Why Women Dance (And Other Fables)

It's been a long week and Friday and Sunday weren't really that interesting, so I'm combining it all.  On the up side, Friday we only had to split our tips 3 ways, and Sunday Dallas didn't get to interfere with my tips that much at all.  I also found out that he's only 39... he looks like he's 60 and sounds like he's 80.  If that's not enough of a reason right there, then I don't know what else to tell you... DON'T DO DRUGS and DON'T DRINK TO EXCESS.  

Alright, so now that I've got my public service announcement out of the way... on to the fables.

Why Women Dance

Okay, so everyone has their own personal reason for getting up on that stage and strutting around without their clothes on and taking money for it.  But two of the most common are:

"I like the finer things." - Li'l Bit

and:

"I get high off the attention." - Twinkle

If I were to get up on someone's pole/stage (and I will not no matter how many of my customers try to persuade me into it), my reason would be a mix of the two.  I do, indeed, like the finer things.  And considering that the dancers where I work make between $500 - $1,000 a night (depending on the day of the week and how much effort they actually put into dancing), I could afford a lot of very fine things, indeed (including this pair of Prada stilettos that I want SO very much.  Sigh.  Reminder to self: you are supposed to be saving your money).  In addition, I really do thrive off of attention.  I love being center stage with the spotlight on me.  I enjoy putting on a show.  So yes, if I decided to strip, my reason would be a mix of the two.  But you also have to have some other career lined up... you can't sell your body forever: eventually not enough people are going to want it.  Everything has a shelf life.

So... That's What You're Saving For?

Li'l Bit, the one who said she strips because she likes the finer things, was late to work on Wednesday.  When dancers are late, there's a $50 fee; when they don't come in without finding a replacement, there's an $80 absence fee.  Now, Li'l Bit was 8 minutes late, but late is late and time is money.  When she was called on her lateness by Li'l Mama and HWIC she first, threw a tantrum, but then when she saw that wasn't working, she began crying.

"You don't understand," she mourned tearfully, "I'm saving up to get my breast implants and I need all the money I can get!"

HWIC looked at her blankly for about a second.  "I really don't need to hear about your breast implants.  I really don't."

And really, how are you gonna cry and expect people to feel sympathy because you're saving for breast implants, of all things?  Not college tuition.  Not helping your family.  Not even paying back an insane amount of debt.  BREAST IMPLANTS.  No one gives a damn about your personal "improvements" to your body.  No one.

And for that matter, she doesn't even need breast implants!  I can see getting them as an "investment" when your body is you business, and yeah, she's an A-cup, but she makes her money regardless.  I really don't think the customers really care about breast size as long as you've got them.  And judging by the number of customers that come by the bar and ask "is Li'l Bit workin' tonight?" she's one of the highest tipped dancers in the place.  She's cute, and that works for her, so she needs to learn to work with what she's got and not try to be something else.  Personally, I think implants would look rather ridiculous on her.  Oh well.

More Tales From (Read: "Only Heard In") the 'Hood

So, there's a guy that comes and gets the dancers' food orders and brings them food from Olive Garden, Ruby Tuesday's, etc.  He just got back from jail.  So, he leaves with their orders and not 2 minutes later does Initial, one of the doormen, come by the bar like, "yo, I think Delivery Man just got locked up."

"What?" Li'l Mama asked.  "Didn't he just get home?"

"I'on know," Initial shook his head, "but I think the cops just stopped him on the corner for sellin drugs."

"Call Mumbles and see if it's true.  Damn.  That's Elle's boyfriend."

In a few short minutes, the news that Delivery Man had possibly just gotten locked up again had spread up to the dressing room.  You Can't Handle It came downstairs indignantly, "uh-uh!  I know he better give me my $20 back before he goes to jail!"

But it turned out that Delivery Man hadn't actually gotten arrested.  He returned with the food.   And I was glad.  I hadn't ordered anything, but it's a damn shame to just get home from jail and be locked up again for selling drugs on the corner where I work.  Mainly because the corner where I work is crawling with cops.  There are literally at least 10 squad cars and 3 vans within a 2 block radius at all times.  It would be really effing dumb to sell drugs out in the open like that in that type of environment (unless of course, the cops are crooked/don't care... but then you never know what kind of a mood they'll be in).  

