The Long Awaited Ask The Waitress

To Dance, or Not To Dance

Gypsy_Jo sent this email:

I danced for 16 years up and down the eastern seaboard, and retired
in 2001. retired, hah, I quit, I didnt retire,lol. thats a story unto
itself.
ever catch why most strippers end up in the skindustry? what is that
special catalyst that makes most girls strip? I have my own theory but wonder
what yours might be.

This is a touchy subject for most people, so I'm going to attempt to answer it in the most non-offensive way possible.

As most of you know, my bachelors is in Sociology; well, it will be when I graduate. One of the many papers I have written in my time was for a Victimology class, and I stumbled onto this tidbit:

If a girl is sexually molested in childhood/adolescence, she is four times
more likely to become a dancer/prostitute that other girls. Ninety-five
(95) percent of all prostitutes were sexually molested as
children/adolescents.

Please note that these are just dry statistics and do not reflect my personal beliefs on the subject as I do not wish to offend any dancers/ex-dancers out in the blogosphere. I simply found the information interesting. On to my personal opinions.

Over the past few years, stripping has become less of a taboo profession, and has entered into more mainstream America. Shows like King of Queens and Law and Order are integrating stripper poles into their episodes, certain rap stars have glamorized the profession, showing girls dancing while hundreds of dollars are being thrown, and celebrities like Janet Jackson are publicly coming forward and admitting their love for stripping. This may explain/have some effect on why girls get into the business in the first place. All they see is the fun aspect of it portrayed in entertainment society, and are completely unaware of what actually occurs.

Another reason may be lack of options. The majority of my dancers have no college education, several of them never graduated high school, and even more of them have children. Dancing is a good way to make a lot of money with no formal education. With no education and no formal training, options for making an actual living in this country are very, very slim.

Yet another reason, though very small, is the actual college girl who does it to pay her tuition. This does happen, just not very often. One of my dancers just graduated college, another one is a year ahead of me, and I am very proud of these girls. These are the ones who will stop dancing after they reach their goal.

Probably, a more prevalent question is not why girls get into the business, but rather, why they stay so long. I've mentioned before that time stands still in the strip club; what I mean by that is this: when working in the same environment with the same people for a few years, you are less likely to notice the passage of time. When things never change in your personal environment, time has a way of "standing still". You may have started dancing at age eighteen, but before you know it you're in you early to mid thirties with even less options and less time to start over. Even worse, after you've been dancing for five, even ten years, you lose the excitement to do your job and start making less money. Not only that, every year there's a new crop of younger, more energetic girls competing for your money.

The ones that are smart (and yes, we have many) will save their money and after a few years leave the business to start something else. The one's that aren't will usually attempt to move into another aspect of the business, be it selling clothes, acting as a "house mom" (more on that in a later post) or, in some extreme cases, will settle down with someone who can either support them financially or is in some business they can integrate to. We've had girls leave to become cosmetologists, peircers, and receptionists.

There is no one specific reason why girls dance, nor is their one reason why they stay. The only constant fact in the situation is that these girls are, no matter how they are portrayed, good people. They're smart, funny, and caring, and it's a shame that most of society perceives them as dumb and stupid, with big fake boobs and bad fashion sense.

I hope that this answers your question, Jo, and I really hope that no one is offended by my opinions today.

Always,
Waitress

Psych 101

Back to school time, next to the Holiday season, is the slowest time in the strip club. With the economy in the shitter, people usually have enough extra money to either buy new school supplies/clothes or go to the titty bar. Take a guess as to which one won.

The only upside to the slow business as of late has been the extra time I've been able to spend b.s.-ing with my co-workers. Friday night I spent the first two hours of my shift at the bar hanging out with Savannah.

"I'm sick again," she said, in between attempting to hack up a lung.

"You're always sick. You're husband trying to poison you again?"

Savannah started laughing.

Approximately four weeks ago I came to work and Savannah looked like hell. Her hair was matted to her forehead, her skin was flushed, and her eyes were droopy.

"Savannah," I said, as nicely as possible, "you look like shit."

"I know. I can't seem to get any better." She paused to blow her nose. "I'be been sick por monts bow."

"Why don't you go to the doctor?"

"I go all the time. I'm afraid they think I'm a hypochondriac. Or I have that thing where I make myself sick."

"Munchausen's," I replied, having just finished a semester of Abnormal Psychology.

"Huh?"

"Munchausen's syndrome. It's where you make yourself sick to get attention. The other one is Munchausen's by Proxy, you know, from The Sixth Sense? Maybe your husband has it and is poisoning you."

If at all possible, Savannah's clammy complexion paled in the black-light.

"Savannah, I was joking. Seriously. Calm down, honey, I'm sure he's not trying to kill you."

Back to Friday night, and Savannah is still attempting to laugh while keeping her vital organs inside her body.

"You know what the worst part was?" She asked, tears brimming in her eyes.

"What?"

"The next morning, I went to check my e-mail and the last page up was a website about the different kinds of poison!"

We're both laughing now.

"So why the poison website?" I was intrigued.

"Oh, that. He was checking the floor cleaner to make sure it wouldn't hurt the babies. The only thing I could think of was 'well, fuck, looks like I'm going to need to start making my own coffee!'"

