Somehow I only received $136 of my $187 half hour VIP. I hate credit cards and the stupid club policies concerning them. 10% service charge, 10% to the DJ, 10% to the house. I'm left with nothing. Then of course I have to tip the house and the DJ again at the end of the night. I hope they buy some new fucking decor with all that money, cause theirs sucks.
I did pretty well for a Monday, over $600. I guess I should be excited about that, but I can't say that I am.
I should probably get a real job to help me realise just how much money that is for one measly night of work.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Pussy of the century
I didn't do as well tonight as I had hoped. I topped out at $600 and change, which makes my 3-day weekly total a measly 1346, instead of 1500. Oh well, I'll try harder next week. I guess I made my living room this week, so when I put it in perspective it's not so bad.
I did two 30 minute VIPs, which went pretty well. Joe, who spent $570 on me in VIP last week only coughed up $200 this week. Joe respects my boundaries, even though he complains that I'm stingy, which basically means I'm not a whore. He did start to mention taking me out to dinner, which scares me. If he continues I might have to put him out to pasture, so to speak.
My second VIP customer was this crazy drunk Cuban. He must have asked me to perform every illegal act in VIP I could think of. Now, technically the rules in VIP are the same as the rules on the floor, which means no contact whatsoever, but that's just not realistic. What goes on is pretty much up to the discretion of the girl. Here's a list of questions Mr. Cuba must have memorized before heading to VIP.
1) Can I kiss you on the mouth with tongue.
-Absolutely not. That's unsanitary, and frankly just gross.
2) Can I lick your nipples.
-Let's just say I said yes to this. If a girl in VIP allows you to lick her, she's also allowed every other guy she's been in VIP with to do so as well. So, you're not only getting the delicious taste of sweat covered stripper skin, you're getting Bob's, John's, and Mark's dried saliva as well. Yum. Next question.
3) Can I finger/lick your pussy.
-Dude, it's $150. Get real.
4) Can I jack off/will you jack me off.
-Sure (to #1), in the comfort of your own fucking home. You can even think of me when you do it, just don't come back Monday and tell me about it.
Now there are some more, but I'll save those for later.
Before Mr. Cuba left, he also dropped the golden line "You have the pussy of the century."
What a charmer.
I did two 30 minute VIPs, which went pretty well. Joe, who spent $570 on me in VIP last week only coughed up $200 this week. Joe respects my boundaries, even though he complains that I'm stingy, which basically means I'm not a whore. He did start to mention taking me out to dinner, which scares me. If he continues I might have to put him out to pasture, so to speak.
My second VIP customer was this crazy drunk Cuban. He must have asked me to perform every illegal act in VIP I could think of. Now, technically the rules in VIP are the same as the rules on the floor, which means no contact whatsoever, but that's just not realistic. What goes on is pretty much up to the discretion of the girl. Here's a list of questions Mr. Cuba must have memorized before heading to VIP.
1) Can I kiss you on the mouth with tongue.
-Absolutely not. That's unsanitary, and frankly just gross.
2) Can I lick your nipples.
-Let's just say I said yes to this. If a girl in VIP allows you to lick her, she's also allowed every other guy she's been in VIP with to do so as well. So, you're not only getting the delicious taste of sweat covered stripper skin, you're getting Bob's, John's, and Mark's dried saliva as well. Yum. Next question.
3) Can I finger/lick your pussy.
-Dude, it's $150. Get real.
4) Can I jack off/will you jack me off.
-Sure (to #1), in the comfort of your own fucking home. You can even think of me when you do it, just don't come back Monday and tell me about it.
Now there are some more, but I'll save those for later.
Before Mr. Cuba left, he also dropped the golden line "You have the pussy of the century."
What a charmer.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Shaking
I had an awful night at work on Friday.
I had the bright idea of buying some caffeine pills, you know, because I'm too chicken to snort coke off the toilet seats at work. So I took 2 before work (400 mg worth). I figured they would make me peppy and friendly. Well a few seconds into dancing for my first customer of the night, he commented that I was shaking. I was, and at that point I realized maybe controlled substances aren't the best way to make it through the night. I was so worried I was going to pass out on main stage, my knees kept collapsing beneath me, and I was breaking out into a cold sweat. I rested a little, and somehow managed to make it through the lame excuse for a night.
