Archive for December, 2012

Consultants and Image Consciousness

December 31, 2012

I come back from nearly two weeks off tonight and there are these random-ass stand-in managers. This dude I’d never met came to the locker room with a “we have no girls for the stage, are you about ready?” speil, and I pretty much retorted “Who are you?”

The moment I entered the locker room, two random girls were there finalizing preparations to audition. By the time I was hair, makeup, spraytan ready, they were done and one had been told she was “too big.” I heard her friend try to console her “you’re not fat” and I heard her muffled attempts at hiding sniffles.

I felt bad and I’ve been there. This girl wasn’t much bigger, if any bigger, than myself, and I couldn’t help questioning how long being “grandfathered” in to keeping my job and working night, not day, shift, could last.

The problem that hadn’t dawned on me yet is the image obsession of the Super Bowl coming to town in a month. Yes, I noticed the massive overhaul to build eight new VIP rooms and improve the club’s appearance, but the thought of “cleaning house” dancer-wise was not on my blissfully unaware radar. I consider myself a “house girl”, a regular fixture, but I’m super replacable, even if I reassure myself the managers all like me and I’m an earner.

I asked our VIP hostess about the random managers, trying to jokingly play it off: “Are these interim/temp managers?”

She had a very euphemistic reply about the randoms helping them “sort everything out” with the renovations and transitions. That’s never a good sign, but I feel reasonably secure in my job. It didn’t feel good to get on stage with a bloated Christmas belly in front of strangers with clout grilling me and judging me.

If they want to screen what new girls get hired, fine. I still feel grandfathered in. But if they start ordering a firing squad, imma be pissed! In all honesty, If I get ‘fake’ fired or given an ultimatum, I’ll be very diplomatic and express willingness to settle for day shifts and dedication toward physical improvement.

I concurred with a new girl tonight about working where we do because it’s laid back and not micromanaged. “I don’t work as a stripper to be hounded by managers like an office job; if I want that, I’ll go build a proper resume somewhere else!” (for less moeny….)

It creeps me out that my club has hired these image consultant types in my absence. These fake managers are going to get all overzealous in their eagerness to please, but they’re just fucking temps themselves! I’m trying to assure myself that, should one of them approach our owners with “she’s a bit thick,” the owners will rebutt with “yeah, but she’s super easy to work with and she’s a consistent earner.”

This fantasy dialogue isn’t totally unrealistic, but it’s not like I sell multiple VIP rooms every night and rake in such amazing earnings they’d be idiots to let me go. I earn my keep, but I’m not employee of the month.

I’m bracing myself, but even if worse comes to worse and I get “fired” I’ll just live on a treadmill for two weeks and come back. They have fired and re-hired so many girls so many times (per girl) it’s insane. A house girl is a house girl, and she has more leeway with fuck-ups and glitches. I’m not my club’s biggest asset, but I’m a pleasant, agreeable, employee. No heroin and prostituting, no nagging managers to leave early and bail out of shifts left and right, like most strippers. I’m reliable as fuck, and even if I don’t bring in major dough, I’m that bitch you can count on to cover the stage rotation and show up for her shift.

The reason I’m a little scared is because of what happened to me on Staten Island over the summer. I got a job at a decent joint and the customers loved me. But the owners were opening a new club on SI, and their image consciousness caused them to clean house. It felt like being cut from an athletic tryout first round. They fired my ass the day before I went on a 2K vacation to Italy. Very considerate. My conversation with the manager who had hired me and then got to be the messenger of firing me went more or less:

“He just wants the very thin girls, the girls in the 8,9,10 range. I told him I’ve never had a problem with you, that you’re reliable, always on time……” yadayada

So, bottom line, being chunky trumps being reliable and agreeable when it comes to keeping your job. Wish me luck! Because I plan to rake it in between now and Mardi Gras, not be unemployed.

A Drug by Any Other Name….

December 30, 2012

Halcion, Seconal, Valium, Xanax, Klonopin, Ativan (is Ativan already outdated!? It used to be my hero.) Lorazepam, Clonazepam, OxyCo-some-shit-or-other. (I don’t fuck with painkillers). Percocet. Benzadrine. Amphetamine. Methamphetamine. Adderall. Ritalin. Cocaine. Yao. Morphine???? (If you really wanna be old-school.) Et al.

I’m a Massachusetts resident, technically. I voted to legalize medical marijuana (Question 3), but couldn’t bring myself to vote for assisted suicide a la Oregon (because the specifics entail taking 100 capsules of the old-school Doll Seconal by yourself at home.)

It’s all similar, though, no? From Valley of the Dolls, to Bret Easton Ellis nihilism, to Prozac Nation in the ’90s, to moi and my contemporary, “Benzo/stimulant”-loving peers?

