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!