(Allow me to make clear: I do not advocate the sale or use of drugs.  I've seen the havoc the drug trade wreaks on individuals, families and communities.  I'm just saying... if you're going to sell your soul and sell drugs to kids, etc. ...the least you could do is not be an idiot on top of that.)

Other Side Notes

So, some guy finally got the message about the tipping scale.  He was just talking to me, asking me if I could write down the address of The Club so he could put it in his GPS (I HATE GPS systems.  I think they're possibly the most crippling device, ever.) and he suddenly told me, "you look good," and put some money in my jar.  Thank you!  You get it!

I work at a strip club... what kind of a girl do you think I am?  Clearly I'm quite comfortable with sex, fake sex and money.  And if I don't want to have sex with you (which, I can guarantee you, is the case 100% of the time), then CLEARLY all I want from you is money.  Duh.

QUOTE OF THE WEEK:

(The strip club has aided my comfortable descent into raunch.) 

"Do your braces get in the way of your relationship?" a customer asked me.

I was a bit shocked at how forthright he was, but I recovered quickly.  "Nah," I said, with a wink, "I got skills."

Eep!!  I can't believe I said that to a total stranger!  But then he laughed and tipped me, so I felt better about my dirty mouth.  Blame the club!  

How Did YOU Get HERE? and Random Words of Wisdom

Okay, so again, let me reiterate: I am not 'hood-born.  Although I have not been sheltered, I'm suburban, upper middle-class bred.  I'm not naive and I'm not ignorant of the harsh realities of life, however, there's something about me that just screams:

"Aw man, she looks like she was raised by the Huxtables!"  (As stated by one of my customers).

I can't get rid of that and I don't want to; it's something that makes me... me.  That always-smiling, positive, shiny-eyed bubbliness is too much a part of me to be stripped away by working behind the bar in a "den of iniquity."  Consequently, I get that, "damn, what's a girl like you doing here?" look/question a lot.  Some people are going to think I'm playing at slummin' it; and some people tend to treat me like an exotic luxury from a land far, far away.  

This past Sunday, this "who are you and what are you doing in here?" (like there's a type of female one would expect to find in a strip club versus the kind that's too good for such a place) sentiment came at me a couple of times.

Smiling and looking at me a bit doubtfully a customer asked me, "are you HMIC's daughter?"

"Nope," I replied, shaking my head.

"How'd you get in here?  Whose daughter are you?" he was convinced that I had to have gotten the gig some kind of family-connection kind of way.

I shrugged.  "I'm just some girl from Bowie."

He laughed heartily, "Just some girl from Bowie, huh?  I can dig that."  He threw a few dollars in my bucket and walked away still chortling.

Some Random Words of Wisdom

Then, this woman, one who refers to me as "CG" (for College Girl), told me that I hadn't smiled at all the whole night (um, smiling is my M.O., lady!) and said that it was people like me that made people not want to come to the club anymore (really?  I think I've been a boost to business, judging by the number of customers that said they'd rather sit and look at/talk to me with all of my clothes on than spend their money on the strippers), and that I needed to be more smiley and flirty.

But then, she also gave me some great advice, which I'll take with me.  I always listen when someone drops wisdom by age and/or experience on me.  It may make sense to me, it may apply to my life; it may not, regardless, they're free words, given earnestly... so I listen.  When someone speaks their truth... you respect it and you listen.

She told me:

1.  If you aint gettin your money, you deserve to be broke.  (This goes along with my own personal belief: if you don't have a hustle, you better get one.)

2.  Keep smiling-- no matter what.

And also told me about the founder of the club who had been a prostitute, but saved up to buy the building and start the club.  When she got sick, she trusted the business over to her best friend and manager-- not her husband.  "Never let a man own your shit," she said.

