The Fringes of Society

French Quarter workers are an incestuous bunch and we all know each other. I’m chummy with the guy who runs the Lucky Dog stand at Canal and Bourbon and always say hi on the way home from work. The other day, a guy was accosting me on the street, so I stopped at the hot dog stand to chat and shake my tail. In doing so, I had the pleasant surprise of seeing a guy sucking another guy off for all to so right by the doorway of the Hustler store. The Lucky Dog guy pointed out half a dozen undercover cops standing right on Canal, but I guess they let the guy slide, despite his drug-fueled yelling.

Yesterday, I stopped again, asking for a recommendation on late night food, and ended up chatting away for a while; God knows I needed the fresh air before heading to another indoor venue. A different undercover cop came over to follow up on his crimestoppers report. A convicted murderer woman escaped prison and has been turning tricks about town. She is diagnosed with AIDS, so the hot dog guy called in an alleged sighting, hoping to score reward money.

I see a lot as a stripper, but I can be so blissfully unaware of shit. I ate at Alibi a few nights ago (a late night spot near Penthouse and Acme Oyster House) and saw a Trannie working a drunk guy entirely too hard, but he did leave with her. Two other women came in who looked like possible prostitutes, and the bartender told them to leave on the owner’s orders, so I suppose they’ve been working the venue of $2 beer specials and late-night drunks with no standards a little indiscretely.

The hot dog guy pointed out a shiny, nice car that a guy was getting into saying “that guy’s about to get robbed.” It never dawned on me how all those exceedingly nice pimped out cars with tinted windows that I always see at the lower end of Bourbon, by classy establishments such as Krystal burger, were blatantly soliciting. I don’t have too many guys try and talk to me through those car windows; just on the street, where the steer at a 45 degree angle ’til you can’t duck away.

Way back when, I had a slow day shift where some young dude with grills was trying to turn me out. He promised me a lot, but didn’t tip shit. People don’t really tell you these things when you start stripping; you have to figure it out on your own. So here are some basic survival tips (tips on how to hustle, hold conversation, do eyeliner or whatever can come later):

If customers ask you where to find drugs, don’t tell them. Don’t sell them drugs and don’t sell them fake shit as “drugs” either! You’ll get fired and/or arrested. The longer you strip, the easier it is to tell who is a cop.

If customers ask what they can do in VIP, don’t promise specific sexual acts, even kissing. Selling time is legal, selling sex is not. Last Mardi Gras, a girl from Deja Vu got arrested for saying “we can have fun.” (That example was bullshit, because legal lap dances and good conversation are both “fun.”)

DO NOT GO HOME WITH CUSTOMERS. YOU CAN WIND UP KILLED, WHICH HAPPENED TO A STRIPPER FROM TEMPTATIONS LAST SUMMER, AND SHE WAS NOT THE FIRST. If you want to supplement your stripping income, don’t solicit at work. Research how to become an independent escort and properly vet clients, or research reputable escort agencies, instead of seeing anonymous possible psycho killers, and keep the two jobs separate. If your club is clean, girls will not be thrilled with you “meeting peopole outside.” If your club is dirty, I suggest switching.

Don’t get shitfaced. If you accidentally get too drunk, put your ass directly in a cab and/or get a walk from the bouncer.

Don’t get turned out by a pimp posing as a customer!

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2 Responses to “The Fringes of Society”

  1. Patrick Bateman (@PatBatemanBlog) Says:

    I’m not a stripper but they all sound like good tips! Drunk dancers can’t dance. On the whole. Respect to dancers that can do it sober.

  2. Sex Mahoney Says:

    Also, be careful if you’re near the balcony [http://abcnews.go.com/US/lap-dancing-cleveland-stripper-dies-balcony-fall-donates/story?id=18179731].

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