All rolls.

So I worked at a different club this past Friday, and it was definitely an interesting experience. I haven't quit my other club or anything drastic (and I don't intend to), but there were some extenuating circumstances that I can't even discuss on here that lead to the temporary switch.

This club was a lot smaller, there were maybe 15 girls on a Friday night, as opposed to 30 or 40. The interior of the club was very nice, and clean. Probably the cleanest club I've ever set foot in. The manager was absolutely adorable and super friendly, albeit a bit skeezy. There was only one problem...no customers. From 9:00-10:30 there were maybe 3 customers total.

I spent this time sitting at the bar wishing I were anywhere but there. Finally the club started to fill up (who am I kidding, there may have been a total of 10 custies), so I got off my lazy ass and tried to make some money. I sold one 30 minute VIP, and did a few dances, and left with a grand total of $240.

I have a bad feeling that I was the highest earner of the night.

I caught some static from the other girls (for obvious reasons). I'm not sure if I just happened to work an exceptionally slow night, or if that's the norm.

Well, the club's been up my ass ever since. I've gotten numerous texts (!) and calls inquiring about whether I'm coming in or not. Fuck, the DJ practically shit his pants when I tipped him $20. I can't remember the last time I've tipped my other DJs less than $20.

Plus the girls there are a whole lotta crazy. I can't blame them, working there would cause me to go insane as well. One particularly drugged out bitch started telling me this story about a guy who shoved his dick in her mouth and came in VIP, which I'm sure was absolutely made up, but entertaining none the less. She also had the good nature to inform me that if the manager asks about drug use to only mention 'the non-addictive shit, like rolls'. Yeah, I'm sure you're really pulling the wool over his eyes. What a crazy industry.

On a better note, I'm off to Paris in 2 weeks!

Sometimes I feel like my life is a dream, punctuated by brief moments of clarity. I cannot remember the last time my system was free of alcohol, but it's not a big deal, I'm not an alcoholic. I've done so many things lately that would make my former self cringe, but I don't cringe. I don't even flinch. It's all a dream sequence, a consequence-free realm of another reality; not my reality. I go through all the motions of day-to-day life, I talk to people but the words are all meaningless, senseless, like the white noise of a broken TV. I feel like I'm not even uttering these words, they are just there, plucked haphazardly from the invisible fabric of space. These words aren't me. I'm not me.

When I was younger and something bad would happen to me, I'd always tell myself that it's only temporary. All the feelings and emotions are temporary and will eventually ebb away like the tides. But tides are cyclical and return, and when they do they carry with them a new assortment of things. New strands of wayward seaweed, new fragments of once vibrant coral, new beer bottles and grocery bags. Maybe that's how feelings are; they disappear for a short while only to return with new bags of goodies.

I'll take care of you.

Don't you just love when you sit with a guy all night who pays the dj to keep you off stage, and keeps repeating the phrase 'I'll take care of you' ad nauseum, and then at the end of your shift hands you.....$500 dollars.

Yeah, I'm taken care of, that just about covers... um....half my fucking rent.

Cheap Asshole.

Sardines.

That's it. I'm officially done working on Saturdays unless I know for a fact that Joe is going to be there. There's nothing more frustrating than a packed club (and I mean not-enough-chairs-people-standing-like-sardines-in-a-tin packed) with no money circulating. Strip clubs are NOT the place to window shop, or worse, pick up girls. You can go to your local bar and take home any number of drunken tramps who will suck your dick. For free.

I'm starting to resent the fact that people know I'm a stripper. As much as I'd like to place the blame on my friends who tell every fucking person they've ever made eye-contact with, I'm to blame as well. As interesting a conversation piece as it is, people will only see you through those stripper-tinted glasses, and it sucks. Plus I feel like I don't exactly measure up to the preconceived notions of what a stripper is.

I'm bored all the time now. No school, no day job, nada. I don't have any fascinating projects in the works, no boyfriend to waste time with, absolutely fucking nothing.

At least I have a TV.

Thank you for not being a whore.

So, I finally bought my gorgeous 42 inch LCD flat-screen TV. Hooray. I've blown (ok, it was money well spent) over $3,000 on 'new things' over the past 2 weeks. Gah, I'm starting to embrace the strippah lyfestyle I'm afraid.

Last night, after a VIP with two gentlemen and another girl, the other girl leans over the table and whispers in my ear "thanks for not being a whore in VIP, I'll work with you anytime." Then, back in the dressing room she reiterates this notion, explaining how there's a very short list of girls she'll do VIP with, and recounts some not-so-prudish group VIP experiences. I guess I'm pleased that she doesn't think I'm a whore, but aren't we all really whores. I mean, not whores in the 'gives blowjobs in the back room for $200' sense (though, we have our fair share of those too), but we're receiving pay for our sexual services, and the lines are all blurry in my mind.

Whatever.

If I've learned one thing in life it's that money is money, and that's what buys the things I like. I can't pay for a flat screen TV, or a brand new shiny red Corvette with respect.

Cut and Run

Friday night I met this guy, went back to his house (not apartment, he was...36) proceeded to NOT have sexual intercourse with him, and then snuck out at 5:00 in the morning and went back to my nice cozy bed. I really am losing all my patience for men. I just can't deal with them, and I find myself having less and less interest in wanting to spend time with them(unless I'm being paid, of course). It seems like at my age, the biggest deal is finding a boyfriend. Fuck, my roommate spends 80% of her time doing boy-hunting related things, and I just don't give a damn. I do miss sleeping in bed with someone (NOT sex), which I didn't even fucking like in the first place.

My one and only 'regular', Joe, failed to show up tonight, so that was hurtful to my stack of billz. Saturdays without regulars are like carnivals without funnel cake; they suck. And they're full of college kids with no money.

A million girls.

Holy fuck, there were a lot of girls at work tonight. Even the DJ who's been there for 7 years said it was a record breaking night in terms of pairs of boobs out on the floor. These nights generally suck for me, because let's face it; the more choices afforded to a man, the less likely he is to choose you. All things aside, I did alright.

I had my absolute favorite customer tonight. I wish every guy could follow in his footsteps. He was from South Africa, and had never been in a strip club before. Fuck, the way he reacted to me, I'm not sure he had ever even seen a naked female before. Anyways, he was amazed/terrified of me, and every other girl who danced for him. He definitely liked me the best, though (who doesn't?). He didn't even attempt to touch me, and when I would get close to him, he'd retract. Not in an insulting way, he was just really nervous and overwhelmed. Adorable. Not to mention he looked like that guy from 'Flipping Out' (that show on Bravo), whom I love and want to marry.

I'm not working tomorrow, and I'm incredibly happy about that.