I also ran into two guys I went to high school with, and to my surprise they knew who I was. One of them won the title of Homecoming King junior year. It was bound to happen sooner or later.
People under the age of 30 suck, at least in the strip club environment, or any environment where the exchange of money for goods and services is concerned. After I sit and talk with you for nearly an hour, don't hand me a fucking dollar and expect me to get down on my knees and suck your dick. It's a dollar, you didn't fucking make my night. Fucking kids.
I stopped by Waffle House after work; it's a new tradition of mine. Unfortunately it was pretty busy (at 4:30 in the morning), which always makes me feel awkward. Especially when there are crowds of young people. I'm in my street clothes (obviously), but my face is caked with stale looking make-up, and I smell like a homeless shelter, or what I imagine a homeless shelter smells like, seeing as I've never set foot in one.
When I got home I was hit with an intense wave of depression, which I'm guessing was caused by the various substances in my system, which were wearing off. I popped two sleeping pills and dozed off to an infomercial about a quick cooking convection oven.
I had the bright idea of buying some caffeine pills, you know, because I'm too chicken to snort coke off the toilet seats at work. So I took 2 before work (400 mg worth). I figured they would make me peppy and friendly. Well a few seconds into dancing for my first customer of the night, he commented that I was shaking. I was, and at that point I realized maybe controlled substances aren't the best way to make it through the night. I was so worried I was going to pass out on main stage, my knees kept collapsing beneath me, and I was breaking out into a cold sweat. I rested a little, and somehow managed to make it through the lame excuse for a night.
I also ran into two guys I went to high school with, and to my surprise they knew who I was. One of them won the title of Homecoming King junior year. It was bound to happen sooner or later.
People under the age of 30 suck, at least in the strip club environment, or any environment where the exchange of money for goods and services is concerned. After I sit and talk with you for nearly an hour, don't hand me a fucking dollar and expect me to get down on my knees and suck your dick. It's a dollar, you didn't fucking make my night. Fucking kids.
I stopped by Waffle House after work; it's a new tradition of mine. Unfortunately it was pretty busy (at 4:30 in the morning), which always makes me feel awkward. Especially when there are crowds of young people. I'm in my street clothes (obviously), but my face is caked with stale looking make-up, and I smell like a homeless shelter, or what I imagine a homeless shelter smells like, seeing as I've never set foot in one.
When I got home I was hit with an intense wave of depression, which I'm guessing was caused by the various substances in my system, which were wearing off. I popped two sleeping pills and dozed off to an infomercial about a quick cooking convection oven.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
My new living room
I bailed on work tonight. Here is my future living room! (couch, ottoman, lamps) http://www.roomstogo.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=showRoom&roo_id=4048
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Mondays
You know it's a bad night when half the girls can't even pay their tip-out at the end of the night. It was exceptionally slow, and exceptionally cold. I had pretty much given up by 3:00 and was out of there by 3:30.
Luckily I did make enough to tip out, and reached my (week) nightly goal of $400. I'm working four days a week now, seeing as I have NO social life, I might as well be at work making money.
I'm starting to make 'friends' with the staff, which really is important in this industry. Having people recommend you to big spenders is always helpful.
I think this whole job is starting to click with me now. Sometimes I have a hard time understanding people, especially men. I used to find it impossible to believe that men actually get turned on during a lap dance. It seems so artificial, so unsexy to me. My sales skills suffered because of that ridiculous notion. Now, I realize that receiving a dance is not an arousing experience for every single man, but for the majority of them it is. This fact alone has helped me immensely.
I don't know. I'm making more money than I ever have, more than college educated professionals with actual credentials. I can afford the $1,000 leather couch and $800 flat screen TV that I want. I can afford to get my hair and nails done. When I come home and count my money I get this intense high: green and papery between my fingers, with the smell of stale smoke and cheap Victoria's Secret body spray lingering on every bill. Then I quietly pack those lovely pieces of paper in an envelope, their temporary holding cell, until they find themselves in the prison that is my bank account. But I realize that this is not happiness, at least not the happiness that I watch other people partake in.
