manipulators and assholes part deux

last night i met a different breed of manipulator/asshole. on the 2nd stage, two guys who were sitting together each came and tipped me about 10 bucks each. having just concluded a dinner-and-some-dances encounter with one of my favorite regulars, doug, i was doing pretty well considering it was still early. that first stage set is usually pretty boring, and having 100% of a table come up and express interest is more than enough to bump them up to the top of my post-stage priority list.

so i finish dancing for dollars and go to sit with them, they're nice enough, and keep talking about going upstairs. i should have recognized the warning signs: when guys just TALK about going upstairs but nothing happens, this either means they're undecided or dicking the girls around. after last night, i'll assume the latter to be true whenever this happens again.

so i spend about an hour sitting with them, being altogether charming and supportive of their supposed-willingness to ascend to VIP. my friend rhiannon (who's an archer when she's not a stripper--how awesomepants is THAT?!) joins us, things are looking good. these guys tell a story about the last time they went up to VIP, an occasion in which their membership was revoked. apparently they had been sitting downstairs with some girls, one of whom promised she'd do "x for x amount of money" once upstairs. they go up, she doesn't do "x" but still demands "x amount of money." they refuse to pay up, as she doesn't pony up the goods (whatever that means), and she gets pissed and tells our head manager, mike, who then accosts them, kicks them out, and calls the cops. the next time they come to the club they discover the membership has been canceled.

now, like any good stripper, i'm taking their side in this story. not only am i appalled that some chick in my club is promising to do illegal things upstairs (my club prides itself on being VERY clean, and the main reason i wanted to work there was so handjobs wouldn't be the standard of service), i'm appalled that she flipped the story around when tattling on them to mike, and i'm surprised that mike didn't tell her off instead of them. generally speaking, managers do everything in their power to ensure the customers don't leave with a bad taste in their mouth, so to speak. girls will get fired for giving blowjobs upstairs, but the customers who received them are welcome to return. thus, i'm pretty shocked that having heard their side of the story, he kicked them out AND called the cops. we're all curious as to who the girl was, but they can't remember.

well, rhiannon and i waste about an hour trying to figure out if these guys are going to take us upstairs, and eventually get dismissed when they tell us they're going down the street to babydoll's (where handjobs (or gods know what else) are most decidedly the standard of service). back in the dressing room, rhiannon says, "i was that girl." my jaw DROPS, especially when she tells me HER side of the story. apparently the guy i was sitting with immediately demanded a blowjob upon reaching the VIP room, and when she refused, he pulled his dick out. she goes, "you just forfeited your money," and went and told mike. she and i had a good laugh about them not remembering her.

i saw their happy asses at the same table an hour later. so much for babydoll's, i guess they "just weren't that into us." but hey, thanks for wasting an hour of my time making me think we're going upstairs. nice, dude, real nice.


in the end, it didn't matter. i found a very pleasant man who was just drunk enough to be cajoled into going to the bubbly room and paying me hourly. i walked with almost a grand, and got some blog fodder. go stripper, go!


manipulators and assholes

one of the things i first learned from working in the strip club is, "everyone comes here for different reasons." there's a huge variety of motivations--some guys are blowing off steam after work, some are partying on business trips (those are my favorite), some are actively searching for a gf/wife, some are actively searching for a gf with whom to cheat on their wives, some are just straight up lonely, some are bored and have too much money, and some don't have lives outside of business travel and so they need easily accessible friends like us. to name a few.

most guys are nice, some don't know what they're doing, some have no idea what's going on, but some guys do--and some guys use that knowledge to manipulate us.

i had the misfortune of meeting one such manipulator shortly after i began working at the club. i call him donny the perv--yes, his real name is donny (he doesn't deserve anonynimity, not even here), and i don't mean perv in the sexy, tie-me-up-and-degrade-me sort of way.

