Tales from Da Club #39

Last night I learned my very first lesson in what it’s like to get thoroughly FUCKED OVER by a client.

On Tuesday nights, all drinks and shots are only $3 until 11 pm. Thanks to poor management and a dying, 20th century business model*, the club has been bleeding badly into the red since I started working there. In an effort to get butts in seats, they’ve been offering some pretty great food and drink deals on weeknights. It’s really cheap to get plastered on Tuesday nights.

He was so NICE at first. He was also very reluctant at first, but fifteen dollars later, he was singing a dramatically different tune. We went to VIP for one dance, but he kept asking for more. “We’re at four dances now,” I said. “Are you okay with that?” He nodded. I knew he had the money. I had seen him take it out of the ATM.

Still, it was incredibly stupid of me not to demand payment much sooner.

“We’re at eight dances now,” I said. “Are you okay with that?”

He responded by shoving my underwear aside and sticking his face in my crotch. At precisely that moment, the VIP manager showed up.

A few weeks ago, I got in trouble with the VIP manager for allowing a client into the champagne room without paying. I managed to weasel out of it by having my client tip him a hundred bucks. Ever since then, I’ve suspected the VIP manager of keeping close tabs on me, perhaps hoping to catch me in another compromising situation for which I will again tip him big in exchange for his silence.

I was probably not wrong.

In the chaos that ensued, the client escaped without paying me. However, VIP still demanded their cut, so not only did my client not pay me, he stuck me with his VIP bill, too.

The entertainment manager chose not to file an incident report or terminate my contract, but they did ask me to leave early, ensuring I couldn’t continue to work to try to recoup my losses.

Between the declining clientele at the club, my daughter’s illness (for which I do not have insurance) and a death in the family, it’s been a financially taxing month for me. I was hoping to make bank during the Thanksgiving holiday. The last thing I needed was to wind up *owing* money in exchange for working my ass off.

Lest you feel tempted to feel sorry for me, though, DON’T. I met a handsome and kind millionaire CEO at the club last week, who picked me up from the office in a Porsche and took me out for lunch at Bartlett’s earlier that day. Strip club life still isn’t THAT sucky.

One of the waitresses found me crying in the dressing room and produced the offending client’s phone number. I texted him my VenMo and PayPal information and politely requested payment. He responded by taunting me with a photo of a fistful of twenties. “Send me photos and I’ll pay you,” he wrote back.

WHAT A GIGANTIC, MOTHERFUCKING ASSHOLE.

DJ Rob was so worried about me that he went mobile and broadcasted from the dressing room so he could make sure I was okay. In hindsight, it was probably a hilariously ridiculous spectacle:

DJ Rob: “Evette, to the stage. Evette, ladies and gentlemen, now coming topside! Don’t be scared to step right up and decorate that g-string, ladies and gentlemen!”

*bear hugs me by the lockers* *shifts the mic around so he can bear hug me and talk over my shoulder at the same time in a deliberately deepened deejay voice* “Peaches, stand by. Stand by, Peachesssssss.”

Me, crying hysterically, makeup running and wig askew: “This is the kind of thing that makes you a mean, cold-hearted bitch, and I don’t wanna be meeeeeeaaaaaaaan!”

DJ Rob, still bear hugging me, normal voice: “I know honey, I’m so sorry.” *switches to fake deejay voice* “Last chance, ladies and gentlemen, to get the attention of this sexy lady. Step right up and let Evette take care of YOU!”

Me: *continues to cry hysterically while ripping off my pathetically drenched fake eyelashes*

BTW, I still have that phone number . . . . 

😀

__________________

*In case you were wondering, yes, millennials ARE killing the strip club industry, but in my opinion, millennials aren’t killing anything that doesn’t deserve to die. (Did you hear that, Applebees? Please die of your garbage food already!) In addition, I find it hilarious that the biggest proponents of capitalism are also those who gripe the loudest on the rare occasion when capitalism actually functions as it should.

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