Day 1: Somethin' Like A Video Girl

Every new experience teaches me something else about myself.

So, after working as a bartending video girl (pretty much what I'm doing), I have learned that I have the invaluable ability to detach myself from what ever environment I'm in; I tend to be able to escape into my head.  This is good, because talking to and dancing for sleazeballs is enough to sour anyone on people in general.

Working at the strip club definitely prepared me, mentally, for this job, because nothing shocks me anymore.  And I know how to rebuff advances and still get my tip.  However, that doesn't mean I don't recognize absurdity when I hear it, so:

It's the Sleazeball-Skeeza of the Night Awards!

Runner up for this award is Los Chicos Guapos, these two FINE Dominican guys who were, none the less, sleazy.  They didn't speak any English, so all of our conversation took place in broken Spanish (me) and broken English (them).  They asked me if I was Dominican and I replied, "no, I'm not Latina; I'm just black."  The darker one held out his arm against mine and said, "I'm black too."  (Yes!  Worldwide brotherhood!).  I tried to say, "well, yeah: we're all from Africa."  ...But then he shook his head and said, "no, I'm Domincan."  Alright, fine.  

So then, after a while, the other guy says he want to talk to me, to my boyfriend, asks me when I leave for the night, asks me for my number.  (Um... you don't speak English and I don't speak Spanish... what the HELL do you want my number for?  ...I know what you want my number for, and no matter how absolutely FINE you are, you won't be getting it.).  I told him, "I can't.  I can't.  I can't," ("no-frikkin-puedo!) about 50 bazillion times before he changed his line of attack and told his friend (who spoke more English) to tell me that he wanted to kiss me.  

I've dealt with this before, so I did what I usually do: put on an innocent expression and hold out my hand to be kissed.

This freak LICKS my hand!  So I lightly tapped the back of his, wagged my finger at him and said to his friend, "su amigo estå malo!"  (Your friend is bad!).  To which his bad friend shook his head and replied, "no mami; I'm good... very good."

Agh!  You're a Sleazeball-Skeeza!

First Place, however, goes to: The Nerdy White Dude From Ghostbusters.  (Seriously, that's what he looked like).  He's sitting at the bar, alone, you know: looking like a nerdy perv with his beady little eyes darting to and fro behind his oversized glasses from the 80s.  He says to me:

"You're really cute.  You're beautiful."

"Thank you," I do the whole smile-and-giggle thing.

"Now, I know I'm like, an old nerdy white guy, but believe me when I say: I would fuck the shit out of you."

(Hmm... now where have I heard that before?  What is with all these Nasty Old Men?)

"You've got a dirty mouth," I said.

"Yeah, and I'm kinda drunk, so it's even worse.  But let me tell you; I don't think I could handle you though.  I can tell you like it fast.  I like to go for hours."

Eh-heh-heh-heh...

"Yeah, and like, I'm 39 years old, so the equipment is old, but it lasts for a long time."

Eh-heh...

Yeah.  Time to skidaddle, you Sleazeball-Skeeza!

Honorable Mention goes to... the guy on the train who came up to me (I immediately shook my head... #1: even if I were going to give you money, I'm not pulling out my wallet to show ANYONE that I'm alone have cash on me at 4:30 am!) and said, "I'm not going to ask for any money, I just want a favor."

...lol.  What?  

Also, the guy who followed me at a block-behind-pace after I got off the train.  I will be dressing like an orphan and getting off at a different stop or taking a cab from lower Manhattan from now on.

I'm not dumb and I won't be caught out here in some dumbness. 

Tip Jar:

If you ever want to hear the most absurd, ridiculous conversations: be a waitress or a bartender.  You will work with some interesting people from diverse backgrounds who have been raised to believe different things.  They will say some stuff that you just have to shake your head and laugh at.

First, these two girls started talking about how fast vs. slow their pubic hair grew.  Um... I'm really REALLY not interested; in fact, I don't want to hear that at all.

"Mine grows really slow; it's been two weeks and look..." one girl said to the other.