recognizing me as a newbie, he took advantage of me: the first time i sat with him, we chatted for a while downstairs before he invited me up to VIP. there, he repeatedly tried to get in my pants (er, g-string), distracted me from dancing--which totally sucked, because when i got called onstage, he told me he'd give me my money during my set. so he comes up to the 2nd stage and hands me 40 bucks. even being as green as i was, i knew i deserved more. i had spent over an hour up there with him, fending off his advances and listening politely to his self-indulgent drivel. he said, "oh, but i only pay for dances. and you only danced twice." what a fucking asshole, intentionally trying to cheat me out of my time. all VIP customers know the score (we either get hourly or we count dances, and drawn-out conversation with dances means hourly, or at least a hefty tip), and he failed to mention he only paid for dances until after i had squandered an hour with him. had i known beforehand, i would have been dancing that entire time. i know what you're thinking--i'm an idiot. so what? i was new. there's not a fucking worker's manual for this shit, people. if you're lucky, stripperwisdom can be passed down through a mentor. if you're like me, and didn't make any friends until after a year in the business, you learn your lessons the hard way.

even if he'd mentioned he only paid for dances, he probably wouldn't have let me do more than 5 dances, since he's apparently a monumental cheapskate. and even though that incident absolutely incensed me, i learned an important tidbit of stripperwisdom: feel out the money situation before you waste your time. there have been a few occasions since that initial incident where i trusted my gut and didn't bring up money, and that ended up being a VERY good thing. but for the most part, i always make at least some small mention of payment before i invest an hour in a customer.

but i digress. donny the perv continued to accost me after that, usually when i was sitting at the bar having an early shift meal, an easy target. i still see him around, over 2 years later--last week he pissed me off royally. i was, as mentioned, sitting at the back bar having dinner and chatting with some girlfriends, and this motherfucker starts bothering me. every time i encounter him, he never fails to touch me in a way that pisses me off--not groping me or anything, but even worse--he pokes and pinches my sides. anyone who knows me for more than, say, two weeks knows my sides are *really* sensitive. if you even reach out like you're ABOUT to pinch me, i'll throw an elbow without thinking about it. donny knows this. he does that shit on purpose now, just to get a rise out of me so he can get all defensive--"what did i do? i didn't even touch you!"--fucking asshole.

another nasty habit of donny's is making presumptuous comments about my life (this happens alot when you're a stripper, but he's especially bad). one day about six months ago i decided, for some unknown reason, to work a 4 to midnight shift, thinking i'd make some early happy hour cash and end up staying until 2. this was not the case. at 4pm, there were two tables in the club. donny and a male friend of his were one of them, and were accompanied by a girl i could get along with. i thought, what the hell, maybe his friend isn't as big of a cheapskate, and sat down with them. well, pretty soon the friend left, and the girl got fed up with donny's shit. so there i am, sitting alone with him, when the most assinine, rude, and offensive stuff starts coming out of his mouth. he asked about school, i re-explained my women's studies program for probably the fifth time, prompting him to say, "oh, you're not a feminist." excuse me, misogynist fucktard? I'm not a feminist?! strike one.

strike two: "if he really loved you, he wouldn't let you do this for a living." no, i'm sorry, fucking assholes like YOU wouldn't let me do this for a living. thanks for trying to delegitimize my relationship, even though i happen to know i'm one of the girls who's lucky enough to find men who are fully supportive of my work.

strike three: "you're too smart to be doing this." what?! fuck off. how DARE you put down my coworkers? 90% of the chicks working in that club at LEAST have great street-smarts, and i can honestly say that most girls (at least at my club, admittedly high-end) are smart as hell. it takes brains to morph one's personality, and it takes mental armor to sluff off the emotional baggage that comes with being repeatedly rejected throughout a shift.

after three strikes, i stood up and walked off, since i would rather sit in the dressing room (which does not, unfortunately, yield income) than deal with donny's psychological abuse. walking off felt great. fucking asshole.

