women so he can continue to kiss you. They're the same thing. They're both a big fucking hand on the back of my head that attempt to keep me trapped and powerless.
At the club, a dude might tell me I'm the most beautiful girl he's ever seen dancing; tell me I'm too smart to be doing this kind of work; assure me that I'm the first girl he's ever asked to meet him outside the club. Outside the club, (hollow-sounding) remarks about beauty and intellect stand, and a woman might enjoy a deep-tissue ego massage worthy of a top-ranked Groupon deal. They're both the same tactic - a deliberate strategy to give my ego a hand-job as a way to 'keep' me around. (Sort of like, in the first episode of "Peepshow," Jeremy says "If I laugh at her jokes hard enough, I'm sure to get at least a suck job.")
The stripper kung-fu (remember Lap-oeira?) I've described in the past - the sometimes-subtle (other times straight up violent) physical manipulations to violate boundaries (just because you're touching my breast with your forearm rather than just grabbing it with your hand doesn't make it any less of a fondle!) aren't that different than the ways a loverboy might try to subtly, without invitation, occupy extra space in your life outside the club. And when we're raised as women, we've been hard-wired to take these as signs of love and affection - after all, we're all expected to want the man who's ready to commit and be present, right?
The realization that masculinity and "taking up tons of space" are synonymous is a claim feminists have been making since...well, since there have been feminists. But realizing something academically (big ups to my undergrad "Roots of Feminism" prof from back in the day) is so different than coming to understand it from life experience. I wonder just how much the feminist canon has done to challenge masculinity on the part of men. I know that feminist literature (particularly the Third Wave, race/class centered stuff) has been immensely empowering for me as a woman; it's armed me with language to protect myself, to describe my world, and to experience sexuality. But what about for those hetero, male-bodied people who read this shit? Does their access to 'feminism' just give them an opportunity to get the attention of the fierce goddesses they desire by posting about the current birth control scandals on Facebook? (13 women "like" this post about how much you hate Mitt Romney - maybe one of them will even blow you!) Has the feminist canon actually done anything to change hetero-masculine subjectivities, those deeply-ingrained ways of just 'being' in the world?
In the way Tim Wise's career of railing against white privilege became as prominent as it did is because of his whiteness (for, people of color have been articulating the problems of white privilege ever since racial categories existed), feminist guys get distinctions on their qualifying exams, fierce-minded girls aroused, and ultimately, infinite other types of advantages for knowing the feminist canon and using it in deliberate, space-taking-up ways.
Thank you to all the grope-y, needy, clingy, jealous, and overeager strip club customers; spending time with you in black-lit strip clubs amply prepared me to identify your dopplegangers outside the club. If I can walk away from a champagne room customer dangling hundreds of dollars in front of my face because I get a bad feeling about him, I can most certainly run (not walk) away from a guy who's navigating insecurities, behaving duplicitously, or using his position as a feminist-minded man to enable and forgive these behaviors. And I can spot him from a mile away.
Apologies for the incoherence of this post; I hesitantly started this blog, but gained confidence when I stopped worrying about an audience or my readers and just wrote what was up instead. This post is largely my internal monologue rather than a well-thought out treatise.
Something about being paid to fulfill club customers' fantasies - many of them not sexual in nature - has helped me, immensely, in dating situations in which I feel a guy is being disingenuous, sexist, or clingy (though those things often go together like oversized plastic glasses frames, jeans from Buffalo Exchange, and the Lorimer/Metropolitan stop in Williamsburg). Conversely, it's also enabled me to recognize those rare dudes who are emotionally mature, straightforward, and respectful of women (the only type of guy I've ever been lucky enough to fall in love with).
In the club, a man might put his hand on the back of your head during a dance to facilitate giving you an unwelcome kiss (and by kiss I mean, a face-raping suck job). In the rest of the world, a guy may subtly or explicitly censor what he tells you about himself or how he relates to other women so he can continue to kiss you. They're the same thing. They're both a big fucking hand on the back of my head that attempt to keep me trapped and powerless.