It's just consuming.
Luckily I did make enough to tip out, and reached my (week) nightly goal of $400. I'm working four days a week now, seeing as I have NO social life, I might as well be at work making money.
I'm starting to make 'friends' with the staff, which really is important in this industry. Having people recommend you to big spenders is always helpful.
I think this whole job is starting to click with me now. Sometimes I have a hard time understanding people, especially men. I used to find it impossible to believe that men actually get turned on during a lap dance. It seems so artificial, so unsexy to me. My sales skills suffered because of that ridiculous notion. Now, I realize that receiving a dance is not an arousing experience for every single man, but for the majority of them it is. This fact alone has helped me immensely.
I don't know. I'm making more money than I ever have, more than college educated professionals with actual credentials. I can afford the $1,000 leather couch and $800 flat screen TV that I want. I can afford to get my hair and nails done. When I come home and count my money I get this intense high: green and papery between my fingers, with the smell of stale smoke and cheap Victoria's Secret body spray lingering on every bill. Then I quietly pack those lovely pieces of paper in an envelope, their temporary holding cell, until they find themselves in the prison that is my bank account. But I realize that this is not happiness, at least not the happiness that I watch other people partake in.
It's just consuming.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Fire or Ice
I did well on Saturday. I walked out with more than $800. Sadly, it was the perfect stereotypical night of a stripper.
It started out with a half hour in VIP with a customer with whom I've been in VIP before. He's got a drug problem, is a whoremonger, and can be less than pleasant in VIP. I really wanted to make money, so I put up with him.
Then he wants another hour with me and another girl. At $400/hr, how can I say no. It's always easier to do VIP with another girl because the attention is on how you interact with her, rather than how you interact with the customer.
I did about seven dances for one guy who kept trying to get me to stick my nipple in his mouth.
The best (or worst) part of my night happened around 2:00. I was lounging around the stairs to the upstairs VIP when suddenly a waitress (who looks like skeletor) asks me if I want to go to VIP. "Uhh, sure",then I'm whisked upstairs with two gentlemen and another girl.
This other girl is one I've noticed since my first day working. She's exactly what a stripper should look like. She's got the huge fake breasts, the bleached blonde hair, the surgically enhanced face, the expensive yet tacky stripper outfits, the nails, and the squeaky, bitchy stripper voice. I also notice that she never comes in before 12:00. Meaning that she's paying $200 in late fees every night. And she only gets 3-4 hours to work. I always (naively) wondered how she made any money. Now I know.
Now, I like to think that strip clubs aren't as bad as they're made out to be. In my stripper world there's no rampant drug use, prostitution, blow jobs in VIP, etc. It's just good clean fun (ok, so maybe I'm exaggerating).
Well the reality is, this stuff does go on. I know this deep down, and have since day one. There's coke, blow jobs, pimps, johns, dealers, sometimes all at once.
Soon after we get up to VIP, blondie asks me if I party. I don't. At least she doesn't ask me if I'm a narc, like the last girl who wanted to party in VIP with me. She pulls out some baggies of coke and crack, and asks her customer if he wants fire or ice. I don't remember his answer. I think he takes the coke. Blondie and her customer snort a few lines off an ashtray. 'My customer' is the cab driver. This is hilarious and sad to me. We talked about the usual; school, work, hobbies, whether or not he can touch my pussy. I find out I was only needed for a half hour, at the end of which blondie gets one of her friends (who I've never seen before) to take my place. I can tell her friend parties a little too much. As I leave I hear the cab driver ask for some fire (crack). These are the people we rely on to drive our drunken selves home safely.
At this point it's the end of the night, so I collect my VIP money and head to the dressing room. I have a few Club bucks (about $20 worth), which I don't even bother cashing it because it's not worth the time and energy it takes to walk to the office.
Money is just that disposable when you make $800+ in a night.
It started out with a half hour in VIP with a customer with whom I've been in VIP before. He's got a drug problem, is a whoremonger, and can be less than pleasant in VIP. I really wanted to make money, so I put up with him.