"Well," I said, "you can always drink the coffee here, unless you think someone is trying to take your job!"

Savannah started laughing, then stopped.

"Savannah, seriously, I was joking. No one is trying to kill you. Savannah...."

Ask the Waitress

Thanks to gypsy_jo for this idea!

For those of you who do not know, school started for me today, and I am exhausted, so I may not be posting stories every day, more like every other day. So, I would like to introduce to you:

Ask the Waitress!

Yes, dear readers, I have set up an e-mail address where you can ask me anything your heart desires and I will answer here in this post. Please note that some or all of your message will be posted, so excersise caution and don't say anything you wouldn't want repeated. Here's the address:

sexyserverbabe@sbcglobal.net

Please, e-mail on!


Always,
Waitress

Revenge of the Stripper

As I have posted before, strippers can fight. That is undeniable truth; however, sometimes the dancers like to exact their revenge in other, more productive ways. Usually these actions take place in the locker room--the place where dancers change, get ready, and store their things. These are just a few of those stories. [Insert "tah tah tah" noise from Law and Order]

Once upon a time we hired a D list porn star to dance for us. Apparently, this girl had a web based forum about her career which she continuously updated, and she decided that it was a good idea to write negative comments about the other girls at the club. These comments ranged from telling people that she was the best looking girl there with the best body, and calling the other girls "white trash."

As you can probably imagine, these comments didn't sit well with the other dancers, or with management on a whole. Rather than get into a physical confrontation, one of my girls decided to break into her locker and pour foot powder all over porn star's clothes, makeup, etc. Although this may not seem too extreme, let me state that it was well known that porn star had terrible allergies to foot powder. Eventually, she stopped working for us.

Then there was the time that two dancers had some "she said/she said" drama. This was several years ago, so I am rather fuzzy on the details, but the point was that one girl (dancer X) was talking a lot of shit about another girl (dancer Y), not only to other girls, but to customers as well. Dancer Y then decided to pee into a plastic cup and pour said urine all over dancer X's clothes, makeup, shoes, etc. Dancer Y was fired.

And we can't forget the time that dancer T was upset at dancer M, more "talking shit" drama, but also because dancer M was sleeping with dancer T's ex-boyfriend. Dancer T decided to grab a permanent marker and write several nasty things (including drawings) on dancer M's locker. The only problem? We recognized her handwriting. Note to all--if you're going to deface someone else's property, write with your less dominant hand to avoid getting caught. Neither dancer works for us anymore.

More recently was the time that someone had some sort of problem with dancer A. Apparently, whoever it was decided that it would be better to rip all the stickers off her locker. This case is still pending investigation.

Petty? Probably. Stupid? Sure. However, it's better than what happened to this poor girl:

One dancer, dancer W, was very unliked at the club. She was well regarded as "cutthroat" and rather reveled in screwing up the other girl's money by hustling their customers while they were onstage. Finally, one of my girls had enough.

While back in the dressing room, a confrontation arose between W and T. T was very angry that W kept taking her customer to the lap dance room while she was onstage.

"I just think it's fucked up that you're hustling my customer," T exclaimed, angrily.

"Shut the fuck up you fat bitch," was W's reply.

T was smoking a cigarette at the time and effortlessly flicked the lit ember into W's face.

Later on in the night, as W was walking out, T was onstage. W walked out to her car, put her things in the trunk and stormed back in as T was putting her clothes back on. She tried to attack T, but she was apparently one of the rare sort of stripper that doesn't know how to fight. She came at T like a crazed lioness, with her hands up and fingers curled into claws, apparently trying to literally scratch her eyes out.

T laughed and right hooked her across the face. Then T proceeded to beat the shit out of her inbetween the two stages.

When it was all over, T was left with a scratch on her cheek. Dancer W was fired, for premeditated assault.

The island of misfit toys

For every happy, well adjusted person whom life has smiled upon there is someone else who has, sometimes through no fault of their own, been turned away from the system. Misfits. The socially inept. For whatever reason, these people are trapped in a state of perpetual emotional rejection, some shunned for so long that they are no longer able, even at middle age, to have normal social relationships. I see many of these people at the strip club; people so desperate for affection and reassurance that they will seek out any venue in order to recieve it, even if they have to pay for it. This is the story of my friend Ed.

I met Ed about two years ago when my bar was still in its infantile stage. He shuffled in the club, head down, and made his way to a back corner table, as far from the other patrons as he could get. His hair was long and disheveled, and he had a baseball cap pulled down tight over his head. He sat against the wall, staring down at the buttons on his shirt. I could almost feel his willingness to disappear.

"Hi honey, what can I get you to drink," I said, placing my hand on his arm.

Ed jumped as if someone had slapped him. He briefly looked up into my eyes and then immediately looked back down at his shirt, as if making eye contact was painful.

"Oh, um, well," he stammered, "I guess you could get me a beer. Don't go to any trouble or anything, if you're not too busy."

"Sweetie, I'm never too busy to get someone something to drink, that's my job. What kind of beer can I get you?"

"Oh, well, you know. Whatever, I'm not picky. Just whatever you don't mind bringing me, I guess."

Somewhere along the line in this man's life, he had been beaten down emotionally so badly, or for so long, that he couldn't tell me what beer he wanted, for fear whatever he chose would be the wrong one.