At the club, a dude might tell me I'm the most beautiful girl he's ever seen dancing; tell me I'm too smart to be doing this kind of work; assure me that I'm the first girl he's ever asked to meet him outside the club. Outside the club, (hollow-sounding) remarks about beauty and intellect stand, and a woman might enjoy a deep-tissue ego massage worthy of a top-ranked Groupon deal. They're both the same tactic - a deliberate strategy to give my ego a hand-job as a way to 'keep' me around. (Sort of like, in the first episode of "Peepshow," Jeremy says "If I laugh at her jokes hard enough, I'm sure to get at least a suck job.")
The stripper kung-fu (remember Lap-oeira?) I've described in the past - the sometimes-subtle (other times straight up violent) physical manipulations to violate boundaries (just because you're touching my breast with your forearm rather than just grabbing it with your hand doesn't make it any less of a fondle!) aren't that different than the ways a loverboy might try to subtly, without invitation, occupy extra space in your life outside the club. And when we're raised as women, we've been hard-wired to take these as signs of love and affection - after all, we're all expected to want the man who's ready to commit and be present, right?
The realization that masculinity and "taking up tons of space" are synonymous is a claim feminists have been making since...well, since there have been feminists. But realizing something academically (big ups to my undergrad "Roots of Feminism" prof from back in the day) is so different than coming to understand it from life experience. I wonder just how much the feminist canon has done to challenge masculinity on the part of men. I know that feminist literature (particularly the Third Wave, race/class centered stuff) has been immensely empowering for me as a woman; it's armed me with language to protect myself, to describe my world, and to experience sexuality. But what about for those hetero, male-bodied people who read this shit? Does their access to 'feminism' just give them an opportunity to get the attention of the fierce goddesses they desire by posting about the current birth control scandals on Facebook? (13 women "like" this post about how much you hate Mitt Romney - maybe one of them will even blow you!) Has the feminist canon actually done anything to change hetero-masculine subjectivities, those deeply-ingrained ways of just 'being' in the world?
In the way Tim Wise's career of railing against white privilege became as prominent as it did is because of his whiteness (for, people of color have been articulating the problems of white privilege ever since racial categories existed), feminist guys get distinctions on their qualifying exams, fierce-minded girls aroused, and ultimately, infinite other types of advantages for knowing the feminist canon and using it in deliberate, space-taking-up ways.
Thank you to all the grope-y, needy, clingy, jealous, and overeager strip club customers; spending time with you in black-lit strip clubs amply prepared me to identify your dopplegangers outside the club. If I can walk away from a champagne room customer dangling hundreds of dollars in front of my face because I get a bad feeling about him, I can most certainly run (not walk) away from a guy who's navigating insecurities, behaving duplicitously, or using his position as a feminist-minded man to enable and forgive these behaviors. And I can spot him from a mile away.
Apologies for the incoherence of this post; I hesitantly started this blog, but gained confidence when I stopped worrying about an audience or my readers and just wrote what was up instead. This post is largely my internal monologue rather than a well-thought out treatise.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Trafficking Report
Saw this interview on YouTube. I don't know who this dude is, but he totally breaks it down in terms of so-called anti-trafficking measures, labor rights, and sex worker rights.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Shit People Say...to Strippers
Too lazy to join the YouTube meme-ers, but here's a feeble attempt at a script nonetheless:
"You are way to smart to be a stripper."
"I'm not really a strip club guy."
"I'm a nice guy."
"I know you're lying to me."
"I know you're just after my money."
"You're the first stripper I ever asked out."
"How did a girl like you end up stripping?"
"We can meet outside; I promise, we don't have to have sex."
"Do you do full service?"
"If there are no other customers here, come sit with me."
"The other girl let me finger her in VIP."
"Earn this dollar."