Then he wants another hour with me and another girl. At $400/hr, how can I say no. It's always easier to do VIP with another girl because the attention is on how you interact with her, rather than how you interact with the customer.
I did about seven dances for one guy who kept trying to get me to stick my nipple in his mouth.
The best (or worst) part of my night happened around 2:00. I was lounging around the stairs to the upstairs VIP when suddenly a waitress (who looks like skeletor) asks me if I want to go to VIP. "Uhh, sure",then I'm whisked upstairs with two gentlemen and another girl.
This other girl is one I've noticed since my first day working. She's exactly what a stripper should look like. She's got the huge fake breasts, the bleached blonde hair, the surgically enhanced face, the expensive yet tacky stripper outfits, the nails, and the squeaky, bitchy stripper voice. I also notice that she never comes in before 12:00. Meaning that she's paying $200 in late fees every night. And she only gets 3-4 hours to work. I always (naively) wondered how she made any money. Now I know.
Now, I like to think that strip clubs aren't as bad as they're made out to be. In my stripper world there's no rampant drug use, prostitution, blow jobs in VIP, etc. It's just good clean fun (ok, so maybe I'm exaggerating).
Well the reality is, this stuff does go on. I know this deep down, and have since day one. There's coke, blow jobs, pimps, johns, dealers, sometimes all at once.
Soon after we get up to VIP, blondie asks me if I party. I don't. At least she doesn't ask me if I'm a narc, like the last girl who wanted to party in VIP with me. She pulls out some baggies of coke and crack, and asks her customer if he wants fire or ice. I don't remember his answer. I think he takes the coke. Blondie and her customer snort a few lines off an ashtray. 'My customer' is the cab driver. This is hilarious and sad to me. We talked about the usual; school, work, hobbies, whether or not he can touch my pussy. I find out I was only needed for a half hour, at the end of which blondie gets one of her friends (who I've never seen before) to take my place. I can tell her friend parties a little too much. As I leave I hear the cab driver ask for some fire (crack). These are the people we rely on to drive our drunken selves home safely.
At this point it's the end of the night, so I collect my VIP money and head to the dressing room. I have a few Club bucks (about $20 worth), which I don't even bother cashing it because it's not worth the time and energy it takes to walk to the office.
Money is just that disposable when you make $800+ in a night.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Single
Tonight will mark my fourth consecutive night worked.
I'm unsure of how to feel about this. On one hand, I'm proud that I've been able to make it in all (soon to be) four days. Even though Wednesday and Thursday weren't up to par. On the other hand I'm depressed over the fact that work is my social life. It's either go to the club or sit at home and watch family guy by myself.
A lot of my customers are married men, in fact, I'd say the majority of them are. Married men are usually pretty easy; they're just happy to see someone significantly younger than they are naked. They generally don't try and burden me with their emotional baggage, and realize that any 'connection' formed in a strip club is founded on a completely superficial basis.
Unfortunately last night was like a single man buffet. There was one in particular who was really intent on draining me. He insisted on crying, I mean tears streaming down his face, over some girlfriend who left him. Six months ago. He was 43. I suppose lonliness knows no age, and it was evident he was just very lonely. He did pay me well for my therapy sessions, and I didn't get naked for him once.
Matter of fact, I barely danced at all last night, yet I still managed to make $450. Not great, but for the amount of energy expended, not too shabby.
Speaking of money, I think this job really distorts my perception of it. When I come home with less than $400, I'm disappointed. While being motivated and driven to make as much dough as possible is a good thing, $400 is a lot of money. Hell, $300 is a lot of money. Most people my age would be thrilled to make $35-$55 an hour, but I don't think twice of it. Once I leave this industry and enter the real world I'm going to be in for a rude awakening.
I'm unsure of how to feel about this. On one hand, I'm proud that I've been able to make it in all (soon to be) four days. Even though Wednesday and Thursday weren't up to par. On the other hand I'm depressed over the fact that work is my social life. It's either go to the club or sit at home and watch family guy by myself.
A lot of my customers are married men, in fact, I'd say the majority of them are. Married men are usually pretty easy; they're just happy to see someone significantly younger than they are naked. They generally don't try and burden me with their emotional baggage, and realize that any 'connection' formed in a strip club is founded on a completely superficial basis.