"Oh, no; I'm always shaving.  After two weeks it looks like Don King up under there," the other one replied.

WHY DOES ANYONE NEED TO KNOW THAT!?

Sigh: another day, another $150 in the pocket.  All I want is to pay my rent and bills for the next two months and then move on to a neighborhood bar for crying out loud.

Until We Meet Again

So, yesterday was my last day (kind of) at work.  I say "kind of" because I'll be back.  I have to come back to DC every 6 weeks for my braces, and I'll be back some random weekends, so whenever I'm back, I'm going to work on either Friday or Saturday.  I made out pretty good on my last day: $131 with no one in the club and a business card I will actually use!  It was a pretty slow night, but I appreciated it... it's nice to have a lazy Sunday evening.  But accompanying lazy music is not necessary...

Heartbreak at the Strip Club

Before the DJ gets to the club, customers must feed the jukebox in order to keep the music going.  Customers usually pick a mix of 2Pac, Biggie, Luda, Jay-Z, Beyonce, Gucci Mane and Three 6 Mafia with some others thrown in.  Today, I guess someone was feeling the pain because their woman left them or something because they definitely selected some slow, dragging, depressing ballad, "What Have I Done With My Life."  My manager and I looked at each other and cracked up.  

"This is just depressing," I shook my head.

"Turn that mess off!" she hollered over to the doorman.

How are you supposed to enjoy yourself to depressing music?  How are the strippers supposed to dance to that?  The song was promptly turned off and Gorilla Zoe was promptly turned on.

 Lookin' Good Can Get You in Trouble

As I'm engaged in the process of packing for my Big Move, I've got very little of my clothing available to wear, so I had to leave the house in my little red dress I've had since high school.  My father looked at me as I was leaving and said, "that's kind of short, isn't it?"

"It's the last red thing I have in my closet," I shrugged.

"You have to wear red?"

I nodded.

"Be careful," he sighed.

Truth.  It wasn't my customers who couldn't handle it, though, it was Dallas, the barback.  As I sat on the stool behind the bar, texting away on my phone, setting up my plans to move my stuff, he came over to me shaking his head.

"You look so good, I'm gonna have to take you home with me."

Ew.  Double Ew.  I smiled thinly and shook my head.  "No, sir."

"Don't worry, I'll be gentle.  I'll treat you like the queen you are."

Ew!  EW!!!  I shook my head again.  Then, later, he actually touched my knee and said, "I'll give those nice legs a good massage."

GET AWAY FROM ME!  GROSSGROSSGROSS!!!

What is it with nasty old men?  Why do they think young, pretty girls want anything to do with them?  Why do they let such nastiness come out of their mouths?  Speaking of which...

Nasty Old Man Strikes Again

So, Nasty Old Man came back around today.  He had a long conversation with me about my move to New York, asking if I was going to be living with my (imaginary) boyfriend.  I told him no, but that we wouldn't be living that far off from one another.

"That's good, you got your own thing going.  He has his own thing, you got your own thing.  Ooh, you're gonna be somethin' to see in about five, ten years.  You're a ripe little peach right now, but New York is gonna turn you out.  You'll learn; see, you're loyal to your man now because you're living by the code that's been instilled in you.  I'm gonna come find you in a couple of years."

He then asked me my name, which I gave.  He told me his full name as well, and coincidentally his last name is an old family name of mine.

"That's a family name," I told him.  "My grandmother hails from that family."

He blinked.  "Well, there's a lot of us around.  Were you trying to tell me something."

"Only that I might be your cousin, so you might not want to mess around with me."

We got on the topic of my family from the South and how prominent they've been in the area since the late 1800s, and he said, "oh.  So I've been pickin' with a daughter of the upper crust?  I just thought about some of the things I've said to you.  I was comin' at you real..."

"Yeah," I said.  "I'm a suburban girl.  I'm not used to that."

"No, no.  It's you suburban girls and Catholic school girls that are the nastiest, 'cause ya'll have been repressed.  Once you get on your own, you go wild."