"No thanks, I'm just here waiting for my friend."
"Can I get 2-for-1 with lapdances?"
"Can I touch it? Just from the outside?"
"You're always going to be this beautiful. At least until 35."
"You don't date customers? Fine, then I just won't spend any money on you."
"Yeah, sure, you're a grad student."
"How are you getting home after work?"
"I can tell we really connected today."
"Whatever you do, don't get any skinnier."
"Whatever you do, don't gain any weight."
"What are your rates for outcall?"
"I'm about to bust a nut."
"I'll come back after I get paid."
"I hate the way fake tits feel."
"You speak good English."
"Kiss me."
"You are way to smart to be a stripper."
"I'm not really a strip club guy."
"I'm a nice guy."
"I know you're lying to me."
"I know you're just after my money."
"You're the first stripper I ever asked out."
"How did a girl like you end up stripping?"
"We can meet outside; I promise, we don't have to have sex."
"Do you do full service?"
"If there are no other customers here, come sit with me."
"The other girl let me finger her in VIP."
"Earn this dollar."
"No thanks, I'm just here waiting for my friend."
"Can I get 2-for-1 with lapdances?"
"Can I touch it? Just from the outside?"
"You're always going to be this beautiful. At least until 35."
"You don't date customers? Fine, then I just won't spend any money on you."
"Yeah, sure, you're a grad student."
"How are you getting home after work?"
"I can tell we really connected today."
"Whatever you do, don't get any skinnier."
"Whatever you do, don't gain any weight."
"What are your rates for outcall?"
"I'm about to bust a nut."
"I'll come back after I get paid."
"I hate the way fake tits feel."
"You speak good English."
"Kiss me."
Thursday, December 8, 2011
King of Clubs
Today was totally a reminder of why I love stripping so fucking much:
Money.
The chance to wear ludicrous - yet somehow, still sexy - outfits, makeup, and hair, and get paid for it.
Money.
Getting paid to flirt.
Money.
Having the crock of romantic monogamy repeatedly debunked while at the same time hearing guys spout ego-boosting expressions of romantic monogamy.
Oh, yeah, and...money.
This super-friendly, attractive (in an ordinary sort of way), moneyed dude immediately took a liking to me, and once I struck up a conversation with him, he pointed out that we'd met before. Yes, he's been a customer of mine at each of the three clubs I've worked at, and each time, we've gotten along fabulously! It's a small world, after all! Now, if only Disney would (in between putting ridiculous racially stereotypical comic relief and/or villainous characters in each animated film) make a ride featuring strip club customers! As soon as we began our banter, the memory of him came back to me like an eager housemom asking for house fee. We had a blast, and he promised to visit again next time he's in town.
His visit aside, I gave a marathon series of dances to this other dude who was filled with some of the best lapdance quotes of all time!
"You're, like, the freakiest Indian girl ever! You're giving the other billion of you a bad name! You're giving Hinduism a bad name!"
"Damn these boxers! I keep having to readjust my dick in these jeans. Next time I come, I'm going to wear slacks."
"Well, if you're going to hell I suppose you might as well take me down with you."
"Girl, the way you're grinding on me, it's like you know I just got paid today."
I had to keep turning around and putting my ass on him so he would(n't) see me crack(ing up)!
Money.
The chance to wear ludicrous - yet somehow, still sexy - outfits, makeup, and hair, and get paid for it.
Money.
Getting paid to flirt.
Money.
Having the crock of romantic monogamy repeatedly debunked while at the same time hearing guys spout ego-boosting expressions of romantic monogamy.
Oh, yeah, and...money.
This super-friendly, attractive (in an ordinary sort of way), moneyed dude immediately took a liking to me, and once I struck up a conversation with him, he pointed out that we'd met before. Yes, he's been a customer of mine at each of the three clubs I've worked at, and each time, we've gotten along fabulously! It's a small world, after all! Now, if only Disney would (in between putting ridiculous racially stereotypical comic relief and/or villainous characters in each animated film) make a ride featuring strip club customers! As soon as we began our banter, the memory of him came back to me like an eager housemom asking for house fee. We had a blast, and he promised to visit again next time he's in town.
