Tales from Da Club #12

With my tales of reality TV stars and eighty dollar tips, it may seem as though the job of a cocktail waitress is a glamorous one. This would be a wildly inaccurate impression.

It’s a lot of hard work with long shifts where I froze in a very cold club while wearing a very skimpy outfit. And while the majority of our customers are polite and respectful, there are many who aren’t.

There was the table of eight ladies who kept me running all night long. They’d put one drink on a tab, close it out, order another one, close it out again, ad nauseum, all night. They drove the bartender and me crazy, but I had to keep a smile plastered on regardless. I waited on them almost exclusively for a tip totaling $12. That night, working a seven hour shift, I made a grand total of $36.

Womp, womp.

Another customer got angry about the price of a drink and refused to tip me for that drink and a few more he ordered until I stopped waiting on him. At a strip club, nobody works for free.

And then there was the table full of businessmen that Caesar, the VIP Manager, asked me to help him close on Saturday night. They were hemming and hawing, trying to decide whether or not to purchase bottle service, when Caesar volunteered me to be their dedicated waitress, hoping that would seal the deal.

It didn’t. Instead, they each decided to open their own tabs. Each one of their names contained about 15 unpronounceable syllables, so of course I mixed them up immediately. Once they did have drinks in hand, one smug, entitled bastard pulled me onto his lap, groped my ass repeatedly and stuck his hand inside my top several times throughout the evening to fondle my breast, even though I asked him multiple times not to do so.

Our conversation throughout the evening consisted of him describing in gross detail exactly what he liked about me while simultaneously body shaming some of the other dancers and waitresses. When he wasn’t being completely misogynistic, he complained about the club and the demeanor of the other dancers, telling me he only liked “good girls with good attitudes.” Again with the plastered on smile.

At the end of an exhausting evening, he gave me his number, told me to call him and tipped me five bucks.

Bitch, I don’t call for less than fifty.

Truth be told, bitch, I won’t be calling even if you had tipped a hundred.

Still, I’m gonna miss being a waitress. The other waitresses had finally started to like me a little bit, and I’ll miss the camaraderie with them, the bartenders and the cooks. Especially the cooks, whose warm kitchen was my sanctuary when the cold became unbearable.

I start dancing tonight. My grandmother is dying, so I took two days to go out of town and tell her good-bye. I had to cancel my eyelash extension appointment as well as my appointment to get my back, beard and ass waxed. None of the costumes I ordered have arrived yet, and I feel very furry and completely unprepared. 

TONIGHT, I DANCE IN HELL!

Just kidding. The club is far too cold for that.

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