Sunday must have been the night for words of inspiration/life advice because yet another customer told me:

"My English isn't good, but I'm a very educated man.  Get as much education as you can."  (He spoke French).

"I will," I nodded.

He shook his head.  "You don't have to say it; just do."

Who Ya Gonna Call?  Um... THE EXTERMINATOR, PLEASE!!!

Okay, so we're located in a relatively dense city.  This means there are rats.  Rats sometimes come inside the club.  I have not seen one yet, thank goodness, but I have seen other people's reactions to them.  It's only a matter of time.  *Shudder*  I don't do roaches or rodents.  I don't do anything that crawls/flies and carries disease, actually.

So when I saw Dallas jump back, exclaiming, "aw shit!"; Mumbles, one of the clean up men, come around the corner with a bottle of bleach and a flashlight; and Big Sis run all the way to the storage end of the bar saying, "you can make as much money as you want!" I had to seriously resist the urge to jump over the bar and run out with my tip jar and never come back.

I Don't Speak, I Make Death Threats

For some reason, real street-hardened people can't seem to turn it off, even when making small talk.  Everything this man said to me sounded savage; he spoke in a staccato, yet nearly guttural, voice, punctuating his sentences with a viper-like strike of his head.

When he asked, "how much is a drink?" I was almost to afraid to answer.

"Let me get a Coke!" he said, and I made sure to fill it all the way up, hoping he wouldn't complain.

To this date, this has been the only time: "You real cute!  What's your number!" has sounded more like a death threat.  *Shiver*.  I'm sure he was actually a charming man though, a real upstanding member of his community.  I was just a little off-put by the unbridled overflow of aggression.

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:

I was being really smiley and friendly with one of my customers and then shared the same smile and good humor with one of the dancers who came up to the bar to turn in her $1s and commented on my new haircut.

"That's what's up," my customer said.  "I like you.  You show the same love to everybody."

He promptly threw more money in my tip bucket.  "You're cool, man."

I love it when people appreciate me.

 

A Bit of Strip Club Etiquette

What NOT to Wear

There is no dress code at the club, HOWEVER, this does not mean people won't laugh at you if you come in looking crazy.  If there's ever a question about what you should and should not wear to the club (hell, out of your house for that matter), just remember:

MEN: It's not okay to wear an entire plaid outfit, and it's DEFINITELY not okay for the top half to be orange and the bottom half to be blue.  And on top of it all, it's beyond foolish to pair your mismatched lumberjack-clown-in-pajamas outfit with brown church shoes.  NOT OKAY, SIR, NOT OKAY!!

WOMEN: It's not okay to mix more than one bad trend at a time.  There is absolutely no reason why you should go out looking like a ranch fabulous cowgirl.  Cowgirl hat + gold leather (or "leather") jacket + deconstructed jeans + bejeweled cowboy boots?  NOT OKAY, MADAM, NOT OKAY!!

The Tipping Scale

Working at the club has definitely desensitized me to getting compliments on my looks.  I mean, honestly, honestly: even though I know I'm attractive, and you'll never catch me suffering from low self-esteem based on how I feel about how I look, I still don't see myself as being pretty.  Other people seem to, however, so that works.

Don't get me wrong, I still appreciate genuine compliments and sometimes I'm still surprised when someone says, "wow, you're really pretty."  On the other hand, I've heard it so much that it's just like "okay, and?"  I got so cynical about it today that I thought to myself: man, we're in a strip club, you aint about to sit here and stare and smile at me for free.  Every time you pay me a compliment, you better PAY me.  Gimme the dollas!

Consequently, I've come up with a scale for what these compliments/"compliments" (all of which I've actually heard) should be accompanied by in tip money:

"You real cute/pretty." - $2 (I've heard it so much that it means next to nothing.)

"You're beautiful." - $4 (Okay, you got a little more emphatic.)

"You's a bad mothafucka!" - $6  (Aight, I feel some emotion coming from you and you've started looking a little intense.  That makes me a little wary, so I'm going to need a little more of a tip to ease my nerves.)

