We work the pole hard at my club, but most of us look like run-of-the-mill strippers, despite customers’ frequent “It’s like Cirque du Soleil with tits!” comments. One day, a girl about 4’10” came in who seemed far more suited for burlesque, show-girl dancing, and watching her stage sets irritated the fuck out of me. It wasn’t jealousy, it was her nauseatingly precious and cutesy performance style. She wore a nautical ensemble, which I could forgive if it weren’t for the gold tassels atop shoulder pads like an H.M.S. Pinafore community theatre costume. She kept bopping up and down ad nauseum on our spinning pole along with Rihanna, but the kicker happened when she lay on her back, legs spread in a V, and someone placed a dollar right over her crotch. The dollar suddenly billowed up a good six inches thanks to an unknown air source I presumed a queef. I was disgusted, but when I said as much to a girl in the dressing room, she explained that she blows on it with her mouth. Still, the illusion of emitting a 10-15 mph gust of queef hardly strikes me as sexy. I haven’t seen her since. Maybe she hopped a time machine back to a WWII USO Show or happy-go-lucky MGM musical production lot.


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