Shrinks conform to the “diagnosis du jour.” (ADHD in the ’90s, Bipolar and Autism since then), while us head case patients (some addicts in disguise) exploit the “mood disorder du jour.” Have I mentioned I’m thrilled I wasn’t this bat-shit crazy in the ’50’s or ’60s? Dodged the lobotomy bullet, at least. And feeling like the family dog getting sent to the “funny farm,” even if I am a contemporary black sheep, isn’t as brutal in the post-PC-era.

My Rx bottle for Trazodone and Klonopin says “take as needed for insomnia and anxiety” even though myself and my doctor know it’s a bipolar thaaaaaang. Fuck Lithium, it makes you fat and sleepy; certain bipolar drugs make you so lethargic, disengaged and bloated, you may as well swap your diagnosis for clinicaL depression.

My new (soon-to-be-old) shrink asked me “why do you like Klonopin?”

“Because, I’ve had two hospitalizations for mania, and Klonopin/Ativan played the hero in both; reinstating my body’s natural appetite for food and sleep, which had been lost. I can take them during the day and not become narcileptic, like the other drugs that curb anxiety while over-sedating you.” (Seroquel/Depakote/Lithium/Geodon.) I can use Benzo’s and stay awake, while calming down, instead of becominhg useless and over-sedated.”

“Oh, but Klonopin exacerbates mania, makes it worse, so does Trazodone.”

(Then why the fuck did ER doctors, seeing me in a shit-show state, prescribe Ativan and Klonopin as the quick-fix “chill pill?”)

The field of psychiatry is so full of hacks. So is the field of patients. People move to Massachusetts to become homeless, despite the cold, cause of Romney-care and other government programs in place. Homeless crackheads often have an easier time coming by Klonopin than I do. Is it a “hurry up and die” thing? Should I freel flattered that my new/old shrink emphasized the possible fatality of mixing Klonopin and alcohol? The fact she’s not eager to get my waste-of-space, Boston College grad body off the planet? When my PCP prescriped 90 Klonopins to hold me over last year, I couldn’t help thinking, “You know how much of an OD enabler you are?”

I would never OD on purpose; But I’ve had far too many nights where I took one Trazodone and……still wide awake….ok bite another in half. Still wide awake as fuck. Ok, take the other Trazodone half while dipping in to the Klonopin stash.That usually does the trick. Many nights I take Klonopin preemptively, knowing that I’m putting a dent in my “controlled substance” stash, but feeling mentally convinced Trazodone won’t do it alone. Seroquel definitely does. At 5’3″, 125, the smallest dose on the market is about THREE TIMES as sedating as I can handle.

No more running for the shelter, of this spinster’s little helper? If my new shrink has anything to do with it, my little helper will be more like shackles to my bed. I’ll be a useless blob.

Strippers are Dorks, Too

December 30, 2012

It’s 3:45AM so this will require a sequel, but let’s be honest. Strippers have to use the same lines over and over again. Here are some of mine; TBC and feel free to share your own lame-ass sales pitches etc in the comments!

“Yes, my red hair is natural, I’m Irish!.”

“I know, you can TOTALLY tell I’m a NATURAL redhead cause my nipples are pink!” (Good call, genius…)

“Ok, well be sure to put me on your dance card for later.”

“Come show me some love at the stage! It’s my ‘tour of duty’/’deployment’ now.”

“I’m an equal opportunity dry humper! You, your friend, whoever….has money.”

“Ok, the bachelor should go first, then who is up for sloppy seconds, thirds, fourths?”

“I totally like it rough on my own time, but you can’t leave evidence on my pasty Irish skin!.”

“You need to take a leap of faith on that VIP room! Have faith in me.” (not giving you an HJ/BJ/FS etc)

“You’re totally about to start saying Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s aren’t you!?” (because my Madonna rosary knocks guys in the face during lap dances and invokes Catholic guilt.)

More to come, but I love exploiting whatever song is on for the lyrics: F.E.: So Hard by Rihanna, loves coming on when I’m doing VIP. It’s better be hard!

Worse Jobs

December 20, 2012

A detective came by a few weeks ago to ask us about an armed robbery at Little Darlings. The perp had walked past our club en route to commiting the crime and he was trying to determine at what point he put his mask on and if it was recorded on security footage in the area.

Little Darlings has a bad reputation and I honestly don’t recommmend any girl work there because it’s dangerous. They are always open the latest, with the sketchiest crowd and I always have customers telling me they were offered $40 blow jobs or “$240 do do WHATEVER you want to me and this other girl in VIP.” If you’re selling it, have some self-worth! So I suspect they have girls with pimps and quotas, working more for volume than price, which anyone in retail knows, is the bottom line.

