At The Front Lines of the Patriarchy: Conversations With God in the Titty Bar

“God,” he says, by way of introduction, reaching up to shake my hand. This is his assertion of dominance. A man with money in a room full of hungry whores.

“Goddess,” I respond, pulling my dress down to protect my ass from the roughness of the chair as I sit next to him. My assertion of equality hangs in the air, confidently, between us.

He looks me up and down, taking in the sheer pink babydoll, the stockings, the rhinestone necklace, the art that is finally my eyeshadow after thirteen years of perfecting it. “Obviously.”

Good, we’ve got that straight.

“I’ve got more fucking money than God,” he says.

“Good. I appreciate that in a man.” I do. Money. I just need five thousand more.

“I tell them – wait, see, they give me money. They give me their fucking money and I give them some back. You know? So I tell them fourteen fucking million, that’s what it’ll take, take it or fucking leave it, that’s how it is. I’m like fucking God, they don’t have a choice. God, I’m like fucking God, I can have anything I want. I can buy any of these bitches in a hearbeat.”

“Wow,” I nod slowly. “It’s like your fucking God, huh?” I have a degree in psychology. Not that I need it, but it cracks me up, times like this.

“Yeah,” he nods. “It’s like I’m God. But I’m old. Look at this guy!” He slaps the unsuspecting young man next to him on the shoulder. “He’s young, he’s got that curly hair and look at his big eyelashes! And muscles! This dude has it going on! You should be fucking with him, not an old man like me!”

“You’ve got it going on right now, babe,” I lean in all close. Is he hitting on this kid? Am I seriously losing God’s attention to another man? My cleavage draws him back in. God might be insecure and bisexual, but he’s not gay.

“Goddess. You’ve got it. You’re all that. You’re all that and a bag of chips.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, “I’m all that and a bag of chips.” I don’t even eat chips. Except terra chips, which are awesome, but only when they’re on sale or when I break a grand.

“No, no. You’re all that and a tall drink of water.”

I laugh. How can you not laugh when God calls you all that and a tall drink of water?

God gestures at the woman on stage. “What is this shit? I’m fucking bored. Fucking shit, this is fucking boring. I have more money than fucking God, and this bitch is fucking boring me with this shit.”

Poor God. Soon he fixates on the boy next to him again. He’s so handsome and cute, with big muscles. God’s definitely got some bisexual tendencies. He’s telling the boy that he’s got more money than God and buying us all drinks, drinks, and more drinks. Shots, beer, ladies champagne cocktails. I suck my cranberry and sprite down fast so the waitress can sell another one, another one, another one. I’ll be peeing all night, but it’s my patriotic duty to the titty bar to sell as many overpriced ladies drinks as possible.

“Goddess,” God slurs into my chest. “You’re hot. You’re so hot. You’re going to drain my wallet. I’ve got more money than God and you’re just going to fucking drain it all.” Wow. Has God been hanging out on financial domination websites?

“You’re going to fucking love it,” I tell him. The strip club is the perfect ethical arena for neurolinguistic programming.

“Yeah. You’re a fucking Goddess and your going to drain my wallet.” God, the man with all the power, the man who could buy any of us fucking bitches in a heartbeat, wants to be drained of his money. Of course he does. It’s lonely being God, but without his money he’ll be human. That scary desire at the heart of every man who’s got more money than God.

The problem is that his wallet is empty after this last round of drinks and the twenty that I prompted him to tip the waitress.

When I finally get God to the ATM he can’t figure it out. “This is fucking shit. I don’t know how to work this machinie.”

“Don’t worry, babe,” I say. “I know how to work your money.”

Davka, on the couch nearby, laughs over her shoulder at me.

The ATM only lets you take out two hundred at a time. A serious tragedy for a strip club that doesn’t take credit cards. At the bar he tells the bartender that he has more money than fucking God and I’m a fucking Goddess and I’m going to drain his fucking wallet. She’s innocent, though not inexperienced, and she laughs nervously. I tell him to tip her, and he slips her a twenty. “She’s going to bleed me dry,” he tells her. “She’ll get a couple, three hundred off me, easy. But what the fuck, it’s just money. I have more money than fucking God. What the fuck, it’s just fucking money. Yeah, she’ll bleed a couple, three hundred off me easy. Fucking Goddess.”

“Give me your fucking money,” I tell him. “You know you want to.”

His eyes open a little. He wanted it, but he didn’t expect it.

I laugh. If God wants a money hungry bitch to bleed him dry I’m happy to oblige – why is that a shock?

He slaps his wad on the table. I take a handful of it, laughing. “I’m bleeding you dry, God.”

“Yeah! I’ve got more money than God and you’re fucking bleeding me dry. God. You’re all that, you know that? You’ll get a couple hundred, three off me fucking easy. What the fuck, it’s just money.”

“Come on, God, I’m going to bleed the rest out of you in the VIP room.”

I tell him it’s eighty to touch, and he hands me a hundred, his last hundred. I tuck it into my stockings quickly and slide into his lap as the song starts.

“You don’t have to,” he whispers. “You don’t have to do this.”

I sit in his lap and play with his hair, stroke his face, make faces like I’m going to kiss him, until tears come to his eyes. Yeah, God has some human in him. So I snuggle up and wrap my arms around him and pull his arms around me. “You don’t have to,” he whispers again.

“Hush, I want to,” I tell him.

When we emerge from the VIP room he’s smiling. “You fucking bled me dry, you bitch.”

Happy to oblige, God.

I go to the bathroom to pull the sea sponge from my cunt and rinse it out. I love how the clots get stuck with this clear stuff and you have to kind of pull it off under the water. Really, I have the most beautiful blood clots you can imagine. Goddess, indeed.

Last call is ringing out in the bar, and I’m sitting on the toilet giving birth to blood. I put God in his place, forced out the human in him for a hug, and wound up richer for it. This is how I know I can do anything.


  1. Thank you – my eyes were dry and sore from the fires in the Dismal Swamp until reading this – now they are cleansed and clearer for the crying!

    Goddess – obviously…

  2. This was just beautiful. I’ve been dwelling a lot lately on the healing powers of bodies and of sexuality, so this was really wonderful to read. Thank you.

  3. love from the paso de llama. we love hearing what you’ve been up to. i read most of this one out loud, with funny voices. Brien: “I could just picture her saying that!” come back sometime!

  4. You have done an amazing job of rendering this experience in writing. This is a really powerful, magical piece of prose which everyone who thinks about sex work and sex workers should read.

  5. Long time lurker, never commented before, but you got me. This is a perfect piece of writing. Love it. You worked God.

  6. :mrgreen:
    You are really good at domination. This story made me all tingley. It reminded me of a few customers who act the exact same way. They’re all wealthy Vietnam Vets in Virginia.

  7. This was definitely funny. My favorite part was the twist at the end after you drained his money and then it’s like, ‘back to the bathroom to deal with my period!’

  8. Have you ever worked in D.C.?

    Power-mad power-brokers who want to be “drained”. Love the double-entendre there too, usually men want to be drained of something else. Oh, triple entendre, since you were draining yet another thing afterwards.

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