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.

You have a fucked up eyebrow

My night had started out pretty lame. I think I had accumulated a grand total of about $70. I was trolling for fresh meat when an older but distinguished looking gentleman pulls me aside. He's there with a friend from Texas, who's in a wheelchair, and he'd like me to dance for his friend. I give a decent, but not extraordinary dance and distinguished men hands me a $20. Dances here are $10 a song, so when I get $20 I usually ask if they need change and hope they say no. He not only says no, he starts inquiring about VIP. Score. He wants me to find another pretty, young, and fully shaven girl for his crippled friend. I acquiesce and look around, but all the girls I would usually go to aren't working. I head up to the dressing room to look for the lucky girl who gets to go to VIP with me. Its slim pickings in the dressing room, but I don't want to take too long so I grab a cute girl who's eating soup and hope I can sell them on her. When I bring her down to their table I can tell they're a little disappointed in my choice. "She's soooo cute!" I coo as I give her boobs a little squeeze. We finally get things worked out and head to VIP.

Turns out cute girl isn't as clean as I would have thought. While she's giving Texas a handjob through his pants, I'm trying to distract the gentleman hoping he won't expect the same from me. Luckily I do a pretty decent job, and he tells me about his son, who's brilliant as evidenced by some politically centered text messages gentleman shows me written by his boy. Of course he goes to a super expensive private school in the area, and I know gentleman must live in one of those mansions only a few minutes from the club. I can soon tell that gentleman's growing restless, as he starts asking me to kiss him (on the mouth), and let him rub my oh-so-smooth pussy.

Then he suddenly looks at me and tilts his head. "You have a fucked up eyebrow," he says nonchalantly. While I know what he's referring to, I wouldn't go as far as to say my eyebrow is fucked up. It's unique and lends character to my otherwise perfect face. He starts to obsess about it. He tells me to go to the dressing room and fetch him some tweezers so he can operate on my wayward brow. As much as I do not want this 60-something year old man near my face with tweezers, I'm so amused by his little eyebrow obsession that I humor him and go on a scavanger hunt for some tweezers. There are none to be found, so I return empty handed, figuring that this will be the end of this little diatribe. I'm wrong. He calls his limo driver and tells him to buy him a pair of tweezers. At 1:00 in the morning. Limo driver obeys, and arrives back with the dainty silver tool in about 20 mintues. Shit. I allow gentleman to pluck maybe 3 or 4 hairs and then look in the mirror. I look the same. "Oh wow! That does look so much better," I say with far too much enthusiam. He looks at me and tells me I should see a professional to get them fixed and thinned a little. I tell him that I'll definitely look into it.

It's the end of hour number two, and he informs me they have to go. Cripple pays cute girl what he owes her, and gentleman pays me what he owes me plus $100. Cute girls whines a little about how she worked a lot harder than I (very true), but Texas doesn't cough up the extra $100.

As I drive home that night I smile. If you had asked me 6 months ago if I thought I would ever be completely naked lying on a leather couch having a man older than my father pluck my eyebrows I would have laughed. Now all I can do is smile.