I can’t help thinking of A Confederacy of Dunces when it comes to, shall we say, customer screening. I always think of the bar owner saying “letting those characters in here will ruin my investment!” Recruiting and filtering customers is the door barker’s job and some are damn good at getting the “right” people in. A club half full of mediocre customers and a decent staff of girls appeals to more prospective clients than an empty, drab look, so we definitely let “filler” guys in to take up space. There’s one really bad alcoholic “regular” who is tolerated during day shift, but the minute he walks in during night shift, he’s walked right back out.

I always eat at this one restaurant en route to work and am pathetically regular, with staff knowing me status. I told my waitress yesterday I wanted her to come into my job so I can “take care of her” as well sometime. She seemed a little shy, but not petrified of strip clubs, admitting “I used to waitress at a strip club and it wasn’t that bad. The worst job I had was cocktailing at the casinos. I saw all the worst things you can see, including people killing themselves.” That moved my morbid core and reminded me why I can only handle Vegas a few days at a time; the climate of desperation and depression is contageous and draining. The main reason I like working on Bourbon is everyone’s in vacation mode; either destination bachelor parties, business conference men eager to exploit their working vacation, and tourists. I’m not dealing with depressing, high maintenance and needy locals who are addicted to venting their problems and putting me in more of a therapist than “entertainer” role.

Disappointing Dick

December 19, 2012

41oTH0ext4L._SS500_[1]Being single, I always have a booty call option or two, but I’m in a mild dry spell.

I hooked up with this college brat the other night and he couldn’t even get his small dick hard. When I’m craving sex, it’s the penetration I’m after. Some raw, animalistic shit instead of feeble foreplay. Go ahead and cum in three minutes, I’d rather get fucked hard and quick than drag it out. So this 21 year old’s failure to deliver some deep dick was a significant let-down.

I could have gotten laid last night (by a customer, always smart, right?) but just stopped being in the mood to be that stupid. I could tell he had a decent cock with no erection issues after several lap dances and VIP, so a mild loss, I guess.

They are doing construction at the club (everyone in New Orlenas is in overzealous “be perfect by the Super Bowl” mode) and one of my managers suddenly looks a bit too good, now that I’ve seen him working tools in sleeveless shirts a few times. But, although I’ve seen girls have drama-free relationships with DJ’s and managers at my club before, I heard this manager isn’t worth fucking! Good to know I’m dodging that bullet, but our Christmas party is tonight and I just might act a fool.

In other news, I’m obsessed with doing a roller girl stage show, because I’ve always loved Boogie Nights and all things 70’s, including disco music. We’ve had awesome stage customers this past week, including a BP oil dude who tipped me $100 simply for fulfilling his request to “shake it” and we do one-woman shows, so I think it’d be a blast. People would surely tip handsomely to see me get to the top of our 18″ pole in those things; I just need to order a new pair that’s lightweight and minimally cumbersome. And I’ll have to get around the fact roller-girl knee high socks are NOT conducive to pole climbing. When I googled grip socks, I just found things for babies, hospital patients and old slip n’ fall types that grip on the bottom, but not up and down the length.

I was so burnt out last night, my desire to have one customer continuously was thankfully fulfilled. The same guy bought me a few drinks, had plenty to talk about, had two lap dances and a VIP room. It killed me to ignore the other customers and I know I could have earned more had I the energy. We had two college football teams that were literally running to the strip club across the street to recruit their friends and get more singles for us. Even as I walked out in my flip flops and sky-high scrunchied bun, a guy stopped me to say “aw, you’re leaving!?”

Anyhow, elaborating on my “themed” stage shows (I already do lots of 80’s music with the Madonna rosary necklace) would be a fun diversion with some ROI. Only problem is people are just tipping at the stage lately, usually they just sit there staring at the free show. And we’ve all seen that other girl who gets rained on standing there doing jack shit cause some dude likes her waist-hip ratio, while you get tipped nada. For once, the crowd lately has been cheering on the fact it is a SHOW, whistling, clapping, getting up from across the room to reward a pole trick….those fuckers who want a bunch of grinding tits in their face interaction are so annnoyingly needy; sure I enjoy giving a little love up close and personal, but I’d rather just be on the pole. And obviously, I don’t enjoy giving you what is esssentially a table tance at the stage for the possibility of a stupid one dollar bill.

Overcompensating Rant

December 18, 2012

I haven’t posted in so long I’m not sure where to begin.

Man, have I done some crying these past few days. And I’ve been misbehaving in general, which I’m compelled to fess up to.

Some frat boy customer and I exchanged pharmaceutical commerce the other night and I wanted to save the Adderrall he gave me for Klonopin to ease my writer’s block. However, last night, I fell asleep at work for the first time ever, felt like a complete nod-off, burn-out, heroin junkie, and squandered by stimulant stash in the bathroom stall. I had to recruit another girl to crush it with my debit card because I’m that amateur at pill abuse.

It honestly worked like a charm, because I was in a zombie state, more worried about when I could go home than hustling, and I ended up being just the right intenstity level of social and motivated, making the most of anyone working last night.