I had some time, we weren't that busy, so I spent the next few minutes with Ed, playing a beer version of the twenty questions game. I finally got him decided on a Michelob. When I brought the beer back and set it on the table, Ed jumped again. He paid for his beer and tipped me a dollar.

The rest of the night was pretty much the same. I'd stop by the table to check on him. Ed would make brief eye contact, but mostly he just stared down at his shirt. He drank a few beers, and left before I realized he was gone.

And that's how it was with Ed. Over the course of the next six months, whenever I was working, Ed was there. Over time he was able to talk to me. I found out he had been in the military, he was shipped off to Germany, and then he did two tours in Vietnam. When he came back home he ran, trying to escape the things he had seen and the people he had killed. For ten years after, he traveled from state to state; attempting to find peace in a tormented soul. He spent most of his time at the VA, and when he wasn't there, he was here. He would show up at my club right after we opened, and more times than not he would be there when we closed. Sometimes he slept in the corner, and I let him. I knew it was against the rules, but I figured he didn't want to go home---wherever home was.

Ed was a very, very kindhearted man, if not just a little misplaced. He started bringing me presents, but not in the way you might think. Ed would bring me random things from his house--ashtrays, Christmas tree ornaments, refrigerator magnets. I accepted every gift as if it were a six caret diamond necklace.

Slowly, Ed started to change. He no longer sat with his back against the wall, his new favorite table was low on the floor, directly between the two stages. He would often have well over three dancers sitting with him at one time, and frequented "pervert row" to tip directly at the stage. Then, one day, Ed stopped coming, At first I was a little worried, but close to a year went by and I put him out of my head.

He showed up again last weekend, for a birthday party for one of my dancer's. He looked happy, and I hope that he is.

I think, deep down, we are all misfits, just waiting for our own private island where we can be accepted and flourish. I hope that Ed has found his. I hope that someday I will find mine.

The type of woman you meet in a strip club #3

Girl who thinks this is just a regular bar.

Listen, ladies, some of you out there don't seem to understand the workings of your friendly, neighborhood titty bar. It is not, no matter how much you may want it to be, just another club, and should not be treated in such a way. I realize that in any other bar it is perfectly acceptable for you to go up to random strange men and have them buy you drinks; however, it can, and usually will, get you thrown out for behaving in such a way in a gentleman's club.

First off, please do not bitch about you having to pay a cover charge. In case you didn't read the sign, this is a gentleman's club, and you're lucky we don't charge you double the door cover. Secondly, do not expect to be let in unescorted (unless you are obviously more interested in women). I realize some of you might be offended by this last statement, so please bear with me and allow me to explain the dichotomy of the dancing club.

Understand, please, that in a normal bar, the only people who are working for tips are usually just the bartenders and the waitresses, with few exceptions being DJ's, floor guys, ect. In this situation, it is almost encouraged for random men to buy you drinks, as it all helps to fuel bar sales and does not hurt anyone in the establishment. Contrarily, in a strip club, there are anywhere from 15 to 30 girls a shift, all there to make their wages on what customers deem appropriate to give them. Because they are considered "independent contractors" they do not recieve an hourly wage, and must pay a "house fee," sometimes called a "tip out" to do business in the establishment. By engaging in routine acts with the male (and sometimes female) patrons, i.e. sitting at their table, having some drinks, they up their chances of getting better tips on stage and lap dances--all helping to make their wages for the night.

Enter you, girl who does not understand this and likes to hustle other tables. It may very well start out innocently enough. You're sitting at your table, and you happen to make eye contact with the gentleman sitting at the table next to you. Over the course of the night, you make conversation with said gentleman, and he may even buy you some drinks. It's very possible you might even move to his table.

THIS IS NOT OKAY. Every drink that is bought for you is less money my dancers are making. This makes my dancers very unhappy, and rightfully so. The chances of this happening if you are "escorted" by another male are much, much slimmer. It is, however, perfectly acceptable for your male companion to buy you drinks; if he didn't, I would question why you were with him in the first place.

"But waitress," you plead, "he offered to buy me a drink! It was only polite for me to go sit with him and say thank you."

This is still, really not a good idea. We had a fight last weekend because some patron bought a girl a drink, and her boyfriend didn't appreciate it. In a typical caveman-esque type of attitude, boyfriend decided to confront patron.

"Ghooo. Chomp chomp. Me man. You not man. Gruuuh. No buy for woman."

"Chruug. You asshole. Me do what me want with me money. Gharrhn."

Fight ensues. Now, in tracing back the problem we can easily see that it all started when the patron bought girlfriend a drink. If girlfriend had politely declined said drink, boyfriend's ego would have stayed intact, and I doubt that much of this would have happened.

Saturday night we let two "lesbians" in the club. Unescorted. Before I knew it they were sitting with a large table of Hispanic men in the corner, enjoying their free drinks. Although this was bad enough, they were taking turns making out with each other, and then making out with the Hispanic men at the table.

I didn't raise a fuss because I was in a bad mood and I needed the comic relief. They all left together, I can imagine what transpired afterwards.

Now, understand that wile the girls were sitting with the male group, the group had stopped paying attention/tipping the dancers on the stage. This is my whole point about letting unescorted women into the strip club, it's just bad for my dancers.

