I’m spacing out, staring at the wall waiting to pay my stage when something jumps out at me.
“is that real? Is that a typo?”
“is there really a girl going by —–? Like that’s not a typo?”
“—–?” another girl echoes, and comes over to look.
“No, it’s real,” someone says authoritatively. “she does mids mostly?”
I’m caught on someone naming themselves —–. I understand the desire to affiliate with luxury items, at various times I’ve felt (but not acted on) the impulse to call myself both Balenciaga and more recently Lamborghini. But, “That’s not like… Lexus or Porsche or Mercedes, that’s like, Auto.”
“It’s weird right?” another girl adds. “Plus, i was like, you might as well name yourself Genocide.”
Silence while the rest of us try to figure this one out.
Then it clicks. “oh no! That’s —–, she’s spelling this ‘—–‘. but yeah —–, maybe not a great name.”
“I worked with a Jezebel.”
“Climax. With an x x x.”
The list of questionable names is endless. We run through some more before deciding,
“—– isn’t the worst name.”
“No, definitely not.”
1-There’s a new model that looks like the Bat Mobile that makes my heart hurt with the need to drive it.
I’m currently on hold with the Department of Revenue, slowly being driven mad by their hold music, and also trying to polish the 20 minute presentation I’m doing tomorrow on the creation of female identity on the seventeenth-century stage. Given the circumstances, the only rational thing to do, I think, is blog.
A few weeks ago I had the kind of night that basically promises the next few will be bad or at least mediocre. I’d walk out of the lap dance room and someone else would grab me and pull me back in. It wasn’t even midnight and after this last couple I’d decided I would use my money wisely and pay to leave early, because going to sleep before 3am seems real appealing these days. Hardly ever happens.
I got my couple into the dance area and sat them down. Without my glasses they looked a lot like Carrie and Fred, doing some kind of Portlandia skit, and I’d been stressed out until I got close enough to them to see it wasn’t. What happened next was like the kind of bad sketch comedy you’d get if you used my club for material. Innocent bystanders shocked by live lewd lesbian sex.
One of the club regulars likes to choose two or three girls and then take them back for a private show. The girls do, you know, a two-girl show if it’s the two of them, switching off, and if there’re three, one of them sits in his lap and watches, and they rotate like that. Depending on the girls it can get pretty noisy, and this was a rowdy group. I had a hard time focusing on my couple, and definitely getting them to pay attention to me. There was shrieking and laughing, vibrators getting waved around, spanking—compared to which I felt my entertainment value shriveling. I sighed. When life gives you lemons… throw them at pedestrians.
I turned to my couple. “So do you get views like this in Vegas?” I asked brightly.
The man’s jaw was dropped, the girl’s eyes were round. They’d previously described themselves as strip club aficionados, presenting as jaded connoisseurs whom little could surprise. This was the last stop for the night on their tour of my city, and a cabbie took them here. It wasn’t a night when the performative bi girls were both… performing, so the back room show was probably doubly unexpected.
“No,” the man said. “No, no, nope.”
“You should come back on a Friday,” I advised them. “It’s even more wild.”
“We went to a different club, [semi-famous downtown club], and it was so boring! This is intense! And so fun!”
I climbed out of her lap and into his, purred in her ear. Couples dances can be a lot of work, trying to pay the right amount of attention to both of them, making sure they’re both having fun and want more. I couldn’t decide if the scene across from us was helping or hindering. Since there was nothing I could do, I had to hope it was helping.
“This is really fun,” the girl confessed, and she stroked my hair. “You smell nice.”
More loud spanking interrupted her. I giggled. “Skip that club next time! Hit these two instead. You’ll really like that one.”
The loud hum of a vibrator interrupted for a moment, then got muffled. More muffled by moans. “It’s like you got live action porn for the price of three lapdances!” I couldn’t stop myself from saying.
When our three dances were over, they tipped me extra, then asked me to send them one of the girls from the private show. It happened to be Sparky, the overachiever who likes to give really good dances, so I knew they’d be in good hands. I went to get her, and she asked me to talk to her regular while she danced for them. I sighed deeply, because that interfered with my beloved plan to leave early.
But I am now off the phone with the DR–if your friend advises you that you should include student loans on your taxes as income she is wrong and this will just ruin your life, after taking about a year to really snowball, and it is easy but time-consuming to fix and involves a lot of the Department of Revenue audibly shaking their heads at you–so this is
To be continued!
 Speaking of fines, I’ve been thinking a little lethargically about working someplace else so I can go back to fully appreciating my club, and my friend told me the price to leave early at her club is 100$. Psh. Even if your child broke his leg and you have to go get him from elementary school or whatever. Management so slimy.
 Is it really lesbian sex if they aren’t lesbians?
 Name changed!
 Who has actually really grown on me.