“Excuse me, Circus. If you’re not too busy right now, can I please talk to you for a minute?”
The cute, busty waitress standing in front of me bit her lip, looking very earnest. Usually, when a waitress wants to talk to you, it means a customer has requested you – aka dollar bills, y’all! — so I immediately excused myself from the poor customer whose ear I had been jawing off and walked over to a slightly quiet corner, where said waitress launched into a long spiel.
“So, I used to be a waitress over at Perfect 10 and I had this client there, Aahil, who would come into the club 4 – 5 times a week and just spend five, six thousand there every time. So, I’ve been trying to get him to come over here, but he’s been very reluctant because he doesn’t like the cigarette smoke here. Plus, over there, they treat him like a king, and he just loves it, so I’ve have a hard time getting him over here. I’ve been working on him for, like, months and months now and tonight, he FINALLY agreed. And I’m so excited. I want him to have such a good time, so I’m trying to make sure everything will be perfect.
“The only thing is, though, he’s very handsy. He like, really likes to grab the dancers, and he really likes it when they grab him too, so I asked Rocco which dancer he’d recommend would be best for that sort of thing, like, could totally deal with it, and he suggested you.”
I . . . was not sure how to take that.
Did Rocco recommend me as the dancer least likely to pitch a hissy fit about a handsy client, or did he find me the most competent in dealing with difficult, demanding clients?
Almost without exception, my clients get grabby to some degree. Was this not the experience of other dancers as well? If so, how did they handle it? If they didn’t handle it well, how did they make any money at all? Also, did this have anything to do with The Great Tuesday Massacre, as I am now referring to last Tuesday’s traumatizing debacle.
All of these questions ran through my head in a matter of minutes. I decided to push them aside and focus on the positive: A high roller was coming into the club, and I had been recommended by a manager as the dancer most likely to please him.
“I’m happy to help,” I told Leigh, the waitress, inwardly squealing on the inside. I’m sure my eyes were flashing dollar bills like in the cartoons. “And I’ll tip you 20%* of whatever he pays me since you’re helping me get business.”
Leigh, the waitress, was not expecting this at all, and her squeal and smile made me happy. I hoped Aahil would spend a lot, so I could give her a lot of it at the end of the night.
Aahil turned out to be a very handsome Pakistani man in a pristine tailored suit. Leigh paraded me over to him and made me bend over and show him my ass, making me feel like a cow at a cattle auction. However, Aahil liked me just fine and whisked me away to a comped champagne room. I groaned inwardly when I realized where we were going. The champagne rooms are the most expensive and private places in the VIP section, the VIP of VIP, the ultimate luxury where only the finest of entertainers are invited to lounge in leisure like a well-pampered cat.
Based on what Leigh had told me about Aahil, I was worried I’d spend all my time in the champagne room trying to convince him not to have sex with me. Surprisingly, Aahil was actually less handsy than a good number of my clients. He just wanted to make out.
Usually, I do not indulge my clients who want to make out, choosing a life without herpes over a couple of extra hundreds, but I could almost taste Aahil’s sweet, sweet high roller dollars on his lips, so I obliged him.
I am a really good kisser, in case ya’ll were wondering. Aahil made out with me for nearly an hour, only stopping long enough to snort coke off my nipples like every good, stereotypical strip club high roller should and making me feel like a real stripper. He offered me some. I politely declined. I cannot afford a coke addiction.
Afterwards, like most of my clients, he asked if I were single, found out I was and took down my phone number. He then asked me come over when I got off work. I ran a finger down his cheek. “Text me later,” I said. He shoved some bills in my hand, and I left.
Leigh caught up with me in the dressing room. “How much did he pay you?” she asked excitedly. I opened my hand. One hundred and forty dollars. Leigh was horrified.
“What’s your normal hourly rate?” she asked.
“Four hundred,” I told her. “Look, I owe you $28.”
“Fuck, no, you don’t,” she almost yelled. “I feel terrible he paid you so little! He normally drops hundreds of dollars on the dancers! Look,” she said, pulling out her money purse. “I’m gonna pay YOU instead.”
“Oh, honey,” I said, looking down at the cluster of twenties she was offering, “I do NOT want your money.”
“You did me a favor by not pitching a fit that he paid you so little! Take this!” she insisted. “He’s gonna come back. I know he will, because he really liked you. I will make this back from him in spades.”
I felt pretty certain I’d be turning down Aahil’s offer to join him at his place later, so I didn’t share Leigh’s confidence in Aahil’s inevitable return. I took her money very reluctantly.
In the dressing room as I changed to go home, Aahil pleaded with me over text to come over. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he said. Bitch, you do not pay me $140 for an hour of my time, and then tell me you’re gonna take more of my time and make it worth my while. I will not believe you.
And so, I took my pretty little bovine ass home and tucked it into bed, alone, like I usually am, and slept like a baby like I usually do. To my knowledge, Aahil hasn’t returned, but he still texts me and asks me out every now and then.
I’m gonna have to figure out how to make it up to Leigh.
*BTW, tipping 20% on business referrals is something I do for everyone if you send clients to me and they spend money on me. I have one friend who’s already made $54, so send your friends, clients, business partners and grandmas my way, yo!