For those of you who are pleasant, keep your hands to yourself, and mind your own business, I say come, hang out and have a drink with me.

First round is on me.

Pointless, self-indulgent post

Yes, dear readers, I am going to rant for a moment about nothing really in particular. If this does not interest you, please stop reading now! There will be new posts about work on Monday.

So, on with my pointless, self-indulgent rant.

Waitress is depressed. Boyfriend is out of town this weekend, camping with some friends, and it's the longest we've spent apart in almost two years. Although I am a huge, HUGE fan of "alone time," we've made a point to share the same bed every night. Sniff sniff. Alas, I have my doggie to take up his half of the bed--as well as drool and snore.

Unbeknownst to me, tonight was "how many cunts can we fit into one bar" night. The women (customers) out numbered the men, and they were bloody awful. Just to give you an example: Earlier in the night I approached a table with two guys and a girl to take their drink orders. I placed my hand on the woman's shoulder in an effort to get her to acknowledge me, the music was quite loud and I couldn't hear a word she was saying, and she literally leaned halfway out of her chair, turned her torso to face me and said "don't fucking touch me." Arrgh. So, in true waitress form, I threw my hands in the air and shook them while saying "oooh, cooties."

I know, it was lame, but I was tired and couldn't think of anything better.

The night wouldn't be complete without the firing of a certain someone and the mental collapse of another, both of whom I have written about before...

But this is a cliffhanger, so you'll have to check back on Monday! (Ha, did you see what I did there? You know you're going to check back now!)

So, until Monday, dear readers, I bid you farewell, and a happy return for those of you in school or those of you with children who are in school. I'm going to go to bed and hopefully, when I wake up, Boyfriend will be home.

Waitress

The type of woman you meet in a strip club #2

The curious girl.

The curious girl is a strange form of woman who, although may appear normal on the outside, when placed in a social environment where alcohol flows freely and sexual taboo's are lax, morphs into "curious girl," who then tries to make out with all of my dancers and jump onstage.

Curious girl may not fully transform until after several visits to the strip club. At first, she may appear to be "angry girl," yet after returning weekend after weekend she finds herself more comfortable with the goings-on of everyday tittie bar night life.

A telltale sign that curious girl is in the building is when the DJ must remind patrons not to touch the dancers; sometimes a dozen times in one set. You see, curious girl believes that since she is also a woman, the rules no longer apply for her. More than likely, her boyfriend is egging her on, enjoying the show, and she's enjoying the attention being lavished upon her. She may also buy several lapdances for herself.

Note to curious girl: if you are going to get lapdances in my establishment (or any strip club, for that matter) please, please wear underwear if you are wearing a skirt. It really bothers my dancers when you sit down on the couch and spread your legs, giving anyone in the room full view to your hoo-ha. I realize that you are quite tipsy at the moment, and it probably seems ok, considering half the woman here are naked, but it's not. Cover up the na-na, okay?

Once curious girl has finally understood the "no touching the dancers" rule, she will then decide that it's okay to touch the waitress. Normally, from woman, I tolerate this kind of behavior, but it is very difficult to carry a tray of drinks across the bar and have drunk women attempt to slap you on the ass as you are walking by. The chances of me knocking over the entire tray are very good, so please, curious girl, exercise some caution.

We had a curious girl in last weekend, and as she was attempting to slap my ass she missed, and hit me square in the back. I was very, very irritated by this; however, rather than resort to physical violence, I have found it is much better to talk to curious girl as if she is a misbehaving puppy.

"NO!" I said to her, wagging my finger in the air. "Bad curious girl, baaad girl." Curious girl coked her head to the side and looked up at me with a wounded expression on her face. "Sit down, siiiiit down and behave." That usually does the trick.

During some point in the night curious girl (while molesting me) will ask me if we are hiring for dancers. Alcohol should be sold as liquid courage. It makes even the smallest man believe he can kick the shit out of someone four times his size, and it makes pretty girls think they should get onstage and have a twirl. I send her to the manager at this point, who tells her to come back when she's sober. She never does.

For some reason, curious girl decides at some point during the night, that it's okay to perform her own private show on her boyfriend/random person that she is sitting with. Again, the DJ will usually utter such profound phrases as "unless you work here, stop dancing" which curious girl will completely ignore and which forces me to be the bearer of bad news as I try to explain to her that she's not allowed to dance/fuck her boyfriend in here.

Unfortunately, sometimes curious girl will become addicted to the strip club. Weekend after weekend she's faithfully here, downing her Washington apples and enjoying the view. Unfortunately for her, curious girl's boyfriend no longer shares in her excitement. While he once thought it would be "awesome" if his girl were to hook up with another chick, he's now finding it cold and lonely on the shoulder, being forced to do nothing but helplessly watch on as his girlfriend finds other things to tickle her fancy, so to speak.

Let this be a warning, then, to all the men out there. Be careful what you wish for--you may never know whether or not your girlfriend is a "curious girl" until it's too late. Take heed, young man, take heed.

Things that annoy me

Ok so, anyone who has ever worked in the service industy has dealt with these people. The people that God put on this planet to test your patience. These are a few of my favorite instances.

Scenario 1:
Me: "Hi, what can I get you?"
Dumb ass: "What do you have?"
What I want to say: "I have a fucking bar you dumb ass now order something. Jesus, you're standing right here, you see the fucking bottles of alcohol, stop asking stupid questions and wasting my fucking time!!!!"
What I do say: "I have a full bar."

