Tales from Da Club #15

It’s possible I am pretty okay at giving lap dances.

If so, it’s a newly discovered talent, having never given one in my life until my bestie, Jamal, visited a few weeks ago and agreed to be my guinea pig so I could practice.

Whatta guy nice he is. So selfless.

The VIP Manager, Caesar, talked me into only dancing in VIP.

“Know your worth,” he said. “Be a luxury item everyone wants but not everyone can afford.”

I am now a commodity. 

I had to (agonizingly) hand back a few 20s to clients on the floor Friday night. Whey they asked why I only danced VIP, I responded, “Because I’m worth it, bitch!”

Three of the four men I danced for in VIP asked for more dances after the first. One very cute hairdresser with amazing hair was determined to buy only one dance, but afterwards said, “YOLO!” and bought four more.

I do not understand how the YOLO mentality and very expensive blue balls go together, but I will shamelessly milk it nonetheless.

I made the rookie mistake of getting drunk before my first dance. I thought I’d be fine with two rum and cokes, but . . .

I was in the back doing shots with a distractingly cute female client when I heard my name being called to the main stage. I slammed down the cup and realized as I ran to the stage that I was fucked up in thigh-high black leather six inch stiletto boots.

Not helping at all were the dollar bills that hit the stage the minute I did. Do you know what it’s like to dance on dollar bills? I do. It’s very slippery.

I do not recall what I did onstage for that dance. Probably things my poor clients will never be able to unsee.

At one point, I turned around and there was Mr. Unsolicited Dick Pic with a small mountain of dollar bills on stage in front of him. He didn’t even make me work for them.

I dropped down to say hello.

He looked at me with big, sad, beautiful puppy dog eyes. “I miss you,” he said.

“We went on ONE date, baby.”

People, don’t fall in love with strippers. We will empty your pockets, and then we will empty your heart.

And that’s my poetic line for the day.

I made almost twice as much that night as I had on my best night as a waitress. And it was a slow night.

On Sunday night, the date I’d planned with a guy I had been seeing texted me three hours before the date to call it quits. 

You know what’s weird? Getting paid piles of money by men who can’t fuck you only to get abruptly dumped by men you’d fuck for free.

Guess I’ll just cry all the way to the bank 


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