here's the kicker: donny has pictures of pussies on his phone. doesn't sound so bad? he's got dozens. he collects them from bitches who are stupid enough to let him digitally immortalize their cunts. still doesn't sound so bad? he's invented classification categories for his pussy pictures. he explained it to me once, i'm pretty sure his categories have to do with labia size and symmetry, but i can't remember exactly. the funniest part about it is, he doesn't have the imagination to come up with actual descriptors for his categories, so he just gives them numbers: "this is a 2. see how one side of her inner lips peeks out between the outer lips?" wtf.

now ask yourself, why would this guy have a collection of pussy pictures? they're not very good masturbation fodder. i mean, they can't be more than a megapixel or two, and it's just a cunt. i don't have a cock, but i'm pretty sure it takes more than a blurry picture of some labia to induce an orgasm. then again, maybe not. guys sure can be easy.

here's what i think: he collects pussies because he feels like he owns them once they're on his phone. he's obviously a control freak, as evidenced by his psychological warfare. also, i think his categorization tendency is the same mindset that propels other rich, white men to do things like write encyclopedias. "this is all the useful information in the world, we control it because we decide what goes in these books, we can categorize things because we are higher up on the food chain." in grad student speak, donny thinks he has epistemic power over the cunts in his phone because he classifies them.

did i mention i love wikipedia? non-heirarchical knowledge orgy FTW.

oh right, the reason i'm writing about donny today. so last night, on my way back into the dressing room to "go put on some lip gloss or something" before my stage set, i encountered donny the perv leaning against the back bar, nearly blocking the entrance to the dressing room. it was the first time i've been in proximity to him since he ruined my meal a week ago, so i wasn't exactly going to be polite. he pretended to block my path, before stepping aside and saying something smart, i don't remember exactly what. if a bartender hadn't been standing next to him at the time, he probably would have said something vulgar. i wasn't going to be polite, but i wasn't going to be overtly rude either--so i walked past without saying anything. he probably thinks i shot him a dirty look, but frankly, a lot of people think i look pissed off when i'm not (tell me to smile. i dare you).

i guess he took that as an affront, because he decided to fuck with me when i was on the mainstage a few minutes later. he walks up to the stage, money in hand, i mentally chuckle--shit, maybe he's a masochist and i have to be a bitch in order for him to want to give me money. or maybe he's just childish and ignoring him only makes him demand more attention.

i began sautering over to where he had paused at the front of the stage, but oh no. donny was playing a trick on me. he held the money up, but kept walking once he saw me notice him. that fucker faked me out. i smiled to myself, seeing right through his passive aggressive bullshit. donny's silly little plan backfired, because my mood levitated with the knowledge that he actually expelled mental energy on a childish plan designed to upset me.

and you know what? his money's no good here anymore. i don't want a tip from him--i'd rather tie him up and watch a drag queen crumple up those two dollars and forcibly insert them into donny's white, republican, presumptive, stripper-hating rectum. without lubricant.


security clearance

i *really* didn't want to go to work last night, but since i didn't go the night before, them's the breaks. i pull up, and as i always do, i scan the customer parking lot--nearly empty. on a mediocre-->halfway decent night, there are at least 15 or 20 cars. tonight? less than 10. (i should really scan the valet lot instead, as that is a much better indicator of how many VIP members are in the club, but i don't. guess that's why i'm not on the A-Team).

either way, a relatively empty parking lot is not what you want to pull up to when you don't want to be there in the first place. plus, i'd literally been trying to psych myself up for this shift all day--the only thing that made me look forward to it in the FIRST place (other than making my rent and bills for next month, so that i may go back down to austin for a holiday weekend) was discovering a much-beloved item of stripperware in a random spot with all my burn event costume stuff. oh yeah baby, that g-string with the 3 ft long straps that i crisscross up my torso 3x? it's back.