A new girl I get along with and I are fans of tag-teaming guys, so after my VIP customer left, I made my way over to the girl and her customer. And whoah fucking, Nelly! Even 15mg Adderrall and a Red Bull deep, these guys had me out-hypered times a thousand. I found the customer draining to talk to, but the girl was also bouncing off the walls way more than usual and you couldn’t pay either of them to actually complete a thought or finish a sentence.

Lo and behold, this girl is a bipolar mess, too and I ended up having to play babysitter and put her crying ass in a cab whose driver decided to have some empathy. I don’t broadcast my baggage to the managers, but I tend to be honest about my issues with the other girls, because why else would a top 50 college honors grad be stripping as her main source of income? We went out after work and she kept bum-rushing the other bar customers. Everyone was chill, but I had to apologize for her and had one guy say he was embarrassed for her. As was I, and I saw my own behavior from past states of flux in her last night. For a girl who’d had almost a dozen drinks, she sure wasn’t feeling the sedative effect alcohol can have. I often joke that she’s going to be convicted of “manslaughter when I die of alcohol poisoning” because she constantly shoves extra drinks at me.

Which I take. I have not been on the wagon in ages and I’m not proud of it, but I’m also not going to insult your intelligence by perpetuating some kind of self-righteous “in recovery” persona on here. I got sober for a while last year and truly felt, at the time, it would be permanent. Oh well. My original intentions in coming to New Orleans were a bit on the Leaving Las Vegas side, but I’m not that bad off anymore. In fact, the Holiday season was so rough on me last year, I had an impossible time sleeping while maintaining sobreity. Any other drunk knows that “passing out” is often a last resort sleep-aid. Or Seroquel, if you like the idea of never taking a shit again in your life.

The reason I mention this misbehavior is that it loves company. One of my two best friends has gone off the wagon as well and we commisserate by phone frequently. We both have this morbid obsession with self-destruction coupled with a fear of death. I spent hours crying about the victims in Connecticut this weekend, because life is precious and those kids got robbed of so many years. However, I have no particular desire to live until I’m 80+. There are unfinished goals I wish to meet in my lifetime, but if I could magically know how I’ll die know, I’d bet on cancer, cirrhosis or a heart attack by 60. And I’m more or less cool with that.

My fellow alcoholic best friend and I speak freely about not respecting our own bodies, but we also spent ages, the other day, lamenting over an incident that involved other people disrespecting human life. Our High School reunion just passed (I went, she didn’t) and our former class president, a friend of mine who most of my other friends don’t like, did something very insulting. A girl who had a serious form of cancer several years back showed up and another girl literally looked at her like she’d seen a ghost, somehow thinking she was dead. My “friend” decided it was really funny to constantly repeat this ironic anecdote for cheap laughs, which, instead, resulted in my other friend leaving disgusted and several other grimaces.

To add insult to injury, this same girl kept laughing as she said, “oh yeah, who’s the girl that DIED from our grade?” We all knew about one guy who’d commmitted suicide, but she was on a mission to figure out who this anonymous, worthless dead bitch was, like it was some kind of joke. I don’t know who the hell the girl is. I tried to Google her and I don’t feel guilty, because my graduating class had over 400 students, but it turns out she hung herself at 19. The fact my alleged friend found it funny to get the scoop on her gives me a seriously bad taste in my mouth. No wonder nearly all my other friends dislike her strongly.

So while I lack the balls to take my own life, I know firsthand about slow suicide. I used to blog about it but got paranoid and removed some of my more meaty posts. I want to own up to my own misdeeds, but I can never, in a million years, imagine doing something like the Connecticut shooter. I’ve been under the illusion of wanting to die a few times, but I’d never drag others down with me. I have zero maternal insinct, but the moment I saw the picture of the victim with a NY Giants tattoo, the waterworks were running non-stop for hours.

As a head case, I do want mental health to be a part of the cdonversation in the wake of this tragedy, But the media talking heads don’t know what the fuck they’re saying. When they attributed video games, I just rolled my eyes and thought “have we made NO progress in the way of getting in these shooters’ heads since Columbine?” I agree with others who have pointed out sane people can, unfortunately, commit these crimes. But I consider anyone who is suicidal to be, at least temporarily, outside of sane. You don’t necessarilly have to be a clinically depressed person taking Zoloft every day to reach a suicidal state of mind. I just wish he had had the good sense to commit himself; that doesn’t always result in the diagnosis of a mental health disorder, but we all have our ups and downs, and a solid detox, medication regimen and removal from society and access to weapons can really do one good for a while. Considering my recent sexual behavior, drinking and more, I can’t say I won’t be going sometime! For now, at least, the fact my family is under the misguided impression I’m sober means I’ll have a nice relaxing detox over my upcoming Christmas break. Lies can be beneficial to onself sometimes.