It was so quiet at the club last night that the House Mom had time to notice my thongs weren’t regulation. She told me to change; I didn’t want to; the manager had to get involved . . . Long story short, I had to change from a lace thong to an opaque one. That’s right, ya’ll: strip clubs actually regulate what kind of material runs down between the crack of your ass. IT’S SERIOUSLY CREEPY.

It was so quiet at the club last night that even the Cubans weren’t working. They piled on top of each other in a corner of the VIP section like a creamy brown pride of lionesses scanning the savannah for prey. Most of the customers who did come into the club were Spanish-speaking, and every time I struck out with one of them, the pride would look at me, blinking quietly, their eyes brimming with a mixture of pity and contempt and hunger.

Just when I had two hard-won clients on the hook, my mother called me screaming. My gold-plated offspring had lost her keys AGAIN FOR THE SECOND TIME IN THREE WEEKS and was once again locked out of our apartment. I was aware of this and had told the fruit of my unfortunate loins to walk herself a few blocks over to my former fiance’s house where I would pick her up once my shift was over. My mother was having none of this.

“You get your ass over there and unlock the door for her NOW!” my mother yelled. Well, she didn’t say “ass” because she’s a fine, Christian woman, but much like many fine Christian folk down through the centuries, her words carried the implied threat of violence if I didn’t obey. 

Fortunately, the manager on duty was much more chill about me bailing on my shift than he’d been about the material comprising my panties. I threw on a black shirt and stomped out in nothing but that and my black leather boots. It’s super fun to hunt down a wayward child dressed like that. Everyone looks at you like, “OF COURSE you have a runaway daughter, YOU WHORE!”

I could have cheerfully murdered her when I found her, but instead I gave her my leftover steak because that involved less prison time.

Immediately after returning to the club, I had to dance onstage, but at least this time I wasn’t following motherfucking Natasha Nova again. My clients were gone, along with their cash, and the little money I had made before I left went straight to the locksmith my mother had called without my permission and without notifying my daughter, who wasn’t there when he arrived. Yay for the locksmith having a better night than the stripper.

The deejay played Fergie’s MILF Money, which I found very apropos, considering all my money usually goes straight to the reason why I’m a MILF in the first place.

It was such a rough night that my humanity must’ve been showing really badly, because even the Cuban girl who hates me employed some empathy and engaged me in conversation. It turns out she’s not so bad, and I hope she feels the same way about me now as well. Considering she’s bilingual and has an ass like two beach balls (which the gentlemen LOVE), I’m still unsure why she hated me in the first place. At least now I feel like I can probably return the steak knife I stole from the kitchen and stashed in my locker JUST IN CASE.

(Disclaimer my editor made me insert: I’m just kidding about that last part. I steal hearts, not knives, and I only employ Weapons of Mass Distraction.)

Tonight is our monthly Faded Friday event, Naughty School Girl Edition. Last night when I clocked out, all of the managers were congregated in the office. “For the naughty school girl event tomorrow,” I asked, “which one of you is dressing up as a priest?”

In unison, they all yelled back, “TOO SOON!” I threw some money at them and made a quick exit.

Chalk to last night up to a WIN.