Unfortunately last night was like a single man buffet. There was one in particular who was really intent on draining me. He insisted on crying, I mean tears streaming down his face, over some girlfriend who left him. Six months ago. He was 43. I suppose lonliness knows no age, and it was evident he was just very lonely. He did pay me well for my therapy sessions, and I didn't get naked for him once.
Matter of fact, I barely danced at all last night, yet I still managed to make $450. Not great, but for the amount of energy expended, not too shabby.
Speaking of money, I think this job really distorts my perception of it. When I come home with less than $400, I'm disappointed. While being motivated and driven to make as much dough as possible is a good thing, $400 is a lot of money. Hell, $300 is a lot of money. Most people my age would be thrilled to make $35-$55 an hour, but I don't think twice of it. Once I leave this industry and enter the real world I'm going to be in for a rude awakening.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Lazy
I was supposed to work tonight, but that's not gonna happen. There's always tomorrow for naked debauchery!
I did work on Saturday, and I feel disappointed and pleased about the outcome. I did make over $500. Which is good. I could have made more. Which is bad. For some reason the stars were aligned just right as to make everyone want to spend some time in VIP with me. Unfortunately, they were also aligned in the same manner for the other girls working, resulting in an obnoxiously long waiting list. We're talking hours here.
Luckily I did my first VIP (an hour) early in the night before the gates were stormed. The guy kept asking me the raunchiest questions, and I gave him appropriately raunchy (and completely fabricated) answers. It was all easy enough.
I had at least two other VIP requests, neither which materialized due to the damned list. Both guys got sick of waiting (understandably) and left. I was able to drain a little money from them in the mean time.
Saturdays are probably my favorite day to work, because the club is packed. Less bullshitting, more dancing. While I am an expert bullshitter, it does drain me, even more so than cavorting around in 5 inch heels all night.
Today I deposited my week's earnings in my checking account. Handing the teller a stack of 20s, with some 100s thrown in for good measure, is always fun. Behind their friendly veneer, you know they're thinking 'oh, so she's a little whore', or 'maybe it's time I start thinking about getting a second job'.
There's probably a sad little indian man at the club right now wondering where his sweet little stripper is, as I told him I'd be in tonight. We were supposed to do a VIP and (I just love this) discuss a future lunch date. Obviously this lunch date would never happen, as I'd rather sit in my apartment and listen to my roommate's insufferable bird screech, than hang out with this sad little man.
I don't understand guys who go to a strip club to look for dates. Really? It's a strip club, not a fucking girlfriend store.
To my loving customers: YOU DO NOT WANT TO DATE ME. I AM NOT WHAT YOU THINK I AM. EVERY SOUND WAVE THAT LEAVES MY MOUTH AND ENTERS YOUR EARS IS A LIE. YOU ARE NOT HANDSOME, I DONT LIKE HAVING SEX 30 TIMES A DAY, YOUR COLLECTION OF ANTIQUE STAMPS IS NOT, I REPEAT, NOT INTERESTING. PLEASE JUST LOOK AT MY BOOBS AND MAKE CRUDE COMMENTS. THAT IS ALL.
I did work on Saturday, and I feel disappointed and pleased about the outcome. I did make over $500. Which is good. I could have made more. Which is bad. For some reason the stars were aligned just right as to make everyone want to spend some time in VIP with me. Unfortunately, they were also aligned in the same manner for the other girls working, resulting in an obnoxiously long waiting list. We're talking hours here.
Luckily I did my first VIP (an hour) early in the night before the gates were stormed. The guy kept asking me the raunchiest questions, and I gave him appropriately raunchy (and completely fabricated) answers. It was all easy enough.
I had at least two other VIP requests, neither which materialized due to the damned list. Both guys got sick of waiting (understandably) and left. I was able to drain a little money from them in the mean time.
Saturdays are probably my favorite day to work, because the club is packed. Less bullshitting, more dancing. While I am an expert bullshitter, it does drain me, even more so than cavorting around in 5 inch heels all night.
