This job is turning me into a real bitch.

Last night I was dancing onstage as I normally do. What was not normal was that DJ Rob was playing a rare evening set, rare considering he’s mostly a daytime deejay. You’ll recall that DJ Rob is, for those of you who don’t Facebook stalk me enough, the lead singer of the newly formed band, John Wayne and the Posse, who recently recruited me for back up vocals. Not only was DJ Rob playing one of JWP’s original songs, Pimps vs. Strippers, but he was providing a LOT of amusing commentary, serving to make me feel like a complete badass. There are a number of perks associated with being in a band with the club deejay, it seems.

Off to the side of the stage, one man broke away from his tight pack of bros to place a single dollar bill on the stage. ONE dollar bill? He may as well have tipped me a penny. I walked over, picked up the dollar and threw it back at him.

A few minutes later, said gentleman placed the dollar bill back on the stage.

DJ Rob later told me that this gentleman was part of a law firm field trip that had, much earlier in the day, dropped ten grand on dancer dollars, which can be bought with a credit card with a 20% upcharge and given to a dancer in exchange for dances that she can later return to the club for actual cash, minus the upcharge which goes back to the club. In the era of the #MeToo movement, company-sponsored outings to strip clubs have become very rare. However, very few of the daytime dancers walked out of the club that day with less than a grand.

Of course, I knew none of this at the time. I walked back over to the single dollar bill, picked it up again and very deliberately threw it back at the giver. “I only take twenties!” I yelled. “I don’t want your DOLLAR.” The poor man gaped me, open-mouthed and wide eyed. Satisfied that I had made an impression, I finished my dances and went over to said dude to introduce myself and laugh about said bitchiness.

It turns out that his name was Dave, he was gay and, and he was very bored. The tip he gave me was the only tip he had handed out that day. He gave me a larger tip after that conversation, reinforcing my suspicion that it pays to be a bitch at the strip club as long as one is only bitchy in moderation.

Later, during the incredibly slow evening, while the last of the die-hard company men took the last contingent of dancers to the VIP cabanas to spend the last of their dancer dollars – a contingent that didn’t include me – Dave and I sat at the VIP bar laughing at funny memes on Instagram to help him stay awake. Dave told me that the dancers his coworkers were entertaining had been former employees of their law firm who were now making more money as strippers, which made me feel better about missing out on the waning dancer dollars.

I felt badly for Dave, though. Apparently my bitchy little tantrum had been the highlight of his evening.

If I ever opened my own strip club, a pipe dream at this point, it would cater just as much to the LGBTQ community and heteronormative women as much as strip clubs currently cater mostly to heteronormative men. I bet it would be a smashing success. Financial backers, HMU. Let’s do this. For Dave.