"Ay.  Where's your boyfriend/husband at?/Let me take you out." - $10 (You really think I'm going to THINK about hooking up with you?  I need some extra money to play into your delusions for a minute before I shatter them.)

"Does your boyfriend need a new car?"  - $12  (Are you serious?  You've got to pay me to keep my laughter to myself.)

"I got my own place/Mnph.  Mnph.  Mnph./*Staring at me and licking your lips.*/I'll fuck your brains out."  - $20 - $50  (It's a sliding scale depending upon (1) how attractive the person is, (1A) how many teeth they have, (2) how creepy the statement is, (2A) how creepy the delivery is, and (3) how long they actually try to talk me into fulfilling their nasty fantasies.

I think my scale is fair.

Aint No Recession Over Here

The upside to working in the nighttime entertainment business is that no matter what the economy is doing, people will be there.  When times are good, they're celebrating; when times are bad, they're trying to escape from reality and drown their sorrows away.  And, because I work at a strip club in THE TRAP (aka... where drug money is made), I'd say about 50-75% of my customers are drug dealers.

How do I know this?  Well, you just watch for the signs:  Flashily dressed?  Huge bankroll?  Despite this do they have the most HORRIBLE looking teeth ever?  Do they have damn near black fingertips?  Do they, in general, look like that much cash does not belong on their person?  Were the $100s and $50s minted in 1994 (indicating a lack of a bank account)?  Not-quite-concealed plastic baggies falling out of the pocket?  Does his nickname include the word "cocaine"?

The majority of my customers don't operate in the legal economy, so they're pretty much not affected by the recession.  In fact, they might even make more money in the bad times.

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:

Drunken customer, leaving the club at the end of the night to one of the dancers:

"Pretty lady!  Hey, pretty lady?  You got milk!  Yummm yummm!"

...WTF?

Men, Money and Madness.

On Men

So, Li'l Mama and I frequently discuss her relationship with her boyfriend who has commitment issues and won't call her his girlfriend to other women, even though they've been involved for over 2 years.  And through these discussions, I've really come to realize (1) how alike women are in terms of how we deal with men, and (2) how lucky I was that I learned a lot of these lessons early on.  

Women tend to give too much of ourselves without realizing it.  We don't register the steadily-worsening everyday tiredness that won't go away as emotional fatigue until it gets to the point where we feel hollow inside.  Used.  And as we're giving and giving (usually without complaint, because we're happy to give... just gotta get something [and material things do NOT cut it] in return), we'll never give a CLUE as to how much it costs us to give.  I've lived it.  I've seen it, way too many times.  We won't speak up about how we feel; maybe you're afraid of confrontation, maybe you're afraid he won't accept your feelings, maybe you're afraid of upsetting him such that he leaves and all that giving will have been for nothing.  Nothing; not because you gave of yourself, you gave your heart, and he didn't give you anything back, but because he didn't want it.  You don't want to feel easy-come-easy-go after you put yourself through it.  Girl... you betta don't!

I've learned:

1. Just because he wants to love you doesn't mean he can.  Just because he's crying doesn't mean he deserves sympathy.
2. Communication is THE key to a healthy relationship.
3. As a woman, always, always DECIDE your place.  If you're comfortable being the "Main Chick" and letting him have his little flings, that's fine... but DECIDE that.  Don't let him put a label on you that you didn't choose for yourself.
4. Love shouldn't hurt and love should be free.  The minute it starts costing you to give, the minute it pains you to love... you need to reevaluate your situation.
5. Never, never, never, never, never, N-E-V-E-R!  accept less that what you know you're worth.  Because once you do, he's got no reason to treat you any better than what you accept.  
6. If a man wants to be a part of your life, he will find a way to put himself there.  If he hasn't found himself yet, you damn sure aint gonna do yourself any favors calling yourself, "helping him."  If he wants to be lost, let him wander.  Don't play hide and seek with that fool!