His visit aside, I gave a marathon series of dances to this other dude who was filled with some of the best lapdance quotes of all time!
"You're, like, the freakiest Indian girl ever! You're giving the other billion of you a bad name! You're giving Hinduism a bad name!"
"Damn these boxers! I keep having to readjust my dick in these jeans. Next time I come, I'm going to wear slacks."
"Well, if you're going to hell I suppose you might as well take me down with you."
"Girl, the way you're grinding on me, it's like you know I just got paid today."
I had to keep turning around and putting my ass on him so he would(n't) see me crack(ing up)!
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
ConSTRIPation
Today was my first shift back after a gluttonous Thanksgiving* weekend and, man, I was as bloated as a stuffed turkey. (Word to those who are even remotely attracted to me: Please stop reading.) Yes, I hadn't laid cable in a couple days, and suddenly had the urge halfway through a mega-busy shi(f)t at work! I am never 1 to do a #2 at work, and I was too busy working the floor to s(h)it down with my UsWeekly for 20 minutes, so I just had to hold it (figuratively speaking, of course) while I did stage sets, sipped drinks with customers, and did more than my fair share of dances.
Of course, it has to be the one day I'm fighting my little feud with Mother Nature that I give a lapdance to Cheek Puller. This dude always grabs both cheeks when I'm straddling him and, in trying to get me to move the way he wants me to, ends up pulling them apart like a Thanksgiving turkey wishbone! I was like Ass Ventura, When Nature Called!
One of my regular customers strolled in today and, in making my day perfectly thematic, decided to talk about why he's NOT into any kind of scat-play. I don't know why he felt the need to discuss this with me today of all days. This was like the physiological equivalent of how hearing running water makes you want to piss; I totally thought I'd have to drop off John, Kate, AND their 8 at the pool right there on his lap.
As if I wasn't dealing with enough shit already, I had to spend a crapload of time with this asshole customer. He was this white, shaved-head, sexist dude who immediately started telling me 1) how I didn't belong here if I grew up in suburbia 2) that I had a rare combination of hot body and nice face "which most chicks don't have" 3) that I was hot now, but had probably been an ugly kid because I seemed too down to earth for a pretty girl. Then he told me, in an extremely condescending voice, that I should definitely try getting fucked up the ass, "especially since you're a g-spot girl. Clit girls don't get off on anal." He also told me he had a lot of money, and was THE head honcho at [major corporation]. Needless to say, this Rockefeller spent a whopping $38 on me. The hilarious part was him asking me to guess his age. Being the great stripper I am, I always guess a good 7-10 years younger than I actually think, so I said "30." And he said, "Pretty close! I'm almost 28." WHAT! I guess being an asshole really adds years to your face. "I'm not a cop," he told me at one point, "so you can tell me your rates for BJ's outside the club. I know you're horny." Other gems from this dude: "You like kosher sausage?" [grabs his crotch] "I'm a great husband, other than cheating on my wife all the time." "This would be a great lapdance if my boner weren't getting all bent inside my pants."
Whew! I feel so much better just having unloaded all this. Also, it's nice to have written this blog post.
*Speaking of Thanksgiving, I worked the night shift before Turkey day and, any time I cozied up to a white dude and tried to get a dance, I'd say "So, does this Pilgrim wanna sit down with this Indian for a lapdance?" It worked like a charm! Dots, not feathers, you racist motherfuckers!
Of course, it has to be the one day I'm fighting my little feud with Mother Nature that I give a lapdance to Cheek Puller. This dude always grabs both cheeks when I'm straddling him and, in trying to get me to move the way he wants me to, ends up pulling them apart like a Thanksgiving turkey wishbone! I was like Ass Ventura, When Nature Called!