He then advised me to be sexually liberated, but to have safe sex, and to never allow a man to dictate my decisions and to be open-minded about life.  All good advice; none of which I needed.  He has no idea who he's dealing with.  I look innocent.

"I'm gonna find you and come after you," he promised.  "You'll have to let me taste it; you owe me."

"I owe you?" I arched an eyebrow.

"Well... not owe... just... for old times' sake."

"I don't owe anyone anything," I gave my half-smile and slid him his Heineken.  

A Calling Card I WILL Use

As the next customer came up to the bar, Nasty Old Man passed behind him.  "When are you leaving?" he shouted in my direction.

"This is my last day," I replied.

He pantomimed crying and grabbed at his heart.

I rolled my eyes and shooed him away.  "He'll live," I told my next customer.

"You'll live," he corrected me.  "I don't know about him."

I laughed.

"Where are you moving to?" he asked.

"New York."

"Oh really?  My family's from Brooklyn.  I'm a Marylander, but that's where my family's from.  I'm up there all the time."

"Oh?  Know any nice clubs and such?  I'll be looking for a job soon."

"I don't, but my cousins probably do.  Here's my card, feel free to email me."

"Definitely," I nodded.  I think I actually will be using that card.  He's a visual artist, for one.  I may need his services sometime in the near future, and trust... I need to know which club areas to gravitate towards and stay away from.  

After he walked away from the bar he came back a couple of minutes later, shaking his head.  "I was so distracted by your beauty I forgot to tip you.  I was raised better than that... you are really beautiful, though."

Aw!  Smiles =)

Getting Hit On by Women as Opposed to Men

It's been my experience that, typically, women are a lot more direct and aggressive than men when they go after other women.  There was this one girl that had class with me that licked her ice cream really suggestively when she saw me in the cafeteria.  Awkward.  At the bar, this woman asked me for a Raspberry Cosmo, and after I made it (just looking at it I could tell it was good, ya'll) she took a sip and told me, "oooh!  Girl, you did the damn thing!" and winked at me.

Then, she said, "but the next time you serve me, I'm gonna need to see some ID."

"Yeah, I know I look like I'm sixteen."

"You really do.  How old are you?"

"Twenty one.  I guess I'll appreciate my young face when I'm like 35."

"Yeah, you'll look really good then. You're a cutie.  And your braces are sexy."

Eep.  I don't know how to handle advances from women yet.  I generally just pretend like I don't know what they're doing.  Men are one thing; even if they're hard-headed, once you say "no," they back off/only go after you jokingly.  Women, on the other hand, have to know: 1) I'm not into women, 2) you can't MAKE me into women, and 3) I'm not trying to get picked up at work anyway.

I'm In Love with the Dope Boys

Sorry, but drug dealers tip really well.  I'm not trying to work in the hood when I move up to NY because I know the hoods in DC; I'm unfamiliar with the different levels of hoodishness in NY, but...  When you do work in the hood, your drug-peddling customers aren't really affected by recessions, and they always buy top shelf liquor and tip well.  Anyone who spends $124 on liquor and tips me $25 is good in my books.  These Wall Street mofos better be on the same level or higher.  They make even bigger, legal money.  (Well, bigger money than the lower-level street hustlers, anyway.).

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:

Me to Nasty Old Man:  "I don't owe anyone anything."

Damn straight.  I answer to my own personal code and God ONLY.

Getting a Little too Close for Comfort

Yeah...

Sorry I didn't manage to give ya'll an update on Wednesday; it's been the Senior Finals Week (from HELL!) for me... and it's not over yet.  I've got 5 more exams and 1 more project to go.  Let's get it!  (Let me not get pre-excited about being a college graduate yet).  Anyway... Wednesday was rather uneventful in terms of behind-the-bar action, so I'll just give some highlights:

It normally doesn't happen, but apparently you can still make money while you're on break.  I was sitting on the couch in the break area, right above the front door to the club, studying for an exam I had the next day (which I good-as-failed: 74%... oh well.  I have a B in the class; I'm on-track for getting my degree).  As this guy was leaving the club, he just tipped me $10 for no reason.  Holla!