Today I deposited my week's earnings in my checking account. Handing the teller a stack of 20s, with some 100s thrown in for good measure, is always fun. Behind their friendly veneer, you know they're thinking 'oh, so she's a little whore', or 'maybe it's time I start thinking about getting a second job'.
There's probably a sad little indian man at the club right now wondering where his sweet little stripper is, as I told him I'd be in tonight. We were supposed to do a VIP and (I just love this) discuss a future lunch date. Obviously this lunch date would never happen, as I'd rather sit in my apartment and listen to my roommate's insufferable bird screech, than hang out with this sad little man.
I don't understand guys who go to a strip club to look for dates. Really? It's a strip club, not a fucking girlfriend store.
To my loving customers: YOU DO NOT WANT TO DATE ME. I AM NOT WHAT YOU THINK I AM. EVERY SOUND WAVE THAT LEAVES MY MOUTH AND ENTERS YOUR EARS IS A LIE. YOU ARE NOT HANDSOME, I DONT LIKE HAVING SEX 30 TIMES A DAY, YOUR COLLECTION OF ANTIQUE STAMPS IS NOT, I REPEAT, NOT INTERESTING. PLEASE JUST LOOK AT MY BOOBS AND MAKE CRUDE COMMENTS. THAT IS ALL.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
No new couch for me.
So, I got my first sugar daddy offer. Well, less of a sugar daddy offer and more of a "have sex with me once a week and I'll pay you well for it" offer. The guy was pretty obnoxious in VIP, so he's not really the ideal person for this sort of thing. Matter of fact, I felt like I was at the gynecologist the entire time. I guess I'd prefer that to feeling like I'm at the petting zoo dressed in grass flavored newspaper.
Lickers are the worst. Not only for me, but for themselves. They have no idea where I've been. And do they really think it's enjoyable for me? They must, because they act so surprised and offended when I tell them that they're going to have to keep their tongues in their mouths.
Honestly, it's a lucrative deal. If I could get $500 for one hour of sex once a week, that's not bad. Too bad I'm not willing to face prostitution charges and federal prison for an extra 500 a week. An extra 500 that could buy me a new couch, or flat screen TV. Fuck.
I'm so very excited about moving into a one bedroom apartment. I adore my roommate, but she's a pig. I'm pretty sure there are fruit fly larvae in a pan that she left of the stove. And there's some pretty furry spaghetti in the fridge. It's really mind-boggling to me because I know her parents and they're the cleanest people I've ever met.
I have work tonight and I really want to break the $500 mark. For some completely irrational reason $500 just seems like a lot of money as opposed to $450 or even $480. Half a grand for 6 hours of work just seems extravagant and I love it.
Too bad I've been hovering around the $350 mark for the past week. And its not due to lack of customers.
Lickers are the worst. Not only for me, but for themselves. They have no idea where I've been. And do they really think it's enjoyable for me? They must, because they act so surprised and offended when I tell them that they're going to have to keep their tongues in their mouths.
Honestly, it's a lucrative deal. If I could get $500 for one hour of sex once a week, that's not bad. Too bad I'm not willing to face prostitution charges and federal prison for an extra 500 a week. An extra 500 that could buy me a new couch, or flat screen TV. Fuck.
I'm so very excited about moving into a one bedroom apartment. I adore my roommate, but she's a pig. I'm pretty sure there are fruit fly larvae in a pan that she left of the stove. And there's some pretty furry spaghetti in the fridge. It's really mind-boggling to me because I know her parents and they're the cleanest people I've ever met.
I have work tonight and I really want to break the $500 mark. For some completely irrational reason $500 just seems like a lot of money as opposed to $450 or even $480. Half a grand for 6 hours of work just seems extravagant and I love it.
Too bad I've been hovering around the $350 mark for the past week. And its not due to lack of customers.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Hustle
I'm not a hustler. I want to be, but I'm just not there yet.
I want to be one of those girls that goes in knowing she'll leave with at least $500; regardless of the circumstances. I want to be one of those girls who can drain a man of all his money with a few well placed lines and giggles. I want to be one of those girls who knows after 5 seconds of conversation just how much she can get out of her customer.