And I'm not saying any of this to say that men are born users, that they don't have feelings too, or that there aint a man out there that can do right by a woman... I'm saying this to say... women have been conditioned to do for others, but until you can do right by yourself, you're just going to be emotionally drained.  So love yourself, do right by yourself; all else is secondary.  Oh!  And relationships aren't games to be played, there aren't any real rules, but... above all: always, always do what's best for you and your sanity + emotional well-being.

On Money

Tonight was shaping up to be a slow night.  Oh, there were people in the club, they just weren't tipping.  But then...

One guy tipped me $17.25 off of an $8.75 order.  I have no idea why, seeing as the only conversation we had was "what can I get for you?"/"Malibu and pineapple," but I wasn't going to question it.

Then, there was this other guy who didn't believe me when I said pretty much all I drink when I go out is straight whiskey.  He bought me a shot of whiskey (a real one, since the club was close to closing), and after I downed it (to his great surprise), he tipped me $50 (plus the $4 he tipped me before).  

$71.25... that's almost a whole night's tips off of 2 people!  I need more customers like them.  ...Except it kinda makes me nervous to be tipped $50 and given a business card (he's president of an area marketing research firm) when I don't intend to have anything other that the normal customer/bartender relationship with this man.  Tipping so hugely is like playing Roulette with your money; you might score, but chances are... you just donated to someone's college fund.

On Madness

I also have the type of customers I hate.  I almost went full-on DC Girl on this man because he was being ridiculous.

So, he comes up to the bar and asks for a drink.  It sounded like he said "zombie," so I started making him one.  As I prepared to pour, he cried out:

"Hol' hol'  whatchu makin?"

I turned around, "A Zombie."

He shook his head, "Nah.  I said: where's Grandame?"

"Oh.  She's not working tonight," I answered, although I could've sworn his sentence had begun with, "let me get a..."

"Oh aight.  Well, let me get what you was makin then."

"A Zombie."

"Yeah, that."

He proceeds to let me make the damn drink as he turns around to his friend.  I swear I overhear him saying, "I aint payin for that shit."  And then after holding his finger up at me, telling me to hang on a second, because, "I'm lookin' for someone," he walks out of the club.

Now, I can always resell the drink I've made (you just strain the ice out and put a napkin over the glass so it stays fresh), but I was just mad he let me make it, knowing he wasn't about to pay for it.  But then it got even worse...

About 20 minutes later, he comes back into the club.  Maybe he isn't an asshole after all, I thought to myself.

"I thought you left me," I pouted, turning the cute, flirty bartender charm on.

He was brusque, "Where's my drink at?"

Charm wasted.

"Right here.  I put a napkin over it and drained the ice."  I showed him.

"I want a fresh one."

I held in a sigh.  "We're out of Triple Sec.  I can't make another one."

"It's watered down.  I don't want that shit," he shook his head.

"No it isn't, I drained the ice."

He was adamant, "It's watered down."

"Here, do you want to taste it first?" I asked.

"I ain't payin' for that!"

"I said: do you want to taste it first?" I repeated, grabbing a shot glass and pouring a little of the drink into it for him.

He took the shot and downed it.  "It's weak and it's watered down," he declared.  (Now, I know this was a lie because I'd let it sit, so all the higher proof alcohol was at the top).  "Give it to me for $7."

"All mixed drinks are $11.50."

"Make me a drink for $7."  

By this point I was starting to get more than a little ticked off.  Most people don't come to the bar to start haggling with the bartender.  You do not negotiate prices at a strip club, dipshit.

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I silently started filling up a chaser glass with cranberry juice.  Whatever it takes to just get him AWAY.  FROM.  ME.

"What's that?" he asked as I was pouring.

"Cranberry juice."

"I want a drink."

"I'm making you a vodka cranberry."  (I got too lazy to say cranberry and vodka)

He nodded.  Then I went to pour the vodka.  Being careful to keep them together (we serve our chasers and shots separately), lest he think I'd already poured the vodka in the cranberry juice, take a sip, and complain that it was watered down again, I announced, "that's $7."

"What's this?"  he asked again.

Is this fool effin' stupid?  "Your drink.  A cranberry and vodka.  $7."

