Ok so not really related, but men being annoying and not getting it:
I got a tattoo yesterday (of manny’s paw, on my pnin tattoo bc manny is pnin and also the dog in pnin, he’s multifaceted) and I went to a different place that I don’t like as much but it’s a few blocks away and I was being lazy like I am
And it was fine at first, then they were like oh yeah, [your club], we should go there. Bring ten bucks blah blah, enough for a beer and some tips.
And I thought they were kidding so I was like “haha if you’re only bringing ten dollars you should stay home,” and they got so offended and were like we have kids to feed. Oh right bc we don’t, or yk need to feed ourselves or have bills or any of t.
Then one of them was like I had my bachelor party there and they hit me with a belt (we do that, job perk) and I wanted to fucking hit the girls like why can’t I hit them, you guys hit me?!
I just deeply regretted going there. Deeply. Going to try to pretend one of my normal ppl did this one.
I didn’t want to go on the floor bc I could hear a lot of screaming and everyone who’d been on the floor already had returned grumpy: there was a bachelorette (jsyk women are absolutely as horrible and badly behaved in the club as men, remember the girl who unexpectedly crab-walk-humped me until I fell over) in the house with a big group and she was shrieking and some girls were licking her nipples and no one wanted to deal.
by the time I got out there tho, determined to avoid the bachelorette and her party, there were a lot more women so I sat with a friendly looking guy: part hustle, part perch til I scoped out the club.
A girl at the rack started screaming and I sighed. ”That must be the bachelorette.”
“Yeah, it was the talk of the dressing room. Some bride-to-be is in here with a bunch of guys, screaming her head off.”
“I know nothing of a bachelorette.”
“That’s ok, Jon Snow. I wanted to figure out who she was so I could avoid her, I think mission accomplished.”
He gave a startled laugh. ”Where are you from?”
“Boston, but I’ve been here a while. Sometimes I think about moving back to the east coast and then I remember how expensive food is out there and it’s not even good!”
“Yeah! Like iceberg lettuce is practically all they have and it’s expensive and what even is the point of iceberg lettuce?” I’m serious here. I don’t get it. I caused a giant schism on fb between iceberg lettuce lovers and the rest of us normal people. “If you want a crunch just eat cabbage! plus it’s better for you.”
Another shocked laugh and said, “You’re funny!”
“Yeah I’ve been told that. Actually a bachelor I gave a dance to the other day asked me if I enjoy making conversation in the time to kill before the dance song starts and I was like absolutely not but I had to perfect my patter so no one suspects how much work this all is. It’s like a muscle, you know, you have to flex it.”
Sat with him for long enough, I had a feel for the room and was pretty sure he wasn’t going to get a dance, too awkward, like a fish out of water. But you never know.
“You ready for a dance, sugar pie?”
“No, but,” he fumbled out his wallet. “Thank you for sitting with me and making me laugh.” Before my lip could curl (bc most guys who courtesy tip throw down a dollar and like just don’t, that’s more insulting than nothing) he pulled out a twenty. “It was very nice to talk to you, thank you!”
next up feminist men
(sitting in the video poker room where it’s marginally warmer and the chairs are more comfortable, reading. This was after my anxiety attack about being a tool of the patriarchy who can either do this or minimum wage labour for the rest of her life. Just trying to be calm.)
“Hey. Hey gorgeous.”
“Yes, hi.” He keeps staring at me. “Do you want this chair?”
“No, no. How are you?”
“I’m so good!” This answer is so deeply ingrained at this point that I sometimes answer my friends this way and they look incredibly freaked out because it is nothing like anything I would normally say. Even the intonation is pure Red and not Tilly. “But I’d be better if you got a dance.”
This is always worth a shot. You think that people in the video poker room are just gamblers but every now and then one of them will be a huge spender; my best regular, before he got too taxing and thought we were in love, is one of these guys. I was just being an asshole because he looked like one of the guys who comes in to gamble for pennies and nurse a pbr but he looked astounded and delighted at my question and spent $1000 on me that day.
This guy is not that guy. ”You know what, I’m just here to hang out, have some fun. Watch some ladies.”
That’s just great. ”That’s really great. Are you tipping?”
“Yeah, you know, I tipped some. Now I’m just going to hang out.”
“If you’re done tipping, don’t you think you should leave? I mean, you aren’t paying any more…”
“Should I leave?”
I can’t help a goofy hopeful smile. “Would you leave if I said yes?” I can feel myself nodding, another stripper tick—it’s supposed to encourage them to say yes but sometimes I get carried away and they notice.
“Don’t you think that’s really elitist of you?”
“Uh, to say that you should leave rather than watch us for free?”
“Yeah! Just because I don’t have money!”
(you would not believe how often I have this conversation)
“Are you suggesting that the sight of our naked bodies is something that you have a right to have access to, like air?”
“Hey now, hey, I have friends who are dancers.”
“I feel like you just insulted me.”
“Oh jesus, what if I did. Who cares what I think?”
“No you seem really smart. Do you know who Lily Burana is?”
(Lily Burana is a former stripper who wrote a book called Strip City. Yes, I know who she is. No, I don’t appreciate the direction this conversation is taking.)
“Well I read Strip City and some of my best friends are dancers and I’m really insulted that you think I should leave. I spent 20$.”
There are 18 girls working. That comes out to less than two dollars a girl, if he tipped everyone, which he likely didn’t because we only go onstage once every 45 minutes. However, I actually cannot afford to be reported to the club anymore for bad behavior. Like if anyone told them how often I explain to patrons that we don’t make an hourly wage and that it’s rude to not tip I would probably be fired. I backpedal fast.
“You know what, it’s totally fine. Don’t even listen to me.”
“No, can we talk about this? I feel really insulted.”
“We really don’t need to. It’s fine. You’re fine.” Pat his hand.
“What if I go home and kill myself?”
Oh fuck you. ”Then you have underlying problems that aren’t my fault.”
“No, they are.” He flounces off.
Later the bachelor party he was part of, a group of thirty people, had me and R do a stage dance. It was for both bride and groom so we set them up on either side of the pole and were dancing, (awkwardly, they were both tiny and fragile and we’re both on the tall muscular side) and then a flash went off; I looked up and one of the women from the part was standing at the stage taking pictures.
Where were the bouncers that I pay to watch out for things like that? Nowhere in sight.
It was an awful night. I didn’t cry but a few other girls did. I’m sketching one of them who had a full on tantrum in the kitchen, flailing hysterically before throwing her drink and breaking down. She’s like a blonde minnie mouse, it was kind of comical but mostly sad.
cheap bachelor parties confuse me so much, even more so than the average guy who comes to the club to not spend money, suck up our energy, and waste our time.
bachelor parties are like DEFINITIONALLY about spending money on strippers. Getting lap dances, stage dances, tipping; prominently displaying their masculinity and heterosexuality by conspicuous participation in any or all of the above.
when they come in and do the so irritating young cool dude thing of clutching at their pbrs and refusing to spend ANY money, not even on shots…
I just want to roofie them and make them watch the hangover. if you MUST participate in a boring overrated and outdated male bonding ritual at least do it in style.
I mean but lbr, really, more importantly, pay me or gtfo the club if you ain’t gon tip.
1- and by confuse I mean fill me with feelings that range from baffled irritation to homicidal.