A good night, and what really offends me…

The men looking for hookers seem to have worn off (I’m told it’s just a Monday/Tuesday thing), and there’s a whole new breed of customer that loves me. Last night three got into a bit of a bidding war over me. On stage, all three came up and asked me for dances. I told all three to go pay the bartender and she would set it up. Two did, and the third bought me a drink. So I get offstage and tell the guy who paid second that I have to do a dance for another gentleman and I’ll be right with him, and drink man thank you and I have to do dances for two other gentlemen and I’ll be right with you. The first guy ends up getting six dances, and then he wants to have a drink with me. Sorry, but I gotta dance for the next gentleman and then I have another drink waiting for me. Drink guy is still waiting and I advise him to buy dances from the bartender. Second dance guy and I get about five dances in and then I have to go onstage. Meanwhile, drink guy and first dance guy have both paid the bartender for five dances each. Dances are hard work. One dance isn’t really, but ten dances in a row, followed by stage, followed by more dances… well, I sweated off my waterproof eyeliner. And I didn’t have time to pee. When I finally did make it to the bathroom I’d forgotten that one guy had been tipping me during our dances and I’d just shoved the money in my thong rather than interrupt our dance to unstrap and restrap the wad of cash in my garter, and, yeah… I pulled my thong down and almost lost a bunch of twenties in the toilet. Luckily they fell on the floor.

Somewhere in all this, towards the begining when I still had time for things like peeing, Mr. Shiny Black Shirt came up to the stage and threw a few dollars on it and then walked away to stand back and watch me. Then he paced a bit and threw a few more dollars on the stage. Now, in a town like this a man in a shiny black shirt is rare. Hell, a man with a clean shirt is rare. My stripperella money radar was going off in a huge way. Mr. SBS kept pacing around and throwing money on the stage for a while, and then finally he came up to the stage and stood there long enough for me to get to him. As he tucked the dollar into my garter he gave a wry smile and said, “God, I hope you’re at least in college.”

Now I’ve been back in civilization and strip clubs for long enough to be able to handle almost any conversation. So I laughed and said, “oh, been there, done that… why, are you in college, hon?” He’s too self absorbed to notice my slightly condescending tone, and brags that he has three college degrees. Oh, me too, me too baby. Hell, I have two bachelors and a masters (not true at all, but in stripping, like hitchiking, you can say whatever you want). Ah, he says, now you just need to find a job. I giggle again. Oh no, jobs are against my religion, and I dance away.

I have a morbid curiosity about people like this. Really, I want to know what the hell they are thinking. So after a while I went and sat with him. He informed me that at least I have an education to fall back on when I’m someday forced into the real world.  As if rich white men like him have a monopoly on defining reality. Then he launched into a half hour monolog designed to support his big unwieldy ego. See, he used to work for the government killing people in South America. Not just any people, he killed very important specially chosen people. Now he just helps them out sometimes and he prefers to think of himself as kind of a private invester. You know, a silent share in a few companies, a couple apartment complexes, that kinda thing.

Now I’ve met a few of these guys who were special ops in South America back in the day, and wow. They’ve all been very messed up with these fragmented identities and huge burdensome egos that they defend at all costs. The only one who had the opportunity tried to kill me once. When the cops got there he went into dramatics about how they better shoot him before he shot them, etc. (he didn’t have a gun. he didn’t get shot. he paid me a lot of money to not press charges and I moved across the country.)

So. As soon as I can get a word in edgewise I tell Mr. SBS I hafta get back to work. But he hangs out all night, talking to anyone who’ll listen about how important he is. Did I mention that he couldn’t get a lapdance because of Eve and a snake? At the end of the night, he’s still there. The bartender has managed to get everyone out except for him. He sends the bartender back to the dressing room with a twenty dollar bill for me and a note saying he’d like to have lunch. Right.

I tell the bartender to keep him occupied and I slip out the back door and into the van. I start for the alley that feeds into another alley, but there’s a car coming down it so I have to take the other alley that comes out right in front of the club where Mr. SBS is getting into a car with another man. They are going left. I turn right and Mr. SBS is gone from my life, at least until tonight.