“I don’t want to finger your girlfriend”

I’ve lost that loving feeling. The first thing I woke up to at eight am was the news that the owner of my club has decided to allow two way contact in lapdances. Because that’s a reasonable response to the fact that dances aren’t selling as well since the prices got upped. Rather than dropping them back down.

More on this later, from a computer. In the meantime, SPEAKING of getting finger banged:
Almost immediately after pressing update on that last post things went to hell. A regular of mine was really rude to my friend who was already having a bad night–and he was the difference between the good night I had and the shitty one I would have had, so it felt good to give her some of it as a tip later. Consider it his asshole fee.

Courtney Love’s doppelgänger was working. It’s a really harsh toke to have to share a shift with her, she’ll finger anything that holds still long enough. No one warned me about her on my very first shift, back in November, and I sat at her rack with a customer. WHOA.
Immediately girl was rummaging around over my gstring, about to get all up in there. I freaked out, having seen where her hands just were (someone else’s mouth). I shoved myself back from the rack, trying to be cute about it so my customer didn’t think I’m a big prude.
“I’m straight!” I yelped. “totally straight! So straight!”
“that’s ok!” she laughed. “So am I!”
“No, really though!”
She moved on, and I made a note to never sit at her rack again.
Despite that precaution, sometimes I just can’t blank her out. Usually it’s enough that she’s masturbating furiously onstage and touching things, but some nights there’s a girl, or a few girls, in the audience who came to my club specifically for attention. You can usually pick them out immediately because they’re dressed in forever21’s finest, weird studs and sequined seethru mini dresses, and they’re chair dancing, twitching their shoulders and looking longingly up onstage. I ignore those girls, that’s not my clientele, I’m saving myself for Jesus or whatever, but Courtney will haul their asses up onstage, disrobe them, and set to with gusto. I think the term jackhammeralmost applies.
Friday night she was seriously busy, at one point she had four customers up onstage, giggling girls doing something that literally you could not pay me to do. At least, not in that context. Nevermind herpes or chlamydia, let’s talk about BV and yeast infections, about dirt tracked onstage from the girls bathroom which we share with these seriously dimwitted girl customers and all it’s mysterious puddles, and butt pimples, and staph, and now the multiple vaginas Courtney is touching? Are you kidding me? For pocket change?
I was trying to hitch my smile up over my incredible disapproval when Jenny came up to me, seriously bummed out.
“I just had to tell him, no, I don’t want to finger your girlfriend.” her voice was so small and sad, just picture it. It was hilarious and awful. What happened to stripping, that this is something we have to say on the regular?
“back up,” I instructed her. “what?”
“this guy just wants me to finger his girlfriend and that’s not what I do! But try and tell any of them that while this is happening!”
“send them to Courtney,” I said callously. “she has more room up there.”
We looked gloomily around. Despite having hit my quota (thanks to my jerky regular’s generous tip) it was still depressing. A room crowded with people, all wanting services that mostly aren’t on offer for a price that’s not even market rate. Sometimes Friday is amateur night.
I approached a bar regular, hoping I could get one last dance from him. He waved a pile of two dollar bills at me angrily.
“I hate this!” he said. Honestly, after doing the math and seeing how much less I’m making from my stage sets than normal, I was with him, but he kept going.
“I like having a choice. A choice is important. I choose whether to give you a dollar, or two, or four. I choose! Johnny took that away from me!”
Jesus Christ, son. This isn’t Roe v Wade. It’s a fucking dollar. I can’t even have sympathy with this attitude. Like, I’m frustrated too[1], but this is my livelihood and you want me to rub your back over you losing the option to tip me a single dollar bill?
The price of sitting at a strippers stage has been one dollar for thirty years.



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