so let's just say my hopelessly pessimistic attitude paid off immediately. i lucked out bigtime--either that, or i was just really smart about it. probably both. . . . nah, i just lucked out. fortune struck early when i second-guessed myself and accosted a nice looking man as we crossed paths; i usually don't talk to people if they're actively seeking out another area of the club, but after about 8 seconds, i'm upstairs doing an hour and some change of nearly constant dances. while all the other girls are talking to anyone and everyone they can, trying to get a dance or two before moving on, i'm knocking out several hundred dollars in one go. that felt *great*. what's more, that customer was waiting for a girl when i found him, and we were only supposed to do the few songs left before she was available, but i charmed my way into milking him of all the cash he'd intended to spend on her. what's MORE, the chick he was waiting for? that bitch has actively double-crossed TWO of my friends in the last few months. seriously, i used to think this girl was so sweet, but after hearing recent stories from my closest and most trusted friends in the club, i was happy to earn the money she expected to get from him.

i know. that's so classic-stripper-backstabby of me. but you know what? times are tough. the fucking economy collapsed, if nobody noticed--and while it may not be affecting our business TOO much (most people who could afford to come to our club before the bottom fell out of the market still can, it's mainly just the amateurs who are out of the game now), i've definately heard more complaints about bitches pulling stupid backstabbing bullshit in the last month than my 2.5 yrs in the business up to this point. total. combined.

in my eyes, it boils down to this: the bitches without scruples who are accustomed to breaking $1000/night are finding it more difficult to do so these days, so they're pulling bullshit on their comerades. in a transitory business like this, friends are difficult to make. but comeraderie? shit, we got that in spades. that dressing room is a place of solidarity, first and foremost. sure, there are cliques, but generally we all have a pretty good time. people like to work with their friends, but at least some minimum level of mutual respect is maintained--like, say, not going and sitting on a customer's lap when another girl is sitting next to him--and lately, even that least-common-denominator-sisterhood doesn't exist on the floor.

anyhoo, after i delighted in stealing someone's customer (though not from right in front of her very tits--i'm way too non-confrontational to ever do that), i regrouped in the dressing room for a minute, before heading out one of the three exits and onto the floor. the guy sitting closest to the exit i chose was who i stayed with for the rest of the night. i literally had to talk to three people before i found the two i made all my money from. on a slow monday, that's pretty remarkable.

so, this last guy was awesome. he was paramilitary, literally guarding the man sitting across the table, who didn't look a day over 25. all i'm allowed to say is mr. important government man was coming from the DC area, and my dude was based out of the DFW area. "just enough information to still be able to tell a story," he said. we chatted for a few minutes before i started dancing, taking breaks to talk some more, more dancing. nice balance--i still make money, but i'm not hounding him for hourly or something (because frankly, there wasn't much hourly cash to be made last night). and oh, i had such a great time talking with him. it's really rare that i meet military people who are, well, super fucking smart. we avoided the subject of politics, but of course i made him regail me with war stories.

AND he gave me tips on how to focus one's attention while being restrained and tortured. yay! i know those will come in handy one day when i'm tied up. kindof like the way i know that if i make it through my two bathroom books, "the worst case scenario handbook," and "the action heroine's handbook," someday, something from those books will save my life--or somebody else's.

all in all, pretty awesome shift. it's a great feeling, putting on my clothes at the end of the night, hearing girls complain about making 40 bucks--because i'm not part of the A-Team, i'm not accustomed to making $1000/night, so when i have a decent shift on a below-average shift? bad. ass.


sometimes, i really love my job

well, i mean, i usually love my job. with rare exception, i make "enough" money, i.e. more than i would have made at my previous gig as a beer wench. it's always interesting, always entertaining in some way, and usually quite pleasant. i have burnt out moments, shifts, and weeks...but for the most part, it's okay.

i'm writing this to remind myself, during those burnt out moments, just how awesome it can be.

last night was a dream.

