Pause. Yes, I’m bragging. Since we don’t all work at the same clubs, I get to do a little virtual happy dance and tell you about it and you can’t be (that) mad. Deal?
I feel like a motherfucking SuperStripper tonight. I need a cape. I suppose a towel will do…ahem. Also, pardon the baby-stripper squeal I’m about to let out. I am having a baby-stripper kind of day.
Ran errands all afternoon. Worked 8 hours. And in a few hours, I’ll be running a 5K. Post-shift while breaking in new shoes AND zero sleep between the two. Will I earn a Stripper Badge for this? I feel like I should get a Stripper Badge for this. I rarely do badge-worthy things. My sash is mostly empty and it’s been awhile since I’ve earned one.
Somehow, I fucking miracled these four customers my way. They were the only customers I had tonight (it’s fucking Friday, and I only managed four customers, yes). But check this out:
Veterinarian: $20 on my stage. $20 to go get him a beer and keep the change (beer = $2.50). $40 to split with the girl on stage. Another $40 to split with Lydia, on stage. Didn’t want dances. Didn’t want to talk. I petted his arm a little. A hug, and then he left. Total time spent: about 15-20 minutes.
Truck Driver: 10 minute chat, 8 VIP dances, a hug, and then out the door.
Insurance Agency Owner: Like pulling teeth, managed to get one dance. But I actually laughed a bunch and enjoyed our ridiculous chat (he was wasted).
"In Real Estate": $20 for walking by. $40 on stage. $40 for one dance, in which we sat and talked and I petted his arm. He just repeated over and over how I was the prettiest girl.
Made another chunk of change on stage, surprisingly. It was moderately slow, but people just kept tipping.
I feel like a million dollars. People threw money at me. How fucking bizarre is that? I mean, occasionally, people hand me $20s on stage, or $20 to sit and chat. Even $50 to sit and chat, on very rare occasion. It’s rare for me, though—all of it. I never get by without a steady hustle for the night. Never.
I feel sort of bad. I mean, I’m willing to work for it. I offer to work for it. I want to work for it. I’m capable, and I don’t suck at my own brand of what I do. I mean, I want to earn my money. I make good money as it is…
I don’t know what the hell got into those men tonight. I mean…if there was ever a night for a seriously fucked-up appearance, tonight was it. Scrapes and blisters on my hands, sap from plants staining my palms, chest-acne, that-weird-red-bump-thing-I-can’t-get-rid-of on my collarbone, desperately needing a haircut and dye with fried and frizzy two-toned hair, fading tan lines, a picked-off zit by my lower lip, black knees I never cleaned after getting off stage, a nicked shin, sorta sweaty from inadequate air conditioning and working on stage, and limping while breaking in new shoes? THAT girl? WTF, customers?
When I look as good as I can get myself, I make $50. When I have a seriously fucked-up appearance, I do okayish and people want to just hand me money for nothing? There are some things I’ll never understand about these men. Never.
Ahem. I’m done with my happy dance/bragging. Apologies.