One of my regular customers strolled in today and, in making my day perfectly thematic, decided to talk about why he's NOT into any kind of scat-play. I don't know why he felt the need to discuss this with me today of all days. This was like the physiological equivalent of how hearing running water makes you want to piss; I totally thought I'd have to drop off John, Kate, AND their 8 at the pool right there on his lap.
As if I wasn't dealing with enough shit already, I had to spend a crapload of time with this asshole customer. He was this white, shaved-head, sexist dude who immediately started telling me 1) how I didn't belong here if I grew up in suburbia 2) that I had a rare combination of hot body and nice face "which most chicks don't have" 3) that I was hot now, but had probably been an ugly kid because I seemed too down to earth for a pretty girl. Then he told me, in an extremely condescending voice, that I should definitely try getting fucked up the ass, "especially since you're a g-spot girl. Clit girls don't get off on anal." He also told me he had a lot of money, and was THE head honcho at [major corporation]. Needless to say, this Rockefeller spent a whopping $38 on me. The hilarious part was him asking me to guess his age. Being the great stripper I am, I always guess a good 7-10 years younger than I actually think, so I said "30." And he said, "Pretty close! I'm almost 28." WHAT! I guess being an asshole really adds years to your face. "I'm not a cop," he told me at one point, "so you can tell me your rates for BJ's outside the club. I know you're horny." Other gems from this dude: "You like kosher sausage?" [grabs his crotch] "I'm a great husband, other than cheating on my wife all the time." "This would be a great lapdance if my boner weren't getting all bent inside my pants."
Whew! I feel so much better just having unloaded all this. Also, it's nice to have written this blog post.
*Speaking of Thanksgiving, I worked the night shift before Turkey day and, any time I cozied up to a white dude and tried to get a dance, I'd say "So, does this Pilgrim wanna sit down with this Indian for a lapdance?" It worked like a charm! Dots, not feathers, you racist motherfuckers!
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Occupied Strip Club!
A month after the Occupy Wall Street movement took off, and it's still going strong. Yeah, they haven't exactly ironed out the tensions downtown about the race and class dynamics of the whole thing, but it seems an inspiring, emergent move to radically critique our fucked up political and economic system. I've been down there a bunch of times, and it's certainly better than staying at home watching the Kardashians on E! (Then again, giving a lapdance to a guy in sweatpants is better than that, too, so I suppose that's not saying much.)
Notes from my strip club on Occupy Wall Street:
The bouncer, a muscle-bound dude from Honduras, and I have a rapport. We talk mad shit about US imperialism; he's a religious Christian and I'm a secular type, but this is one thing we agree on (that, and the fact that the guy who wears 3-feet long furry angel wings to the club every couple months and dances flamboyantly to Michael Jackson just ain't right!). Anyway, the other day he gestured toward CNN and asked me if I'd been down to Wall Street for the movement. Yes, I told him, and he gave me a big high-five. "Americans can't sleep forever. They might have comfortable beds, but no, they can't sleep forever."
An Egyptian customer told me he hopes what we see in Zuccotti Park is the next Tahrir Square. Then he asked me if I "have a big pussy" and put $5 between my breasts. (I'm not quite sure what answer he was looking for.)