Scenario 2:
Me: "Hi, what can I get you?"
Dumb ass: "What's good?"
What I want to say: "I have no fucking idea what is good to you. I don't know you, I'm not your fucking tastebuds, so why don't you just order what you usually order and stop asking stupid questions and wasting my fucking time!!!!"
What I do say: "Everything."

Scenario 3:
Guy with a bunch of other guys behind him.
Me: "Hi, what can I get you?"
Dumb ass: "Yeah, I want a bud light," turning to the guy behind him, "dude, what do you want? A bud light? Okay, so I need another bud light," turning to another guy, "dude, DUDE pay attention what do you want? I don't know what they have-- ok, a bud light. Okay so I need another bud light," turning back to first guy, "hey, where did so-and-so go? Do you know what he wanted? Well, I don't know either. Let's just get him a bud light. Okay so I need another bud light."
What I want to say: "LOOK motherfucker, you don't go to McDonald's and say "Yeah, I want a cheesburger and a coke, a cheesburger and a coke, and a cheesburger and a coke; you say I want three cheesburgers and three cokes! Figure out your order before you get here and stop wasting my fucking time!!!"
What I do say: "Okay, four Bud Lights?"

Scenario 4:
Me: "Hi, what can I get you?"
Dumb ass: "A crown and coke."
Me: Putting ice in a high ball.
Dumb ass: "Wait, not so much ice."
Me: Dumping half the ice out.
Dumb ass: "A little less."
Me: Dumping a little more ice out.
Dumb ass: "Okay, a little more."
Me: Putting five or six ice cubes in.
Dumb ass: "Okay, a little less."
What I want to say: "JESUS you picky motherfucker it's no wonder you're in a fucking strip club alone instead of hanging out with friends/loved ones if you're this damn neurotic with your everday life! Stop being so damn picky and quit wasting my fucking time!!!!"
What I do say: "Like that? Is that good? Ok, now? Oh, ok."

Check out this T-Shirt!!!

One of my regulars had this t-shirt on the other day when he came in, and I laughed for a good ten minutes! No matter how true/tacky it may be, it's still fabulous!

Those of you who want to know, you can find it at www.tshirthell.com.

To my wonderful readers

So, I've noticed a jump in readers lately (thank you waiter rant!) and I just wanted to give you all a "hi and welcome to my blog" moment! I hope you enjoy everything, and I wanted to use this post to invite you all to leave a comment and let me know who you are, what you do, if you have a blog, ect. ect. ect. I read them faithfully, and I'm interested to know who you all are! So, have a fabulous read and a wonderful day!

Waitress

All this for ten bucks!?!?

It never ceases to amaze me what people will fight over. Sometimes I just sit back and go "wow, are you kidding me?" Last weekend was like that.

We had a dancer come back to work last weekend, for the first time in about three months. The reason for her extended hiatus is neither here nor there, it will just suffice to say that she had quite the flair for dramatics. Regardless, I welcomed her back and committed myself to running drinks for the night.

About two hours into my shift I'm waiting on Dancer V's table when she supplies me with this wonderful tidbit of information.

"I'm going to get fired tonight," she said, no real emotion in her voice.

"Why is that honey?"

"Because I'm going to kick N's ass. Bitch owes me ten dollars."

I'm not too concerned at this point, remembering that V does like to "write checks her mouth can't cash" or some other tired cliche about talking more shit than you're willing to show.

"Look, V, make sure you're not bringing this drama to the front of the house. If you have a problem, deal with it in the back."

I continue on as usual, the rhythm of waiting tables synchronizing with the heavy beat emitting from the DJ booth. A few hours later I'm at the front door translating for some Hispanic patron's when N comes in.

"Where's [manager]? I want to talk to him," she says, while slapping her fist into an open palm.

"Honey, he's outside right now dealing with something, can I help you with anything?"

"Yeah, you can get that bitch V away from my fucking customers! Every time I get up to go onstage she's running over there taking them to the lap dance room and fucking with my money!" N is angry at this point, and whether or not I feel she has the right to be, the situation needs to be diffused.

"Look," I say, putting my hands on her shoulders, "why are you here tonight?"

"To make some fucking money," she replies.

"Right, and how much money are you making while you're standing in here with me?"

"None, but I'm not making any fucking money out there with her hustling all my fucking customers either." She has a point.

"Ok, N, do you know why God gave us shoulders?"

"Why?"

"To let shit roll off them. Now, go out there, make your money, and deal with whatever needs to be dealt with after work."

My impromptu speech seems to have some effect and N goes back inside and back to work. I stick my head outside and tell B (manager) that I've done my best to calm N down for the time being.

A little while later they decide to send V home, apparently for bringing too much drama into the front of the house. If you don't understand, let me explain:

People, mostly men, come to strip clubs for various reasons, but one of the more prevalent being to get away from the bitching and drama that they have at home. They like the fantasy and the women who will sit and listen to their stories--be it for a fee, but regardless, they enjoy the break from monotony. When dancers have their own interpersonal drama (which is quite frequent) bringing it to the customer's attention loses business for the club. Lost business for the club means less money for everyone. V wouldn't keep her problems in the back, so they deemed in necessary to send her home.

