Things fall apart

It’s funny how fast things can fall apart. Relationships, obviously, but also work. Work environments. &c&c. Kind of a lot has happened since last week and I took notes which is good cause I don’t even remember it all off the top of my head. Some really fun shenanigans with Regan and this girl who I can’t think of a pseudonym for–it’s midterms ok and I have so much I should be doing besides this, like for example sleeping, or rereading Daughters of the Shtetl, or maybe Polin 18. But Regan and Shauna were having a bad night, and to be honest I was only having a good night because I’d lost my mind and was full on channeling Bibi and just going all out. I figured one way or another–blog, tactless comments made on fb about the new two way contact policy–I’d probably lose my job soon so what the hell, I could hustle with impunity. I started telling guys firmly that I wouldn’t be taking no for an answer and then frog marching them into the back room. One guy took advantage of my back being turned on the way to the room to try to stick his finger in my butt. I had to hold his hands really tight the entire time.

“Oooh you just have the strongest grip! Mmm, I love a man with strong hands. Yeah, squeeze them!” He got really into it and managed to make it through the whole dance without touching me, and he was the only problem customer. I’ve been able to keep selling my usual amount of no contact lap dances, which is a relief, but not enough.

One of the surprise offshoots of the two dollar bills is that the past four weeks stage money has been awful, so I need to sell a lot more dances to leave with my normal (pre-two dollar bill and club cut of the lapdance increase) take. I happened on a drunk 21 yr old, who was having his first night in a strip club. He was very vocal. I could tell from the way he kept looking around the lap dance room and then increasing his moans that this wasn’t about a lap dance at all, he just wanted to be seen enjoying a lap dance. Totally different, and in a way kind of more fun. Since we were both performing more for everyone else in the room than for each other, realism went out the window.
“Oh yeah!” i said gleefully. “Mmm!” I got loud too, because what the hell. The girl three seats down from me was getting a deep tissue breast massage from a customer as she kissed another girl. On the scale of obnoxious lapdance behaviors, the outrageous (and probably painful) way i was slamming into his lap and slapping his inner thighs seemed like less of a risk to other girls’ money than the rampant gropage and touching happening around the room. I spanked myself and told him how great he was, then I squeezed his bicep.

“Oh my god, your bicep is huge!” I grabbed the other one. “Oh my god, the other one’s even bigger!” I’m not above stealing lines from nineties teen movies.

“I’m the hottest guy you’ve had all night, huh?”

Autumn was giving a dance next to me and kept looking over and giggling. It made me moan louder. I winked at her. When my back was turned to him, I let myself laugh.

“Oh sugar, are you. I wish I could just dance for you all night.”

“You can!” he said eagerly. “Or at least until my money runs out.”

What a straight-forward offer. He really won me over with that one, and his ten dollar tips for each song. 8 songs later, he was out. He’d dropped a 20$ on the couch during the first song, and I’d watched it slowly slide toward the floor, thinking if he didn’t notice its progress during the dance then ok: compensation for all the moaning. By the 5th song I was feeling guilty about this–20 isn’t enough for another dance, so it’s not like he could spend it on a different girl. Plus, I try not to be too greedy, even though it’s hard on nights like that. I picked it up.

“You dropped this,” I said.

“Why’d you do that?” Regan asked later. “It’s all fair game!”

Bad habit, I thought.

So more on our demented hustle later. Regan’s out of town this week and I couldn’t face working without her tonight. I counted back over the past seven months and I have actually never worked a shift without her in my entire time at Weird Club. Isn’t that shocking? I’m practically in mourning[1].

1-My last conscious action before passing out after a blurty Saturday night off was deleting my impulsive drunk facebook status: “Live Regan!” The sentiment holds, however, even if it’s not on facebook any longer. she was giving me advice so good I could practically hear her shaking her head via text.


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