A Tale of Two Titties

In my almost two years in this business, I have come to realize that the different types of strippers can basically be boiled down into two distinct classifications: genus ratchetus and genus snobbicus.

Genus ratchetus will first ensnare you with a highly sexualized verbal or phyiscal greeting and is the type known for defying anatomical realities with their dance moves, such as pounding their pussies in your face while clacking their heels together over your head. (I am not this kind of stripper. I might be if I could move like that, but at my age, I’d just break a hip.) Conversational topics will almost always be about her problems and how much she needs money. You will most likely feel sad or brain-dead after said conversation. Your wallet will empty for one reason or another: you’ll either feel compelled to help the ratchetus, her incredibly vulgar dancing will drain all your self-restraint, or she’ll just straight up scam you.

WARNING: Both classes will leave you light in the head, heavy in the nether regions and especially light in the wallet regions.

Genus snobbicus, the classification to which I belong, will first ensnare you with witty, intelligent conversation intended to make you laugh and is the type known for giving subtly sexy but otherwise rather restrained lap dances, which will lead to your request to be slapped in the facial regions with our mammary glands or gluteus maximi. It is well-known that the male species derives extreme pleasure from such activities and can be persuaded to part with a large amount of the local currency in his possession in order to participate in said activities. Conversational topics will almost always be centered around you, which the snobbicus will then use to silently judge you harshly. Your wallet will empty in hopes of one day gaining the snobbicus as your girlfriend, but soon those dreams will prove to be as empty as your wallet.

Comedian Rae Sanni, in a bit in which she laments the humiliation of being a broke-ass stripper (which you can view here), has a more succinct viewpoint:

“So I was in the strip club being myself. Hey, don’t be yourself in the strip club! They don’t want yourself in the strip club! I’m at the bar talking to customers. I’m like, “Well, this tattoo’s from a book of James Baldwin essays . . . and this tattoo is from The Unbearable Lightness of Being, which is about four lovers in Russian-occupied Czechoslovakia, but really it’s about Nietzschen philosophy . . . Do you want my titties in your face?

“No! He don’t want your readin’-ass titties in his face! He wants illiterate titties. He came to the Bronx for some Reganomics, defunded public school-ass titties!”

Now, there’s an argument to be made here for a number of things. First and foremost, much could be said about how I should not be perpetuating stripper stereotypes; nevertheless, they persist because we strippers are often not helping our cause. Another argument could be made that negative stripper stereotypes persist as a direct result of any politician who defunds public education. Sex work and sexual exploitation increases in bad economies and under-educated societies, so there’s a lot to explore from a political standpoint.

I’m sure plenty of strippers exist who defy all classifications — hell, I know some of them — but quite a few of us are not rising above; no, as last Friday proved, we are doing quite the opposite, diving headfirst into the shallow, foaming cesspool of negative stripper stereotypes and splashing around.

It was quite gratifying to learn, when I applied to work at Bare, that it was staffed by former managers from my previous club, namely, Caesar, the former VIP manager. However, while I filled all my new contractor paperwork, Caesar put twenty dancers on suspension leave for involving themselves in a 20-girl pileup the night before.

All the red flags were waving, but you know what? It’s hard to see red flags when you’re wearing rose colored glasses. As I usually do, particularly when it comes to my relationships, I looked at those red flags and thought, “Oh, my! How pretty!” And then immediately found myself all tangled up in them.

On my second night at Bare, Caesar beckoned me into a large VIP booth and told me to stay put. Before long, he stocked the booth with nine more dancers, all of whom seemed to know exactly what to do. Immediately, they arranged themselves in a semi-circle around the booth, naked asses out and twerking.

When a large party of very young birthday boys arrived and were greeted by this sight, they were terrifed. Only a few of them had the courage to slide into the booth, and they were immediately rewarded with at least two pussies in each face. “Man, they all got fat stacks!” I heard one dancer squeal. “We gon make some monies!”

Most of the hella uncomfortable young men milled around outside the booth, occasionally turning to throw a wad of singles into the air or film the scene on their phones. Before long, the booth looked like Jeff Bezos had thrown up everywhere, cash swathing the carpet like a prom dress on a debutante and dangling from the seams of the surrounding mirrors.

At the height of the spectacle, one dancer writhed around on the floor on her back, and I admired her courage. I do not have the ovaries necessary to roll around on the ground while ten pairs of ice picks stomp around my face. I did my best not to stick a stiletto in her eyeball. Two other dancers hopped on a nearby pole, hooping and hollering while the men flung dollars. Those of us lacking faces to thrust pussies into danced solo as lasciviously as possible.

I didn’t want to be there. Not only was I recuperating from the flu, but I was exhausted, having slept less than two hours the night before. None of these men wanted to engage in witty and intelligent conversation. I did my best to keep up, but my genus snobbicus self was far out of my element.

Not only was I feeling completely out of place, but all this chaos did not strike me as the best way to monetize my time. Judging by the amount of cash decorating the booth, my take would be about fifty dollars max. Singles seem like a lot of money until you count them. I was ready to go, but I wasn’t sure how to get my booty out of there without also taking my share of the loot. I cannot emphasize enough how much cash was frickin’ everywhere. I expected someone to get twitchy about it any second now.

I didn’t have to wait long, but I was surprised to find myself the target.

I don’t know; perhaps there were some incredibly well-rounded ladies in the booth that night, but at first glance, mine appeared to be the only readin’-ass titties present. So there I was, minding my own business, making a half-hearted attempt at shaking my flu-ridden ass, when I heard another dancer yelling. “She’s ugly as fuck, she’s barely shaking her ass, and I am not splitting all this money with her!”

My first thought was, “She is surprisingly articulate.”

My second thought was, “Is she talking about me?”

Oh, yes, she was. Two seconds later, two dancers grabbed me by the arms. “You can’t be here,” they said. “You need to leave now.”

“Why?” I asked.

“You just . . . these guys don’t want you here. They don’t know you.”

That was a lie, obviously, so my third thought was, “Bitch, if you kick me out, your take goes up by about five bucks, but it’s okay. Math is hard. None of us would be here if we could math.”

I let them pull me out of the booth. A couple of dancers shot me sympathetic looks; others ignored the spectacle. Part of me was mortified but part of me was too exhausted to give a fuck. Besides, they were inadvertently solving my problem for me. Behind me, one of the men protested. “Where you goin’? Nah, let her stay! She good, man, she good!”

My titties might have been readin’-ass quality, but they were still the best titties in that booth.

BOOM.

Once out of the booth, I marched straight up to Caesar. “These girls are kicking me out,” I told him, “So I’m gonna go, but I need to be compensated for my time here.”

I could almost read his mind. He knew we had been just one “Bitch, don’t touch me!” away from another 20-girl pileup. I had decided to overlook their physical assault, and I could see the relief in his eyes over the fact that he wasn’t gonna have to suspend another twenty dancers. “Come see me when you tip out,” he said. “I’ll take care of you. Just don’t tell anybody I’m splitting the money with you.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I really don’t know what I did to piss them off.”

Caesar winced. “Man, they’re just a bunch of Reganomics, defunded public school-ass titties. Don’t pay ’em any mind.”

Actually, that’s not what he said, but I can’t repeat what he really said on this blog.

Can I please just work at a club full of readin’-ass titties? No. No, I cannot, because one doesn’t exist. I’mma have to go back to Bare, and boy, am I dreading it.

One thought on “A Tale of Two Titties

  1. Pingback: One Heckuva Job, Part 2 | Tales from Da Club

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