Apparently V wasn't too happy with this news, and after she walked out the front door, she turned right around and came back in.

Door guy motions for me and tells me to go find V and tell her she needs to leave. As I'm looking around for her, I see her making an infuriated b-line to the table directly in front of the front door--the table where N is sitting.

Now, N is no dummy, and although it may appear she is talking to her customer, she is actually watching V approach from the corner of her eye. When V is approximately four steps from her chair, she tells her customer "hang on one second for me." Fabulous. Absolutely fabulous.

Before I can get to her, V swings at N, misses, and pulls off her wig instead. N kicks off her shoes, flies out of her chair, over the back, and tackles V to the ground--all in one fluid movement. I arrive at about this time, and attempt to get N in some version of a full nelson to get her off of V. The struggle ensues for half a minute before other people realize what's going on and one of our floor guys manages to help me pull the two women apart.

Now I am sitting on the ground with N in front of me, attempting to catch my breath. (I really should quit smoking.) DJ is screaming into the microphone for me to get N into the dressing room, but we can't seem to find N's shoes. *Walking on the floor without shoes on is a big no-no. The chances of you stepping on broken glass are very high, regardless of how many times we may vacuum the carpet* So, while the search is on for N's shoes, random customers keep coming over to check on us, and offer to help us up.

Finally the shoes are found and we make our way into the dressing room. I pick N's wig up from off the floor and stick it on her head. It was rather comical. While I'm in the dressing room, three of the dancers who had just left come flying into the door, plying N with the usual "what the hell happened" questions.

As N is recounting her story I walk out of the dressing room, smiling and shaking my head.

Ten dollars. All this for ten dollars.

Wow.

The type of woman you meet in a strip club #1

The angry girl.

You know who you are. You probably didn't even want to come to the titty club, but your boyfriend wanted to go, so you begrudgingly agreed. Now you have decided to make it your personal mission to piss off as many people (myself included) as possible so your boyfriend will finally leave.

You like to sit in the corner of the bar, scowling at anyone and everyone in the building; muttering such deep and interesting thoughts such as "fucking whores," "her breasts are fake," or, "I don't fucking want to be here."

When I come up to take your drink order you like to pretend you're better than me, turning your little nose up like you just smelled something terrible and avert your eyes while saying "I'm good, thanks" in a tone that lets me (and everyone else at the table) know that not only are you not good, but you really don't mean the "thanks" part either. What you probably wanted to say was "get the fuck away from my table/boyfriend, girl in tight jeans who I am going to assume is a whore because she works here." After I leave you will make your boyfriend go to the bar and get you something to drink.

One night, a few months ago, we had an angry girl who's boyfriend decided to buy a lap dance. The song had barely started when she ran to the lap dance area and hit the dancer across the head. The dancer then beat her ass in front of God and everybody until we were finally able to pull them both apart.

After you have bitched/started enough drama your boyfriend will finally decide to leave; unhappily. Usually you will end up getting into an argument in the parking lot, which will require my lot guy to come over and ask you to take it somewhere else. Sometimes this can turn into a fight between your boyfriend and the lot guy, considering your boyfriend is already pissed off and, as much as he may want to, can't very well hit you--his crying girlfriend.

Do you see the mess you are creating by coming to my club, angry girl? Do you understand the lives that are being affected by your insecure actions?

Please let me give you this piece of advice. If you are, in any way/shape/form, insecure about your relationship with your boyfriend (which includes insecure about how you look, whether or not your boyfriend is cheating on you, or if he still finds you attractive) do not go to a strip club with afore mentioned boyfriend. It will only end badly for you and everyone else involved.

What you don't seem to understand, angry girl, is that a strip club is, in fact, the safest place for your boyfriend. He's not going to get laid, get head, or get anything else your crazy, emotional mind can conceive of. The most he's going to get, other than an empty wallet, is an erection (which will turn out good for you when he gets home). The chances of him hooking up with some skank at a regular bar are astronomically higher than the chances of him hooking up with a stripper. In case you don't realize it, these girls have husbands, children, boyfriends/girlfriends, and do this because it's their job, not because they are some strange form of nymphomaniacs who enjoy sleeping with random patrons for a dollar.

So please, angry girl, do us all a favor and just say no to the titty bar. Go to another bar with your girlfriends instead. Trust me, we will all have a better time without you around.

Quanto para bailar?

I'm not sure if this is the case with other "gentlemans clubs" but mine has a very healthy following of Latin patrons. I would just like to start out by saying that I fucking LOVE them. The majority of the time they are respectful and tip me well, which is more than I can say for some of the affluent white patrons that we have.

Since I am the only person in my bar who speaks Spanish, it is an unwritten rule that I will play translator many, many times a night.

Last weekend I had several sitting at the tables against the wall. They were extremely new to America and didn't speak a lick of English. Rather than post this in Spanish (because I'm not sure how to make an upside down question mark or a squiggly over the n) I'm going to give you the abridged version in English.

Them: How much for sex?

*Believe it or not, this is a common question and I do not get offended by it. I can only assume that it is different in their culture*

Me: I'm sorry, but there's no sex here. You can have a dance, but there's no touching.