I am not one of those girls. My money is inconsistent. Sometimes I'm charming and witty, sometimes I'm myself. I waste hours on customers who have nothing. I get nervous before work, unsure if I'll even make enough to pay tip-out. If I do make good money, I'm estatic over it, and then I rationalize missing my next two shifts because of it.
Maybe I'm just not cut out for this job.
I want to be one of those girls that goes in knowing she'll leave with at least $500; regardless of the circumstances. I want to be one of those girls who can drain a man of all his money with a few well placed lines and giggles. I want to be one of those girls who knows after 5 seconds of conversation just how much she can get out of her customer.
I am not one of those girls. My money is inconsistent. Sometimes I'm charming and witty, sometimes I'm myself. I waste hours on customers who have nothing. I get nervous before work, unsure if I'll even make enough to pay tip-out. If I do make good money, I'm estatic over it, and then I rationalize missing my next two shifts because of it.
Maybe I'm just not cut out for this job.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Brass Poles
Saturday was my first night back. Back into the chaotic and lovely world of strippers. The new club seems promising, as far as number of customers, but the quality of said customers is not what I'm used to.
I was a mediocre stripper last night. My hustle was weak, but luckily the party atmosphere of the club made it impossible not to sell dances.
The other girls pretty much ignored me (thankfully), and management seems fine. It's interesting how clique-y strip club employees can be. I suppose it's like that at any workplace, but I can't really say seeing as I've never held a 'normal' job long enough to notice.
The poles are a goldish brass color, which I kind of hate. They also don't extend all the way to the ceiling, making them seem unstable. Not like I can do any pole acrobatics or anything, but I'm concerned for the other girls' well being.
The best part about working again is the money. Even though I did far from well, I still made more in my single night of titty shaking than my roommate makes in a week. Not like it's a contest or anything...Those crisp, or folded length-wise, dollar bills just make me so happy.
Another nice thing about this club is the lack of fixed schedules. At the last club I worked at we had to determine our schedule (3 days minimum) a week in advance, which frankly pisses me off. If I wanted to work on a schedule, I'd go work at the fucking post office.
I was a mediocre stripper last night. My hustle was weak, but luckily the party atmosphere of the club made it impossible not to sell dances.
The other girls pretty much ignored me (thankfully), and management seems fine. It's interesting how clique-y strip club employees can be. I suppose it's like that at any workplace, but I can't really say seeing as I've never held a 'normal' job long enough to notice.
The poles are a goldish brass color, which I kind of hate. They also don't extend all the way to the ceiling, making them seem unstable. Not like I can do any pole acrobatics or anything, but I'm concerned for the other girls' well being.
The best part about working again is the money. Even though I did far from well, I still made more in my single night of titty shaking than my roommate makes in a week. Not like it's a contest or anything...Those crisp, or folded length-wise, dollar bills just make me so happy.
Another nice thing about this club is the lack of fixed schedules. At the last club I worked at we had to determine our schedule (3 days minimum) a week in advance, which frankly pisses me off. If I wanted to work on a schedule, I'd go work at the fucking post office.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
I'm a working girl (again).
So, I got a job. Which means I got a permit. An 'adult entertainers permit'. Momma would be so proud.
My little stint in Florida was great. The girl I went with is really laid back, which is a nice change of pace from what I'm used to. She didn't want to go chase boys the whole time, unlike some other friends of mine. My cell phone did end up getting dropped into the hottub, and she did drunkenly dial almost everyone on my contacts list, but it was ok because I was wasted.
My mom had her graduation this past Saturday, I'm really proud (and envious) of her. I mean, she didn't really need to go back to college, but I guess she was feeling unfulfilled or something. Her whole family, which is HUGE, came, so that was a bit chaotic. Luckily I was able to slip out early.
The reason I left early is because I got a call from L concerning camping or hiking or something. I couldn't really hear what he was saying due to phone problems and tons of little kids running around. Regardless, it was just the out I needed.
We did end up camping, which went alright, but it rained the on and off the whole time, so we couldn't really do much. He tried to have sex with me AGAIN, even after his whole "we're just friends" shit, and the newfound definition to our 'relationship'. Whatever. Guys are so fucking stupid sometimes. I reminded him that he has a girl whom he loves in Texas, and that he should start practicing failfullness now. He spouted off some crap about how they're not back together yet and long distance relationships. Often times when people talk about things I couldn't care less about, I tune out.
