Trigger Warnings: Blood, gore, non-consensual acts, possible violence
As much as I want to leave the strip club industry, the strip club industry will not leave me.
As the world slowly drifts back to normal, its siren song sings to me. A recent Monday evening found me chatting online with the gorgeous Genevieve, she of the heart of gold, now a badass boss babe at The Landing Strip, which is now the home of not one, but two deejay friends.
And the following Tuesday found me back at an actual club, cozied up with JRob in the deejay booth, shooting whiskey and gossiping just like old times, except unlike old times, we were not at Rick’s, but Foxy’s.
He was trying to convince to come work there. I was reluctant, to say the least. From my days of leaving Rick’s to go party at Foxy’s, I knew this was the place where Austinities go for fierce Black babes and the best pole dancing in town. It’s not where you go to find skinny ass white bitches who can’t even pull off a push-up. Heck, you can visit my apartment for free if that’s what you’re looking for, but no one’s exactly storming down my door like it’s the Capitol building.
(If I just gave you your next sexy role playing scenario, you’re welcome! “Honey, can we pretend I’m the gates of the Capitol, and you’re the QAnon Shaman?” Sooooo hot.)
Anyway . . .
I reluctantly decided to give it a shot, and JRob and I agreed we’d meet up there on Sunday.
On Sunday, however, I played at the lake all day and was wildly unprepared to hit up the club that evening. I went anyway, wildly unprepared.
The security guard at the front demanded to search my bag and found a pair of scissors.
“Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave these in your car.”
I anxiously twisted my hands together. “But, um, I need them.”
“To, um, cut the string off the tampon.”
I have never seen a Black man blush in my entire life until that moment, but I did not care. Periods are a thing. Tampons are a thing. Cutting the strings off your tampon when you dance at an all-nude club is a thing.
There was only one slight problem, courtesy of my reckless unpreparedness: I had the scissors, but no tampon.
I crossed my fingers and figured the house mom would have some I could buy.
Except there was no house mom on a Sunday night.
So there I was, in an all-nude club, my furry taco just dripping sauce without a napkin in sight.
“It’s fine,” I told myself. “Your thongs are red. The stains won’t even show up.”
Except it turns out that blood stains on red spandex are black. BLACK! What kind of psycho science is that? If you ever decide to be a serial killer, folks, definitely skip the red spandex when you’re doing the deed!
Of course, my first client tried to dip his chip in my chunky salsa, and by chip, I mean his finger.
I just grinned and, for once, let him slip it in for a second, because it’s fun to be evil as frequently as you can get away with it, particularly when you are the one personally delivering the karma. With your vagina. Please let me assure you that there are fewer feelings more delicious than serving up karma with an uncooked furburger, extra ketchup. I guarandamntee you he’ll never fuck with another stripper like that again.
Before you let that paragraph give you the warm fuzzies, because that’s not what not this blog is for, you should know that the client is currently a high school English teacher in San Antonio. Ya’ll just sit with that one for a minute, okay?
The future of our nation is being gently shaped by a man who unwittingly and non-consensually fingered a menstruating stripper over the weekend. The future is so fucked.
I write this blog so I don’t have to carry these burdens alone.The shit in my head is also yours now; you’re welcome!
My night was saved, however, by a man who paid me just to sit and talk. Whew!
On his lap. Not whew!
My expenses for the night included a house fee, a promotion fee, a stage fee, a weekend fee, the manager’s tip-out, the deejay’s tip-out and a hefty dry cleaning bill. I barely broke even.
I’m just kidding. He won’t know about that stain until he goes home to jack off.
Yes, I’m back, but I’m not happy about it.