i got in early, needing to make a pile in 3 shifts this week, so i can take the next 10 days off and go to austin for halloween, election day, and other festivities the following weekend. starving, i sat at the bar and treated myself to a greek salad with chicken, and a tasty adult beverage. i finished my meal, chatted with a coworker for a minute, before spotting a dorky, eccentric-looking, well-dressed fellow at the ATM. timing my approach so as to catch him as he was exiting the money-dispensing cubbyhole, i turned on the charm and wit. and oh boy, did i meet my match in this guy. within 3 minutes i was becoming somewhat overwhelmed at his intelligence, quickness, and humor, and literally had to sit down.

so we sit. i hear my name 4 girls up on the list, giving me about 20 minutes (at 2 song sets) to charm this guy into buying me offstage. we go upstairs "to do some dances", i mention something about having to be up in a few, to which he replies, "oh well, we won't worry about that." he buys me off, doesn't indicate that i should even think about taking my dress off, and seems to know the waitress and VIP manager really well. when he calls the house mom (a fantastic, amazing, retired feature dancer) to come up for a glass of wine as her day shift is ending, i start to get the feeling that i might have stumbled onto something big.

the house mom stayed for probably 90 minutes, with our waitress (who also happens to be one of my favorites, the one i suggest to customers whenever possible) and the VIP manager (also a retired dancer, and literally my favorite manager) popping in and out to join in on the conversation. i still haven't taken my dress off, we're drinking, we're snacking, and i know that i'm getting paid for all of this. in fact, at the point where he's got good relationships with these people that seem to span at least a decade in some cases, i know i'm set. these savvy women would not like this guy so much if he was a cheap bastard who screws girls out of money. so i don't mention anything about it.

the night wares on, he buys me off stage again, we get some privacy eventually and mess around a bit, but he never crosses the boundaries of club rules (which are the strictest in town, and people get canned all the time for disobeying). the conversation never stalls once, i don't have to conceal my political views, this guy is hilarious, engaging, interesting. at one point it comes out that he recently purchased a giant corporate law firm, where one of my ex's used to work. (oh, the irony.)

the club begins to initiate shutdown procedure, he orders me credit card "funny money", again, nothing has been discussed. he tells the waitress, "you know how much to put down" on the order slip.

it turns out to be a thousand bucks.

i mean, it's not 3 or 400 an hour (the standard VIP rate), but for the entire night? of literally being as entertained by this guy as he is by me? for someone smart, polite, humorous, and liberal? shit. that's a fucking dream shift. i barely took my dress off, i never went downstairs, i had fun hanging out with some of my favorite coworkers, and i banked.

sometimes, i really love my job.


"i always wanted to see that waitress naked!"

when people i know from the "real" world come into the club, funny shit always happens--especially if they didn't expect to find me there.

the first time this happened, it was a guy about my age whom i used to wait on at my previous job as a beer wench. that was back when i worked the day shift, and he had come in with some of his work buddies for a bite and some eye candy. i spotted him just before i had to go up for a set, sitting, of course, right in front of the main stage. i was nervous. but i quickly learned that being discovered in a strip club by someone who knew you before you were a stripper is almost ALWAYS more embarrassing for them than it is for you. customers have a lot of shame, too. and rightfully so--after all, they're also participating in this seedy underbelly of a social microcosm--but the only difference is, they're the ones blowing their cash on expensive, sexualized entertainment; at least we make piles of money in exchange for soiling our reputations.

anyhoo, so i get up onstage, he sees me, i give him a shit-eating grin. in classic biggest-bang-for-my-buck, typical-lunch-crowd form, he waited until my second song and i had taken my clothes off to come up and give me a dollar. i went and hung out with him for a few minutes after i got off stage, at which point he informed me that his first reaction to seeing me up there was, "holy shit! i always wanted to see that waitress naked!"


