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.
I had lunch with my minor buddy and we walked to get coffee, trying on sunglasses, gossiping about work. We ran into another friend of mine from a different club. I introduced them to each other as [Stage name] and [Stage name] and as we walked away MB, who has one of those improbable stripper names, said,
“You can introduce me as [Real name], you know.”
“Habit!” I apologized. “I will next time.”
“I’m thinking about changing it to something more realistic, but it’s to cut down on the amount of stupid conversation I hafta engage in every night. ‘That’s not your real name what’s your real name. ”No, that’s clearly not a real name, there’s no effort at realism, and that’s cause I’m not gonna tell you my real name, motherfucker.”
“Did that work?”
“Yeah, here neither. Or they don’t hear it, and then they want to argue. And you’d think they could let it go, like ‘Red hair red lips red nails, she likes red, she probably just told me her name was Red.’ But no. Half the time they ask me ‘Bread? Fred? Dread? Rad? But your parents didn’t name you that.’ Actually they did and it’s short for Commie Pinko Redd.”
“And then they want to know why, and where you grew up, then they’re off to ask about your pets or your grade school teacher’s name or whatever, it’s like, are you trying to get clues about my password?”
I snorted coffee through my nose and gagged, spit it out.
“Did you read Kat’s post about how if she doesn’t redirect the conversation it would end up at the moment of her conception?”
“No, but now I have to.”
I can’t sleep. Apparently there are people who sleep the whole night through and that sounds really nice for them and I’m jealous. On the plus side of still being awake at 7am, I can walk my dogs in pajamas and look reasonable. Unlike when I do the same thing at 1pm.
Kat sent me a text loaded with emoticons saying I should go see Magic Mike this weekend if I get the chance. I didn’t read the Tits and Sass review until just now so I didn’t know that Channing Tatum is in it–maybe you don’t know this about me but my crush on Channing Tatum since 21 Jump Street has been big and real and beautiful–so instead of seeing that I went to see Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter with my ex. Which was both appalling and amazing and probably better in 3d but was fine to see for 5$ on a rainy Saturday.
I just sent Regan a text loaded with capslock begging her to go see Magic Mike with me but I guess she doesn’t feel the same about Channing Tatum. Too bad, that field trip needs to happen.
… the GG Allin-esque stage shows and dance area that resembles a swingers’ living room were a bit much for me. (Especially when the customers look like they’re going to destroy Toontown just as soon as they’re done watching the young alternative things pleasure each other.) I don’t want my work environment to feel like I stepped into a time machine with a bunch of Suicide Girls and stepped off in the middle of an ancient Greek orgion. (I want it to feel like a rap video with forklifts of cash and oiled up butts and whatnot.)