*It never fails to make me feel badly for them when I see their face fall when I answer. Right afterwards they will almost always apologize, I think that's rather sweet*

The night continued on as usual, them asking me ususal questions in Spanish (where's the bathroom, do you have any food here, can you go get that dancer who was wearing the striped shorts for me); however, the last question my little spaniard asked me threw me for a loop.

He walked up to me as I was taking dishes to the bar with a twenty in his hands. I assumed he was going to ask me to find a dancer for him, when he said, in perfect Spanish:

"May I please have a bag of cocaine before I go?"

I couldn't help but laugh. After I explained to him that I couldn't get him some blow, and he probably shouldn't ask anybody else for some either, they left.

I remember thinking how amazingly different South America must be.

I was feeling rather daft

It's close to eleven AM and I still can't fall asleep. I suppose I can thank all the Red Bull that I drank during my shift for this wonderful insomnia.

Here's a quicky post on things that I have said without thinking. (I promise I am intelligent)

While holding my friends baby before my club opened:
"Okay, I have to go get ready, I'm going to go put the baby back in his kennell."

On discussing the first time I ever gave oral sex:
"I spit it all over the place, I couldn't help it! I wasn't expecting it to be warm!"
Other bartender: "What, did you expect it on ice?"

After admiring one of my dancers very curly locks:
"You're so lucky, I wish I had hairy curls."

That is all. Maybe now I can get some sleep!

Yet another Cat Fight

This is another short one for you, I'm trying to keep my eyes open after the hellacious night I had tonight!



Let me first start by explaining that women who come to strip clubs usually fit into one of these few categories. *I am in the process of working on a specific blog that goes into more depth*

---pissed off girl with her boyfriend (likes to sit in the corner and scowl)

---lesbians (i love this kind)

---pretty girls who get "curious" the drunker they get (the most common)

Tonight introduced me to an entirely different sort of woman...the kind that gets drunk and tries to steal strippers' money.

In case none of you bothered to read my previous post---strippers are hard core people. They are not scared to get into a fight. Be warned.

Tonight I had a group of younger guys in my section, you know the kind: polo shirts with the collar popped and the front tucked into their jeans. One of them came with his girlfriend who, as far as I could tell, was very nice and easy going.

Goes to show how much I know.

It's nearing three in the morning; I'm at the front door bull-shitting with my boss, when all of a sudden one of my dancers busts in looking frantic. Apparently, while she was onstage, her crown royal bag with all of her money in it had "disappeared."

Long story short (because I desperatly want to go to bed) we find the bag somewhere in the vicinity of the afore mentioned girl. I am not sure if the bag was in her purse or in her chair; neither of which really matter at this time.

The bag was returned to the dancer, no harm---no foul.

Yeah right.

As I'm waiting tables I look up just in time to see dancer run from the dressing room to the stage and right hook shady stealing girl across the face. One of my floor guys/managers "Pierce" (ha ha to those of you who get it) manages to pull dancer off shady girl. Shady girls boyfriend tries to grab dancer, and I grab shady girl's boyfriend.

Dacer leaves. Shady girl cries in the corner for the rest of the night.


Moral of the story: DO NOT fuck with dancers. You may very well get your ass kicked. Or, you may lose a nose. BTW: ewww!!!!

It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye

Talking with someone online today reminded me of this story. It's a quicky, so enjoy.

For those of you who have never been in a strip club, let me please give you a word of advice. Never. Under any circumstances should you tip a dancer with loose change. This poor sap learned his lesson the hard way.

So, this random guy tipped one of my dancers a quarter on the stage. She then took her stilleto off and beat him in the head with it.

He lost an eye.

She went to jail.

He still comes in the club, but he wears an eyepatch. I have to serve him his beer on the left side or he doesn't see me.

As the Bouncer Stumbles

Tommy worked for us for several years as a bouncer, he was one of the few who traveled around all of the respective bars until he finally came to rest at mine. The higher ups then deemed him ready for management purposes; apparently due to his lack of a social life and strong build.

Approximately six months ago our club was incredibly short staffed. Billy was on vacation, Savannah was working her first Friday night behind the bar, and I was the only person on the floor. Savannah, who is an unusually stressed out person to begin with, was quickly falling apart.

"Savannah, I need four Bud Lights, three Corona's, and two Jager-bombs," I screamed across the bar, hopefully loud enough to drown out the heavy beat of jungle music coming from the DJ booth.

"Huh? Two Rolling Rocks?" Savannah was speaking listlessly, like a person with too much on her mind.

Rather than scream out my order yet another time, I raced around the bar to make my drinks myself. Poor Savannah was starting to shake uncontrollably.

"Jesus, girl, chill out. They will not die of thirst before you get to them!"

I ran my drinks and made my way back to the bar, my mind desperately trying to hold on to the thirty-plus orders that I had just taken. As I squeeze my way through the throngs of people loitering in my server station; which I REALLY hate, I notice that Savannah has seemingly disappeared. Upon closer inspection I realize that she is curled up on the floor behind the bar, head between her knees, apparently hyperventilating.

Immediately I race around the bar, screaming at Tommy, who (I might add), is sitting down, watching the entire scenario with hapless wandering. I suppose old bouncer habits die hard.