Then, there was this amazing douchebag who went off on a 7 minute rant that went something like this:
"You know, this Occupy Wall Street thing is just scary. And I know who's behind it. Obama's behind it. And Soros is behind it. It's all Obama and Soros. Obama, I mean, what a scary fucker. He's nothing but a Marxist Muslim. He's a far left, radical, Marxist Muslim. And he hates Israel. I can't stand liberal Jews. Jews who are Democrats. They're so brainwashed by this bullshit liberal media. I don't even watch the news. If I do watch anything, maybe I'll watch Fox News. But, these liberal Democrat Jews just don't understand how the Democratic party is against Israel. I know, I know Michelle Bachman is an evangelical Christian, but at least she cares about Israel. I mean, the Democrats just really control the media, and they've brainwashed the Jews into being Democrats. I am a proud Republican Jew. Now I don't like Ron Paul. He's all right sometimes, but I just don't agree with his anti-military position. I like Herman Cain the most. Yeah, I'm not racist. I am not a racist, even though people might think I am. I mean, I hardly even see race. I see people. Like my daughter, she just happened to marry a good Jewish boy, a doctor. But if he'd been black, I'd have been okay with it. I might have been concerned that there are some degenerates in his family, some criminals, but I'd have been okay with it. It's the goddamn Democrats. You know, when bad stuff happens, the Republicans always get blamed. If Waco happened when we had a Republican president, it would have been a way bigger deal. A WAY bigger deal! Only Republicans get in trouble."
This dude totally deserved to get molested.
Notes from my strip club on Occupy Wall Street:
The bouncer, a muscle-bound dude from Honduras, and I have a rapport. We talk mad shit about US imperialism; he's a religious Christian and I'm a secular type, but this is one thing we agree on (that, and the fact that the guy who wears 3-feet long furry angel wings to the club every couple months and dances flamboyantly to Michael Jackson just ain't right!). Anyway, the other day he gestured toward CNN and asked me if I'd been down to Wall Street for the movement. Yes, I told him, and he gave me a big high-five. "Americans can't sleep forever. They might have comfortable beds, but no, they can't sleep forever."
An Egyptian customer told me he hopes what we see in Zuccotti Park is the next Tahrir Square. Then he asked me if I "have a big pussy" and put $5 between my breasts. (I'm not quite sure what answer he was looking for.)
Then, there was this amazing douchebag who went off on a 7 minute rant that went something like this:
"You know, this Occupy Wall Street thing is just scary. And I know who's behind it. Obama's behind it. And Soros is behind it. It's all Obama and Soros. Obama, I mean, what a scary fucker. He's nothing but a Marxist Muslim. He's a far left, radical, Marxist Muslim. And he hates Israel. I can't stand liberal Jews. Jews who are Democrats. They're so brainwashed by this bullshit liberal media. I don't even watch the news. If I do watch anything, maybe I'll watch Fox News. But, these liberal Democrat Jews just don't understand how the Democratic party is against Israel. I know, I know Michelle Bachman is an evangelical Christian, but at least she cares about Israel. I mean, the Democrats just really control the media, and they've brainwashed the Jews into being Democrats. I am a proud Republican Jew. Now I don't like Ron Paul. He's all right sometimes, but I just don't agree with his anti-military position. I like Herman Cain the most. Yeah, I'm not racist. I am not a racist, even though people might think I am. I mean, I hardly even see race. I see people. Like my daughter, she just happened to marry a good Jewish boy, a doctor. But if he'd been black, I'd have been okay with it. I might have been concerned that there are some degenerates in his family, some criminals, but I'd have been okay with it. It's the goddamn Democrats. You know, when bad stuff happens, the Republicans always get blamed. If Waco happened when we had a Republican president, it would have been a way bigger deal. A WAY bigger deal! Only Republicans get in trouble."
This dude totally deserved to get molested.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Strapped for Cash
The club I'm currently at requires us to band our cash together with rubber bands and keep it strapped to the inside of our ankle. The other two clubs I worked at had no such rules, and after experimenting with rubber bands, tiny decorative purses, and garters, I realized the purse option was my favorite. It was a tiny accessory, it didn't scream "tacky stripper style!" the way the other two options did, and it also allowed for a small stash of lipgloss, my cellphone, and hand* sanitizer.
Not so at my club now! The purses are not allowed, I think because they are worried we'll take our cellphones onto the floor with us (which sounds like totally illegal employment practice since we are independent contractors, but don't get me started on that!). There are a few perks to strapping your cash to your ankle - it's super secure. It's right there, on your leg, and you'd physically know if it went missing. And (I'm just guessing here) it arouses the shit out of guys with a stripper fetish.