His friend piped up, "can we get two Heinekens with that?"

"$21," I said shortly, all customer-friendly dulcet tones gone from my voice.

I rang them up.  "Oh, and can I get ten $1s?" his friend asked, handing me a $1 bill.

My face must've gone through 5 different expressions of outrage in the space of 3 seconds, because moments later he smiled sheepishly and stuck it back in his pocket and handed me a $10.  "Oops.  My bad."

I stared at him.  "Yeah."  

I've never been happier to see anyone's backside than I was when they finally turned around and seated themselves.  Ugh!

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT:

"Bushmills?  I'll believe that when I see it!"

(Customer to me BEFORE tipping me $50 after I downed a shot of whiskey, straight.  No chaser.)

Why Sundays Are NOT What's Poppin. At ALL.

So, Sundays, I work with Big Sis as a manager and Dallas as the barback.  Initially, I liked Sundays because Big Sis lets me work the bar by myself, so I get more tips.  She also lets me come dressed in whatever I want (as long as it's dark) instead of a red top and a black bottom, which lets me stretch out the few red tops I own.  (I happen to think I look horrid in red, thus, I own very little of it).  ... But now I HATE Sundays.  HATE them!!

Why do I hate Sundays?

I hate Sundays because Dallas, the BARBACK, (Read your job description, homie: wipe down the liquor shelves.  Restock the alcohol.  Wash the glasses.)  keeps doing MY JOB when I DON'T need him to.  Yes, it's appreciated when he steps in to help when the bar is actually busy, but when it's not busy, it's akin to ROBBERY.  This man stood in front of me, so the customers saw him first, and ended up making $35.  Plus I still had to tip him out $20.  Tonight was so damn SLOW I walked away with $70.  ...ROBBERY.

AND!  What makes it worse is that he isn't allowed to touch the register, so I have to take the money from him and count the change, which ends up slowing down the whole process because in the time that I'm counting the money from/to "his" customers, serving mine and the waitresses, I COULD be moving the line along.  And then once I'm done handling the money for "his" customers, he's still standing there at the first bar station, waiting to take the next customer before I can even make eye contact.  And THEN, sometimes, even after I make eye contact and greet a customer, he'll butt in loudly with, "Whatcha havin?"

This fool is doing it on PURPOSE.

Get back there and wash some effing glasses!  

Plus, he always finds some excuse to touch me.  He gave me a hug and a peck on the neck as a greeting once.  Um.  Gross?  I don't like being touched in the first place, but definitely not by old, annoying, thieving barbacks like HIM!

OH!  And, he doesn't even know how to make some of the drinks.  He told some customer that we didn't have the ingredients to make a Sex on the Beach when we definitely do.  I had to make it and HE still got the tip.  I understand everyone needs a little extra somethin-somethin, but $35 extra that should have been mine?  No, sir, you may NOT have that.

I've come up with a game plan though:

1.  When I see a crowd of people at the door, send him upstairs with $200 - $300 to get $1s from the dancers.  That should keep him occupied for 5-10 minutes.

2.  Stand at the first bar station, so even if he does butt in, he's mostly helping the waitresses and not taking tips.

3.  Collect dirty glasses under the bar and then move them up to the "dirty glasses" station in groups to keep him periodically occupied at strategic points throughout the night.  This should keep him occupied for 20-30 minutes.

It would be nice if I could tell my manager that he's being an annoying pain in the ass, but I can't because (1) I'm the New Girl, and (2) I can tell she doesn't like me because it's clear that I'm not hangin around that place for long and I'm going places in my life.  I LOVE my other manager, Li'l Mama, but Big Sis definitely lets her attitude towards me and my whole College Girl aura come through in a major way.  Even though she's a manager and it's clearly in her job title to manage me, she takes every little opportunity to assert her authority and "final say."  (Okay, I get it... I might be in college, but I'm not Ms. Big Shot here.  Got it.)  Ugh.  I HATE Sundays.

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT

Customer to me: "What's a nice, pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Me: "Makin money."

Yup.