Kat: Thanks to Miley Cyrus, female strip club customers have actually been slightly easier for me to deal with lately. While “twerk” has been part of strip club vernacular for years, only in the past few months have women at the rack begged me to twerk. The first time I had a doe-eyed girl plead earnestly, “Can you twerk for me?” I had to choke back laughter. But then I learned that all I have to do is flex one butt cheek and I’m met with a disproportionate amount of fanfare. Honestly, “Can you show me the difference between twerking and making it clap?” is a welcome change from the usual “work the pole, bitch!” (actual quotes). I probably also owe Miley some gratitude for setting the twerking bar so low that those who apparently have never seen a Ciara video think I know what I’m doing.
Say “female customers” and most strippers will roll their eyes and sigh. Lady raunch culture personified in heels it doesn’t know how to walk in, trolling for anything to brag about on Monday morning. They tuck single dollars in their cleavage or stare at me with desperate eyes because they can’t yell with their teeth clenched around a bill, and I die a little on the inside and pretend I don’t see them. I stay out of arm’s reach, because withholding attention will cause them to slap me so hard that it leaves a mark. I can’t deliver what they want (unless it’s twerking from a safe distance) because I don’t know what that is, because they don’t actually know either, and because they wouldn’t spend money even if they did.