That said, after working a day shift last week I hurriedly got dressed (a skirt and blazer because I'd come from my teaching job in the morning that day - which caused another girl to remark "Man, you look so professional. What, are you telling your man you work in an office or something?") so I could run to the gym for a quick post-work workout. Yikes! Almost forgot to take the money off my ankle!
Imagine walking down the streets of Queens to the subway with a wad of cash literally wrapped around my ankle! Or, better yet, going to the gym, where the manager and I have developed a steady flirtatious banter, and awkwardly attempting to explain how an assortment of singles, twenties, and (not enough) hundred dollar bills ended up neatly folded around two rubber bands!
*And by "hand" I mean anything anyone with questionable hygiene may lick, kiss, grab, or (in the most extreme case) cover in semen.
Not so at my club now! The purses are not allowed, I think because they are worried we'll take our cellphones onto the floor with us (which sounds like totally illegal employment practice since we are independent contractors, but don't get me started on that!). There are a few perks to strapping your cash to your ankle - it's super secure. It's right there, on your leg, and you'd physically know if it went missing. And (I'm just guessing here) it arouses the shit out of guys with a stripper fetish.
That said, after working a day shift last week I hurriedly got dressed (a skirt and blazer because I'd come from my teaching job in the morning that day - which caused another girl to remark "Man, you look so professional. What, are you telling your man you work in an office or something?") so I could run to the gym for a quick post-work workout. Yikes! Almost forgot to take the money off my ankle!
Imagine walking down the streets of Queens to the subway with a wad of cash literally wrapped around my ankle! Or, better yet, going to the gym, where the manager and I have developed a steady flirtatious banter, and awkwardly attempting to explain how an assortment of singles, twenties, and (not enough) hundred dollar bills ended up neatly folded around two rubber bands!
*And by "hand" I mean anything anyone with questionable hygiene may lick, kiss, grab, or (in the most extreme case) cover in semen.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The best of times, the worst of times.
Weird! I was on stage, doing my thang, and I look out to see a) a friend of mine from way back when and b) a guy I've danced for a handful of times over the years...sitting together! Drinking a beer! Looking at me! Huh? Well, I knew that (a) and (b) had been part of the same grad school program, and part of me always assumed they knew each other, but being the discreet (not trying to blow customers' cover) dancer that I am, I never asked her, "Do you know Steve?!" Well, apparently, she does...the two of them met up today for a beer and she ended up mentioning her grad student South Asian stripper friend and he put two and two together and brought her to my club pronto for a 3-way lapdance!
This experience was far superior to another lapdance experience I had involving tears streaming down a customer's face. He was 21 years old and it was his first time in a strip club or getting a dance, and he "felt so sad" that we girls had to do this for a living. "This isn't what intimacy is supposed to be like," he told me, before he forked over enough dough for 4 more dances. He's actually the second lapdance crybaby I've had - the first one cried out of a combination of frustration at his sex life ('cuz he hasn't slept with his wife in 13 years) and because I'd "never love him" ('cuz he's a pathetic loser - I actually judge his wife for sleeping with him 13 years ago). Well, I guess better tears than another liquid discharge!
This experience was far superior to another lapdance experience I had involving tears streaming down a customer's face. He was 21 years old and it was his first time in a strip club or getting a dance, and he "felt so sad" that we girls had to do this for a living. "This isn't what intimacy is supposed to be like," he told me, before he forked over enough dough for 4 more dances. He's actually the second lapdance crybaby I've had - the first one cried out of a combination of frustration at his sex life ('cuz he hasn't slept with his wife in 13 years) and because I'd "never love him" ('cuz he's a pathetic loser - I actually judge his wife for sleeping with him 13 years ago). Well, I guess better tears than another liquid discharge!
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