puppy dog crossed with serial killer

So there used to be a regular named Scott. He weighed about 300lbs, walked with a heinous limp (he had a groin injury that wouldn’t heal because he was too fat to work out/do physical therapy), and he was one of the most socially awkward people I’ve ever met in my life.

Scott was always around, you’d see him at least twice a week. Now he doesn’t come in anymore, and nobody is sad about it. A few weeks ago I was sitting at the bar with Willow and the Aussie, having an epic cackle-filled bitch session, when the subject of Scott came up.

Everyone made the mistake of dancing for Scott at least once. Most of us just the one time; we never understood how dancers could sit with him repeatedly. Here’s what would happen: he’d ask if you wanted to go to the champagne room (he had a VIP membership but was too fat/handicapped to make it up the stairs), which of course we’d agree to, because champagne room usually spells cash money. So you’d get back there, and he’d want to talk for a few songs first. Fine, whatever. Then you dance one song, and he’d want to take a break. Two songs off, one song on, so basically it takes about forty five minutes to make sixty bucks (god, I sound like such a spoiled brat). And of course he knew this, he was trying to monopolize as much of our time as he could for the least possible amount of money. And it’s not like he had anything interesting to say either, and he’s so fucking fat, it’s really hard to dance for him (see “suck it up,” where I describe the mechanics of dancing for the morbidly obese). And he’s just…creepy. I mean, he seems totally harmless, is clearly easy to outrun, and was nice and stuff, but there was just something off about him. Like a puppy dog, but crossed with a serial killer.

So we all made that mistake once. But the thing about Scott was, he just didn’t go away. He’d come in, and even if you didn’t dance for him, he’d still manage to be awkward and creepy and cheap at you. He’d come up to the main stage, and give you one dollar. I’d cringe if he tried to touch me, like nearly gag. To avoid having to touch him (hell, people I’ve never seen before at least get a kiss on the cheek for a dollar), I got to the point where I’d just walk up, crouch down to take the dollar out of his hand, thank him, and stand up and keep dancing. And of course, that made me look like a total bitch to any of the potential paying customers who might happen to be watching the interaction take place.

But you know what? After the bare minimum tipping ritual occurred, Scott wouldn’t just leave the stage like every other customer does, he wouldn’t go back to his seat (he never sat at a table, so he didn’t have to buy a drink). No, Scott would stand there, at the edge of the main stage, under the lights and right where everyone was supposed to be directing their attention, and watch. For the entire song. Sometimes the next song as well. He’d just stand there. Not only was it creepy, but it probably shooed away other tippers as well.

It was so fucking annoying.

Here’s what would happen next: he’d show up at the second stage in the rotation, and the same thing would go down. And the next stage. So basically he’s spent three dollars, and gotten to be in close proximity to a naked chick who doesn’t want to touch or talk to him. I wouldn’t engage him in conversation because I figured that would only encourage him, but the side stages are a helluva lot smaller than the main, and it got increasingly awkward to try and ignore someone who’s standing three feet away instead of ten.

You weren’t safe anywhere in the club unless you were moving (like I said, he’s easy to outrun, and his limp is so telltale, you can spot his gait from across the club). If you were sitting at the bar, or standing there talking to anyone but a customer, he’d come and stand right behind you, or next to you, not say anything, and wait for you to acknowledge him so he could engage you in bullshit smalltalk and you could try and keep him from touching you (keep in mind, he wasn’t gropey, he was just so creepy that even a pat on the arm was like OMG DON’T TOUCH ME). He did the same thing to all of us. The Aussie told a story about how she was sitting at the bar, talking with another dancer, when he pulled his hover maneuver (although, maneuver is a bad word to use in conjunction with Scott. He’s so awkward in so many ways, I can’t imagine him maneuvering anything). She had to be purposefully rude to make him go away: “Hi great to see you but we’re in the middle of a conversation ok bye!”

So that’s Scott. Scott doesn’t come in anymore. Maybe he had a heart attack. Although probably not, because he keeps trying to friend me on FB. Nobody misses him.

Cold, right? I know. I have a ton of stories like this, that I’ve been withholding because it kindof seems like bad publicity. But I don’t care anymore, I’m three months away from quitting, and the gloves have come off. I’m not going to hold back my honest uncensored opinion anymore, just because I’m afraid of the income hit. I’ll make what I make. Dammit, I’ve learned some serious shit in my five years in that club, and I’m going to lay it all out for you before I’m gone.

Home stretch. More to come.


  1. considering i've read the blog since you started i should probably come in before you quit and see you in your jungle habitat

  2. okay well, i'm going to overlook the fact that that's a tiny bit creepy, and say yes, you can feel free to give me your money. p.s. we have security guards?