This old man just refuses to take the hint that I WILL NOT SLEEP WITH HIM.  I don't understand how many times and how many different ways I have to say "I'm not interested.  At all."  Before (he's propositioned me at least 3 different times), I lied and told him I had a boyfriend, so when he saw me he asked me, "how's that little boy of yours doing?"  I replied, "he's not a little boy.  And he's doing just fine."  He started asking me all these questions about him, so I had to keep making shit up as I went.  

[So, for future reference (for myself), here's my boyfriend: we've been together for a year and a half, he comes from money (he drives a Mercedes he didn't pay for himself), but he's very idealistic, he's going into Teach for America in Brooklyn, NY, we live in the same dorm at school, we're living together when I move up there, and his life goal is to reform the public education system in America.  He doesn't have a name yet, but I guess I should make one up now... so... his name is Julian.  Julian Rose.  Wait no... we're planning on getting married and "Nikki Rose" doesn't sound right; let's make that Julian Youngblood.  Yeah.]

Anyway, after I finished telling Old Dirty Man about my fictional boyfriend and how happy we are together, he responded with, "but he's not as nasty as I am."  ...Um gross much?

"Go drink your drink!" I shooed him away.

AND NOW FOR THE MAIN EVENT OF THIS POST!  TONIGHT'S EVENTS!

"You Can Get This Here Lapdance for Free"  

(NERD, "Lapdance")

Someone was in the club for a bachelor's party, so my boss stopped the music and got on the mic to announce that there would be a special event to celebrate the man's upcoming nuptials.  We don't do lapdances at The Club because we serve alcohol and the dancers get totally nude, but since it was a special occasion, the guy got a lapdance by two of the club's most skilled and popular dancers (with their costumes on, of course).  His shirt ended up coming off though.

I'm the Bartender Here; You're the Customer.  Got It?

Tip: do not tell your bartender about what's behind the bar or try to classify liquors.  Just don't do it.  Nine times out of ten you're wrong, however nine times out of ten your bartender won't correct you because it's not appropriate protocol for providing excellent customer service.  We ARE thinking to ourselves: "this idiot," though.  Hint:

Bacardi 151 is NOT whiskey; it's overproof RUM.  BACARDI MAKES RUM.  If you ask me to make a "Whiskey Sour with 151," I will assume you mean "make a 151 Sour."  If you tell me "I want both whiskey and 151," what you will get is either (a) equal shots of Jack and 151 or (b) 1 1/2 shots of Jack and 1/2 a shot of 151.  And after you WATCH me make it, giving me directions the whole time, DO NOT tell me "you didn't put any 151 in there."  Also, if you hand me a $100 bill + 25 cents when your bill is $20.25, I will give you back $20 in singles and $60 in twenties.  That's $80.  That's your correct change.  DO NOT ARGUE WITH ME ABOUT THAT EITHER.

Crown Royal is Canadian whiskey.  IT IS NOT BOURBON.  And if you're still confused, it says "CANADIAN WHISKEY" on the damn bottle itself.  No one seems to know what bourbon is, so I'm going to help them out: BOURBON IS AMERICAN WHISKEY MADE PRIMARILY FROM CORN.  Popular brands include (but are not limited to): Jim Beam, Maker's Mark, Mark Twain, Old Crow, Old Grand-Dad, and Wild Turkey.  There are strict requirements for a whiskey to qualify as a bourbon, but one of the easiest to remember is that it must be MADE IN AMERICA.  CROWN ROYAL IS MADE IN FRIGGIN' CANADA!!!!

We... Are... Family?

So, I think my boss is getting a little too attached to me.  First, he was doing his whole cheeky older man thing where he was complimenting my legs (I wore a minidress to work today) and showing me how to flip shot glasses and bottles and then asking me if I wanted to learn.  I replied "yeah, but my hands are so small, though."  He said, "that just means you make everything else look bigger."