in fact, many of the "real" world people i've encountered in my club have known me from my gig at the bar. there was the lawyer, who's now dating one of my friends. there were tons of people who just looked familiar (and when i can't place where i know someone from, it's usually the bar. this is a bit more of a loaded sensation, now, walking through the grocery store, wondering if that guy who looks familiar has seen me naked). there was the husband of one of my professors (but again, i knew them before she taught me a class in grad school, from waiting on them). THAT was a funny one. it was a busy week night, and he looked like he had been dragged there by his work colleagues. i had spotted him before my set, sitting right up against the main stage with a big group. i walked out for my song, pointed right at him, and said, "hey, i know you!", much to his embarassment. a paralyzed-animal-in-floodlights expression came across his face, and he looked down into his drink like it was a time portal that could hopefully dispatch him from this hostile environment. his friends erupted, and quite a few of them came and tipped me, at which point they found it all the MORE hilarious when i told them his wife taught me a class in grad school. in women's studies.


then there was the rockstar wannabe, whom i had one of my top 3 worst sexual encounters with. ever. again, i met this guy in the bar, gone out for drinks with him the next week, and back to his shitty apartment, whereby he proceeded to fuck me in the most boring ways, with a semi-hard cock, on a futon. a futon he didn't even bother turning into a bed. that was during one of my boyfriendless sport-fucking phases, an early one, during which i failed to glean any quality partners and just became more sexually frustrated. anyhoo, so, 4 years later, here he is in the strip club. with a mixed group. i initially thought one of the hot chicks with them was going to turn out to be his girlfriend, and then i was going to delight in getting him in trouble by casually referring to "that night we hooked up" (if you could even call it that). alas, such was not the case, however i did get to dance for him, and made sure to really turn on the sexy. his dick got harder during that 3.5 min song than it EVER did in the 20 minutes i let him try to fuck me when i was 22. priceless.

like i said before, it's got to be the lights. my stripper aura just did it for him. not surprisingly, while "real" world acquaintences make for funny anecdotes and friendly conversation in a club full of strangers, they're not worth much money. they're in awe of the aura, perhaps, but they've seen the real person behind the slutty costume and the club persona, and they're not buying it. at most i get a dance out them, for novelty's sake.

when i have actual friends come into the club, sometimes they'll throw me some cash (since they know i'm still at work), but generally i just hang out at their table, let them buy me drinks, tell funny stories about the girls onstage, answer questions about my work, and recruit my hot (and anonymous) friends to dance for them. in order to spend serious amounts of cash on a stripper, it helps to not know her first. while i've gotten to know some of my regulars quite well, and had conversations with a few of them that were downright intimate, the fact remains they met me in the club. i had no pre-existing subjectivity, so they may project upon me whatever they like.

either way, strip club/"real" world crossovers never fail to be entertaining. i guess it helps that i'm not ashamed of what i do, and not concerned with anyone finding out. it'd be much worse if i was closeted or something.


promises and hookups

i work in a high end club, and thus get a lot of high end customers. super rich fuckers with the black diamond amex, car collections worth more than some GDPs, and the reckless and/or tightwad spending habits that come along with those traits. building rapport with guys like this (and other generous, successful-but-not-necessarily-super-loaded dudes) can glean any and all manner of gifts: vacations, plastic surgery, cars, houses. while i have girlfriends who've been gifted those big-ticket items, so far the only perks i've received are plane tickets and hotel rooms bought with business travelers' excessive airline points, and extra cash. but oh, the promises. "is there anything i can do for you?" is a question that makes my stomach do a little flip when i hear it in the VIP room. "sure, you can pay off my student loans."

but that never happens. i think it's the lights. i think the surreal, casino-like environment (no windows or wallclocks, labrynthian layouts that make it difficult to exit the building, especially when intoxicated), augmented by decor and lighting, contributes significantly to the Stripper Aura. and the Stripper Aura is probably what makes men want to promise us fancy, shiny things: because in there, we are larger than life. i swear it's the lights.

