Tagged: bad boundaries

dear large bald man from manchester

I don’t care how they do things in the UK I’m not giving you a discounted half hour. You’re damn lucky to be within ten feet of me for 175 (my cut after), I’m not spending a half hour babysitting for 125. Psh.


Tonight was the sort of night that makes me feel so grateful and blessed to have this job. I’m so lucky, really.  I had dinner and drinks with a friend before work and stopped to get coffee and still made it to work on time.  It started off slow as hell.  I sat down opposite two guys because i couldn’t decide which to choose and SM sat down a bit later and picked the one with money. It’s always such a gamble!  My initial lack of initiative paid off, however.  I did a circle and got rejected a bunch and walked smack into this group of guys.  One was at my stage earlier, the rest not, and there was a woman, all usually bad signs but one of the ones who had not been at my stage was immediately taken with me.  It was hard to keep his attention because they were all high as kites but he said he wanted dances and actually stood up and came with me.

cut for length

We passed Regan and walked by a girl I like but don’t know very well and he asked if we could bring her too.  We’re all shiny novelties.  It’s worrisome because you can never be positive until they’ve paid what will happen; he might balk at paying for both our time or he might decide he’d rather go with her or he might be decent, who knows.

I went for it because what the hell.  I told him he wanted a half hour with both of us and he handed all his money to the bouncer.  Lord knows how much it actually was but the bouncer said it was 500 so we were safe!  & so began the most bizarre two hours. He reminded me of a toddler, a harmless fish-mouthed baby man.  He was too high to really want to do anything but talk so we just made fun of each other for two hours. He couldn’t remember anything and kept telling us, “Look at that ass!  That ass belongs on Instagram!”  or “Have you seen your boobs?  your boobs are perfect!”

repeated so often that I started to ask him.  ”Wow!  Look at that ass”


“Do you think it belongs on Instagram?”


“Have you seen your boobs?”

“I would never have noticed them if you hadn’t pointed them out.”

His mouth could be avoided but even though he wasn’t gropey every twenty minutes or so his hand would just latch on to hips or ribs or arms and dig his surprisingly long and pointy (the better to snort cocaine?) nails.

“Gentle touches!”  I had to keep reminding him.  The other girl laughed, she never worked in a daycare. I used full on daycare language with him. “We use gentle touches with our friends!”

“Sorry, sorry.”

The whole thing was a ridiculous mess but I got 20% tips for us out of him and he ended up getting two hours, like I said.  I wish I could remember more of the conversation.  I like stripping (and waitressing, and the service industry) because it requires you to be so fast and clever on your feet but wit is so ephemeral unless you’ve got a way to record it and I mostly forgot what we said.

He liked our tattoos and wanted us to give him one.  The bouncer wouldn’t give me a pen but when the waitress came by I asked her for a sharpie and she brought one.  He wanted “Diablo” on his chest in old english font and then we each signed our handiwork—I have a picture but I let my phone die because I’m tired of it.

“You’re sweaty!” he kept accusing Other Girl.  She’d look at me, uncertain.  She wasn’t really sweaty and is this even a good thing or a bad thing, who knows.

“My armpits are sweaty!” I rubbed my hand in my armpit and wiped it on him.  “See?  My bellybutton too.”

“How is your bellybutton sweaty?”

“Idk it just is.  Feel yours!”

We took turns sitting on his head—not his face, his head, or shoulders piggyback style (we wear bottoms in dances)—while he sat in the chair.  Harder angle for him to do his sudden claw thing from.  He asked me to hit him, so I did, but that was too hard.  I leaned over and pinched his nipples. “Like charging a battery!” he crowed.

This is all stuff that would be better illustrated I think.

Anyway I made the deposit which is good, just to be sure after paying my student loans yesterday.

I went into the kitchen after we were finally done and SM, who had been waiting her turn, (canny hustling lass!) snapped him up and came running back to offer to share him with me after finishing their hour.  I asked Becky.

“Should I stay or should I go? :/”

“Weeeeell.  If you go there will be trouble.”

rolled my eyes.

“But if you stay there will be double.”

“That’s it, I’m leaving.”

Not my smartest move but I said no and paid to leave early. The bouncer yelled at me about drawing on the guys chest, said we could all be sued if his wife saw it.  I listened as patiently as possible but in the end my extreme disinterest must have shown through because he cut himself off and I took the money and ran. SM’s plan was kind but just would have involved waiting a whole hour and meantime going onstage and who knows what all. Paying that much attention to someone is sort of draining, even if it’s all laughable and pretty easy. I let a few other girls know to be on the look out at two when their hour ended and suggested my favourites to SM and then took off to go drive by new apartment.