Then, later on that night, he told me he needed to stop looking at me like a nasty old man, that he was going to hook me up with his eldest son, and that we should get married so he could retire and pass the business on.  (I actually would enjoy owning a strip club, and I've been toying with writing a business plan for the restructuring of his club.).  I think my boss has gotten a little bit too attached to me.  I don't know how he's going to take it when I leave.

I'd still keep in contact though; I would.  I like the club and I think it's got great potential.  Not sure I want to be part of the family though; that's a major emotional investment.

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:

My boss on the mic:

"I'm fuckin' somebody's daughter tonight."

Since I've Been Gone

A lot has happened over the past, what?  Two weeks?  In that time period I think I've worked either 7 or 8 days.  Aint that crazy?  Crazier still, I've gotten to know some of my customers' names.  And there are a couple that like to tip me just because I smile.  (Holla!)

And yet I still have an inordinate amount of $$$$ to pay back for bills.  Damn.

Speaking of which, an older gentleman offered to pay my bills today.  His exact words were, "these young men out here will take you out, maybe buy you dinner or lunch.  I'll pay a bill for you."  I told him my bills were pretty extensive, but he still said wanted to connect with me on a spiritual and mental level, and told me, "Ooh!  You don't know what you're doing!"  I laughed (a bit nervously, actually) and said, "but I'm not doing anything."  This was apparently the wrong thing to say, because he came back with, "Mnph!  It's all natural then.  You just got this natural glow.  I'm going after you."  

...Yeah.  

Let me explain how this all started.  So, cat comes up to the bar, and I notice him just staring at me.

"What can I get for you?"  I asked.

He shook his head back and forth slowly.  "You're doing something to me.  You know?" 

I tried again.  "Uh... what can I get you to drink?"

"Heineken.  Maybe it's this environment that's doing it, though.  You know, I could just see you on the street and be Mr. So-and-So and you could be Ms. So-and-So, but in here, this place starts doing strange things to your mind.  You get to wondering.  You know?"

"Um, I guess.  But this is my job, so..."

"Yeah, I get it; I'm not trying to compromise your job or anything, and I'm an older gentleman, coming at you real respectful-like.  And I tell you, respectfully, I'd fuck your brains out.  You're just, ooh!  So tasty!  This is all in respect, though."

I really didn't know what to say, so I just laughed and handed him his change.

"You know back in the old days, older men like Thomas Jefferson had women as young as 13 and 14.  You're what?  21... you're grown enough.  In another life, I guess I could've been your father, but I'm not.  You know, I believe in karma.  And people meet each other for a reason.  Paths cross for a reason, see?"

"Yes, but I'm in a relationship."  (Okay, so I lied, but I don't have a better standard line to deal with older men [men in general, actually] trying to get at me).

And then he schooled me about relationships.  And for me, that's the reason why our paths crossed.  'Cause I needed to hear what he said at that moment; it makes sense for me right now.

He said that relationships were like conversations; they begin and they end.  People come in and out of your life; very few stay, but you should enjoy what experiences you have with them while they're there.  You should never have a moment where you wonder, "what would've happened if I'd..."  Just jump.  Everyone's got something to teach, something to share, something to give.  

I was in what I believed to be a serious relationship for two years before a series of breakups culminating in a final one April 1st (yeah, he was a writer... with a thing for irony) of last year.  I think the reason there were so many breakups was because I had too much trouble letting go.  My mind kept thinking, "But I gave so much!  I'm not ready to stop loving!  This can't end with me sitting here with a broken heart!  This can't be it!"  I hadn't reached the point where I could say, "Okay, so I guess the hourglass ran out on you.  I had a great time.  Peace."  

I ended up telling him, "well, how 'bout this: you stay on that side of the bar and I stay on this side of the bar, I serve you drinks and we have conversations.  That's a relationship."

Of course, he didn't take that as his final answer and probably still thinks I'm going to give in, but... I appreciated the knowledge he dropped on me in the process.