My roommate, Z, hasn't been around lately due to her demanding job as assistant manager at a pool. We keep making these plans to go out and then she (sometimes me too) falls asleep and we go nowhere.
This guy who lives in my apartment complex keeps calling and texting me to make plans, and I just don't want to hang out with him. I mean, I'm a pretty blunt person but I can't just say "Hey, I don't like you as a person and you're too fucking short, so fuck off".
So, I got a job at a new club, this one looks more promising. When I walked in, the girl at the front desk asked to see my ID to confirm that I was of age (18). I expertly plucked my ID from my wallet and handed it over. She looked at it for a few seconds, and then said "Oh, so you just turned 21, huh?" Fuck. I'm not 21. I handed her my fake ID. Smooth move on my part. I just giggled and asked her if I could give her my other ID. She was cool with the whole situation and all was well. I mean really, what other job could you apply for, hand them a fake ID, admit your mistake, and still get hired?
Getting my permit was quite a hassle. I had to wait at the permit/court records office for TWO hours. And I'm pretty sure I was the only white person there. And the only person with a clean record. Not that the two are correlated or anything. Now that I think about it, two skanky looking white girls did walk in at the end of hour one, both applying for stripper permits. My permit even had a picture. How classy am I?
I have less than a month to find myself a place to live. I know that waiting 'til the last minute is a poor idea, but I just don't feel like dealing with this right now. I'm so fucking lazy.
My little stint in Florida was great. The girl I went with is really laid back, which is a nice change of pace from what I'm used to. She didn't want to go chase boys the whole time, unlike some other friends of mine. My cell phone did end up getting dropped into the hottub, and she did drunkenly dial almost everyone on my contacts list, but it was ok because I was wasted.
My mom had her graduation this past Saturday, I'm really proud (and envious) of her. I mean, she didn't really need to go back to college, but I guess she was feeling unfulfilled or something. Her whole family, which is HUGE, came, so that was a bit chaotic. Luckily I was able to slip out early.
The reason I left early is because I got a call from L concerning camping or hiking or something. I couldn't really hear what he was saying due to phone problems and tons of little kids running around. Regardless, it was just the out I needed.
We did end up camping, which went alright, but it rained the on and off the whole time, so we couldn't really do much. He tried to have sex with me AGAIN, even after his whole "we're just friends" shit, and the newfound definition to our 'relationship'. Whatever. Guys are so fucking stupid sometimes. I reminded him that he has a girl whom he loves in Texas, and that he should start practicing failfullness now. He spouted off some crap about how they're not back together yet and long distance relationships. Often times when people talk about things I couldn't care less about, I tune out.
My roommate, Z, hasn't been around lately due to her demanding job as assistant manager at a pool. We keep making these plans to go out and then she (sometimes me too) falls asleep and we go nowhere.
This guy who lives in my apartment complex keeps calling and texting me to make plans, and I just don't want to hang out with him. I mean, I'm a pretty blunt person but I can't just say "Hey, I don't like you as a person and you're too fucking short, so fuck off".
So, I got a job at a new club, this one looks more promising. When I walked in, the girl at the front desk asked to see my ID to confirm that I was of age (18). I expertly plucked my ID from my wallet and handed it over. She looked at it for a few seconds, and then said "Oh, so you just turned 21, huh?" Fuck. I'm not 21. I handed her my fake ID. Smooth move on my part. I just giggled and asked her if I could give her my other ID. She was cool with the whole situation and all was well. I mean really, what other job could you apply for, hand them a fake ID, admit your mistake, and still get hired?
Getting my permit was quite a hassle. I had to wait at the permit/court records office for TWO hours. And I'm pretty sure I was the only white person there. And the only person with a clean record. Not that the two are correlated or anything. Now that I think about it, two skanky looking white girls did walk in at the end of hour one, both applying for stripper permits. My permit even had a picture. How classy am I?
I have less than a month to find myself a place to live. I know that waiting 'til the last minute is a poor idea, but I just don't feel like dealing with this right now. I'm so fucking lazy.
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