It’s lower to the ground that I thought, which stresses me out.  I don’t understand why fifties architecture was so anti a high foundation.  The one time I’ve had a breakin as an adult was my apartment before this, vintage tile, hardwoods 20s bungalow with toxic mold, very easily breakinable.  and still higher than this one.

On the other hand, private basement with my very own washerdryerrrrr still. and windows in three directions.  and hardwoods and pink vintage tile.

but then that lesbian couple got broken into in NE ten years ago and were raped and murdered.

Yeah ok I have an imagination of disaster but it’s also real.

On the other hand there’s a big bright second floor apartment in a building w secured entry.  Coin laundry in basement. secured entry! I’ve gotten to really like that.

I’ll apply for that one too what the hell.

Continue reading

men aren’t dogs

“You’re very beautiful.”
“Thanks! I’ll tell my landlord.”
“Heh heh, I know that doesn’t pay bills.”
“No, but dances do! Are you ready for a great one?”
“I was just back there and I almost got kicked out” 😦 “they’re really mean here.”
“Yeah, it’s hard for adult men who never learned to respect boundaries. It makes me really sad when my dog understands “no” better than many customers. Have a good night.”

Are you sure

tonight was slow and good only for the experience it provided of switching cash to credit and closing out credit tabs on their system. It also highlighted male entitlement, what jerks people are to people in the service industry, and the bizarro female habit of coming to the strip club in packs to treat the women working badly, not tip, and generate a lot of bad feeling so they can soothe themselves that at least they aren’t fucking strippers.  ok then.

I danced for this guy a little bit ago and he seemed like he would be fine but he kept trying to touch me.  After the first song I stopped being so pleasant about it.

“I’m sorry!” he said. “So many rules, it’s so hard to keep track of!’

It happened again.

“You have so many rules, I don’t understand!”

“You’re an adult, I know you can do this.  Remember what I said about no touching.”

And again.

“Why do you have so many rules? :(((((( ” (literally that face) “Are they really necessary?”

I pinched his nipple as hard as I could and dug my nails in around it.

“Ow!” he said.  “Ow!  wow!  why! that really hurts!”

“You don’t like that?” I acted surprised. “You don’t want me to do that again?”

“No!  Thank you no.”

I did it again.

“Are you sure you don’t like that?”

“Yes!” he yelped.

“What about now? Are you sure?” I pinched harder.  “I mean it’s just really hard to keep track of what you do and don’t like there’s so much, are you sure, what if I just do it a couple more times, I bet I can change your mind!”  I pinched harder and twisted.

He sat there in silence for the rest of the dance and left without tipping but more importantly without touching me again.

worth it.


The first customer I sat with had made friends with the two women next to him.
“They’re nasty,” he told me.
“Well you know they come here often so they rate the girls as they dance and tell me who does what.”
That’s really great.
Three hours later, long after he left, they’re still here and haven’t tipped anyone.

There’s a man who’s been drinking water this whole time and told me cheerfully, “you’ll have better luck with anyone else, you’re pretty.” Patted my bum.

Four guys here relaxing after work, two hours now. They’re just here relaxing, thanks, they don’t want company and they don’t want to sit at the rack and they deeply resent the implication that a sports bar might be a better place for them.

The bar back is in here on his off day.

Six youngish women and two gay guys. Four dollars hit the stage in two hours, smiles and thumbs up when I asked if they knew we only make tips.

Bills bills bills

I really do miss the rich old men though. No love for the broke young people, men and far far too many women, who come here like you go to the freak show, gawking at us from a safe distance and not throwing down a single dollar. If I wanted to be stared at for free by young white kids probably drowning in student loan debt I’d go work at… Like sassy’s. suggest to them that this may not be the place for people who don’t like tipping and it’s like you’re assaulting their god given right to free speech. It’s in the constitution SOMEWHERE that they get to look at my body for free, they’re sure.

Noooo, that’s the rest of the world. In here you pay.

I got a half hour from a creepy German guy in wire runs (why, WHY, Germans and Finnish guys are the ONLY people still wearing those things) and I OUGHT not to leave but my temper is fraying.

Make them flinch pt 2

idk being like “a pretty girl” and also working in a strip club it’s really really hard to miss that most men objectify or dehumanize women to greater or lesser degrees. Not all men are rapists but most men see us as people or beings or even things that are there for them to look at and interact with—that’s why guys are always grabbing my arm to ask about my tattoo, or touching my hair bc it’s “so red!” or telling me to smile, or whatever.  They don’t do that to men.

and in the strip club where the whole illusion is that it’s a safe space to drop whatever self-policing they do bother with it’s even more obvious.  A big thing I like about stripping is that I’m paid really well for shit that I have to take on the street for free, even be nice about.  Plus I am more afraid of being hurt and assaulted by the guys yelling at me on the street than the guys yelling in the club.

But with all this it’s just like, it’s impossible to not see that an uncountable number of men think that women exist more or less for them.