Let me pause here, before I offend any bouncers (or would-be bouncers) and say that I do not dislike bouncers, and I feel they provide a vital part of a club's DNA. I do need to add, though, that the majority of the time bouncers are paying attention to the crowd, not what the employees are doing-unless the employees are involved in some sort of altercation with the crowd. This is part of their job. Now, may I reiterate in saying that Tommy was no longer a bouncer; therefore, he should have been paying attention when Savannah collapsed behind the bar. The bar that he was sitting at. Two feet away.

Tommy gets up from his chair and carries Savannah into the dressing room. Meanwhile, I am now behind the bar. The bar that has not been re-stocked all night. The bar that has no clean glassware. The bar that is crawling with people shouting out drink orders, yelling for their tab, and wondering why their waitress (me) has not been back with the drinks they ordered a few minutes earlier. Tommy emerges from the dressing room and sits back down at the bar.

"Tommy," I say, quite calmly for the current situation, I might add, "please do me a favor and help me gather and wash these dirty dishes so I can serve these people some drinks." I did not, nor do I not still, think of this request as unreasonable.

To my absolute astonishment and impending fury, Tommy gets up from the bar and heads...wait for it...back into the dressing room!

"OR YOU COULD BE A LAZY FUCKING ASSHOLE AND GO HAVE A NICE LIE DOWN!!!"

Almost instantly, Susan, our eight-and-a-half month pregnant house-mom/Ryan's wife, appears behind the bar to help wash dishes. She was so big by this point she could barely reach the glasses above the sink. Had I not been so infuriated, I would have laughed.

Tommy emerges from the dressing room and stands in front of the bar, where I am scrambling like a madwoman to serve the entire club's clientele. I am now selling Bud Light directly out of the case boxes which are on a dolly behind me because I do not have time to re-stock them at the moment. He places both hands on the bar, palms down, shoulder-width apart and leans across directly into my line of sight in a supposed authoritative manner.

"Bartender, let me ask you a question," he begins, in a condescending tone which I find not only offensive, but laughable.

"Get the fuck away from my bar." Short, sweet, and to the point. I don't have time for this bullshit while I'm now the only person serving the entire bar.

"Would you talk to a manager like you just talked to me?" Tommy sneers, I suppose thinking that I have in some way jeopardized my job.

"Get the FUCK away from my bar you dickhole."

"Seriously, would you talk to Billy in the way you just talked to me?"

"I would if he was a lazy fuck-off like you are!" I screamed this last sentence whilst gesturing violently with my hands. "Now get the FUCK AWAY FROM MY BAR!!!"

Tommy storms off as Susan, poor about-to-pop Susan who is now attempting to maneuver her huge belly in a way that she is able to re-stock beer, places her hand on my arm in a feeble attempt to calm me down.

I look up and see Tommy in the DJ booth venting to Ryan, and a few moments later Ryan appears behind my bar.

"Don't worry about it, I'll talk to you after work," he says, laughing.

"Just keep that asshole away from my bar, Ryan, or I swear to God." Like most people, I never actually finish the "I swear to God" threat. Some things are better left unsaid. That, and I have never in my life been in an actual physical fight, and would probably get my ass kicked if I ever tried.

"He's taking Savannah to the hospital, he won't be here the rest of the night." Thank God for small miracles.

The night continues on uneventfully, and ends rather profitably for me. As we're all sitting down for our shift drinks Ryan gives me the best news I've heard all night.

"Tommy's fired. He won't be coming back."

I fight the urge to launch into a spontaneous "happy dance." I don't know about the rest of you, but my happy dance is a version of "the percolator" mixed in with a dash of "the one leg up." Very amusing to watch, sometimes painful to perform.

After our little altercation, Tommy huffed into the DJ booth, demanding that I either apologize for not respecting his authority, or be fired. It took all the strength Ryan had not to laugh in his face.

As a nice added bonus, Owner came in the next evening, right after we opened, to reassure me that Tommy was not only fired, but fired for good.

For those of you confused about that last statement, my bar has a slight "revolving door" policy. Employees are sort of like fruit flies---you may think you got rid of them, but a few weeks, or even a month or two, later-there they are. As if they never left.

When I started writing this story, a few weeks earlier, this was the ending. Not so, anymore. In a long, extensive, drawn out drama for the ages, Tommy had become a single father. I've always heard that fatherhood changes you, but was not prepared for the length that it does.

Last weekend Tommy came back to the bar for a little visit. He brought his beautiful son with him, and we had a nice reminisce. When the lights went out and the bar prepared to open, Tommy decided to head home, not wanting to subject his motherless son to an endless supply of breasts without getting the benefit of what they were properly intended for.

"Hey, before I go, there's something that's been bothering me and I wanted to talk to you about it," Tommy said, the conversation taking a serious note. "I'm really sorry about the way I acted the last time I saw you. I was rude and inappropriate and I feel really badly about the whole situation."

I suppose I had a rather stunned look on my face, because he continued. "I was a different person back before my son. It really puts things in perspective, and it always bothered me the way I left things between us. So, anyway, I'm really sorry."

I watched Tommy lovingly wipe the drool from his son's face and carry him out the door. I wish him and his son the best, and hope that, in some way, we are all changed for the better when we have children.

Please please forgive me

Please forgive me for my recent hiatus. It's not that i don't really love doing this, I've just been very busy in my personal life. But, alas, I have returned!