Tales from Da Club #33

Wednesday evening marked the first time I strapped on the black leather thigh-high boots and headed back to the club since spraining my foot last week. My foot did great, by the way. I was super proud of it.

Morning came as a shock today. I’m at my day job trying to piece together the fuzzy edges of what happened last night.

I do remember an Indian guy. This is gonna sound racist, but Indian men are notorious for not spending a lot of money at strip clubs. Sorry, not sorry, but I’ve yet to meet an exception to this rule. They are incredibly frugal no matter how much they drink. I admire frugality as long as it doesn’t come at my expense. At the club, frugality always comes at my expense. 

Because of this pattern, I don’t often approach Indian men, but the night was slow and my purse was light.

“I am looking for marriage to one girl,” he told me as soon as I sat.

“I . . . don’t think you’re gonna find that here,” I told him.

“I know,” he nodded.

“But there’s lots of fun to be had in the meantime!”

It wasn’t hard to talk him into a dance in VIP. I sat him down and turned around to squirm out of my lace-up teddy. (Of which a photo exists on my Insta, @circus_macabre. Just sayin’.) I sat down and immediately encountered a bare, erect penis.

Sigh.

I will never work at an all-nude club for this reason. It’s probably far too easy at such places to accidentally become dick on a stick.

Mr. Mumbai only bought one dance. Shocking.

Wilder. Wilder is the reason my evening is so fuzzy today. 

Wilder and his buddy Ren were visiting from Fort Worth. Wilder was the lead singer in a band, and we hit it off right away when I asked him if he’d ever performed at Scat Jazz Lounge off Sundance Square. He had, and we both agreed it was a magical place.

“Hey, wanna tequila shot?” he asked, gesturing to an impressive display of tiny glasses on the bar in front of him.

“No, thank you,” I told him. “Hey, where’s Ren?”

Wilder and I were pretty good friends at this point, having just discussed the similarities of Jesus and Buddha minutes before. He had informed me that the primary difference was power: Christians seek it outside themselves; Buddhists seek it within.

“Ren is back there getting some dances,” Wilder said, nodding towards a private VIP cabana, “but I only dance with girls who’ve had at least three shots.”

“That’s incredibly manipulative,” I informed him, reluctantly downing the cheap shots. On slow nights, the clients have far more negotiating power than we do.

Wilder and I proceeded to get gloriously smashed and spent our time singing very loudly. All this tits and ass, and he paid me to sing. I don’t think he even touched a thing.

Just as I screeched out the very long, drawn out high note of “reciprocity,” in “When You’re Good to Mama,” from the musical Chicago, the VIP Manager appeared to inform us that we were illegally occupying the champagne room.

“You should know better, Circus,” he griped at me with a frown, which turned upside down when Wilder shoved a Benjamin in his hand and waved him away.

What a fantastic thing it must be to throw money at someone every time one finds oneself in trouble. I understand now why the one percenters currently trashing the planet enjoy doing it so often. Bribing people to look the other way so you can do whatever the fuck you want is super fun!

Just as there’s no escaping climate change, however (don’cha love how quickly I turned this into a political dig?), there’s no escaping the negative consquences of science in general. One cannot simply pay the tequila to go away. 

Fuck my life; I’m at work today STILL DRUNK.

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