anyhoo, so last night i encountered the 3rd bachelor party whose company i've actually enjoyed. generally speaking, working bachelor parties (or saturday night at all, ever) is like going out on new year's eve: it's amateur night. usually it's a bunch of dudes standing around holding their dicks (no, not literally), paying one girl at a time to dance for the bachelor, using their groupthink dynamic to make fun of strippers, or using us to make fun of each other, or just straight up making fun of each other. they're not worth much money, they're hostile, there's at least one guy who's a total douchebag, and one guy who REALLY doesn't want to be there, and...well, let's just say i don't like working bachelor parties. this is why i don't work on weekends--i like the business travelers that populate our wing-backed chairs on tue/wed/thur. they're way more polite.

but the guys last night? oh man, they were awesome. pleasant, good-natured, hilarious bunch, most from the bride's extended family, and most of whom worked for the patriarch and the son-in-law, who--wait for it--own a premium jeans company. uh huh, that's right. and they're bringing me jeans (as long as i tell anyone who asks how to buy them), they want to bring me to trade shows and get me free samples of stuff, make me their vegas booth girl so i can rub elbows with fashionistas, and--wait for it--drive the new porsche 911 on the local speedway next week. one of them likes fast cars, and supposedly received enough speeding tickets that require him to go to court, and has been invited to try out the new german rocket on the track. and he wants me to come. and drive.

vroom vroom, indeed.

but alas, this one still resides in the "promises yet to be fulfilled" column, though i am going to do my very very hardest to try and move it over to the "oh fuck yeah i get fashion hookups and get to drive 2x as fast as i've ever driven before" column. i've already sent text messages to my two girlfriends who are seemingly the most adept at getting guys to buy them things: one of them received TWO cars for her birthday, back in her vegas days; the other just bought a house and managed to furnish the entire thing without spending a dime of her own money. both of them have never paid for washer/dryer sets. how does that HAPPEN?! i'm not nearly on that level *yet, but gods dammit, i'm going to do my very best to get there before my stint in this crazy business is over.

let's hear it for fancy jeans and fancy cars! wheeeeee confetti!


falling onstage

i knew it was bound to happen eventually; falling onstage is practically a mathematical certainty. frankly, i was surprised it had yet to happen...but after 2 years, 5 months, and 12 days in the business, i did it. i checked that box.

i fell onstage.

not just on "stage", which implies that there's only one--oh no, i fell on STAGE. like, on the big, shiny, main stage, about 5 seconds after i was announced, and not even twirling.

no, i was not attempting a super-extra-double-hard move on the international ho-bag degree of difficulty scale. i was not spinning, kicking, sliding, sashaying, or what the fuck ever--i was walking. walking. in new shoes. i blamed--and will continue to blame--the shoes. what the hell made me think it was okay to suddenly graduate to a platform, albeit a single inch? who approved the decommissioning of my training wheels? and who let me go up after i jinxed myself by telling the ladies in the dressing room that i was "not going to fall in the new shoes"? (uh huh, i said that. about 15 seconds before i fell.)

(oh yeah, right--nobody. because i'm an independent contractor, and i answer to no one! how silly of me to forget.)

but hey, it could have been worse: the club could have been 90% full (it was more like 75%--and they all stopped talking at once, lemme tell ya); i could have hurt myself, or fallen off the stage (as it happened, i went down rather gracefully onto a knee. i have not a bruise to show for it. too bad); i could have not been a good sport (i raised my arms in victory, received applause); and i could have been ignored afterwards--but suddenly the edge filled up with my girlfriends laughing at me and high fiving me, and pleasant customers cracking jokes (and everyone gave me money. the "pity tips" actually made for a damn good take on an early-evening stage set, for me at least).

so i changed into my backup shoes, resolved to teeter around my apartment in the new ones for another few weeks before i have the guts to sport them at work (emphasis on the sport, of course), and went about my shift. hell, at least they have nifty chrome heels, it'll give me greater incentive to train myself to wear them again. because everything i own would be chrome, if i had the cash.

in the end, my silver shoe debacle did garner a monumental silver lining: it was the final kick in the ass to start the stripper blog i've been meaning to begin for months. hooray for clumsy catalysts! hopefully my next entry will be about how i shattered my record income for a single shift.