zero tolerance

Ever since I made the decision to quit the biz, my tolerance for stupid stripper bullshit has dropped to record lows. You know what we are? We’re a bunch of gorgeous women who’ve generally always gotten our way because of our looks. Men put up with our shit because we’re easy to look at. They’ll listen to the drivel that comes out of our mouths, no matter how asinine it might be, because we’re hot. But in the club, we have to tolerate each other’s bullshit, and that can be easier said than done, at least for me. I imagine dumb bitches don’t even notice when other dumb bitches say stupid shit. But I do. I notice.

Exhibit A:

So I’m in the dressing room, on the side that’s basically a walkway smashed between a big row of lockers and the wall, which is covered in mirrors, makeup lights, and lined with a counter and benches. But before you imagine the quintessential shady strip club dressing room, please note that our dressing room isn’t shady at all, it rocks. There’s two big makeup areas with nice lights, about 200 lockers, a table stocked with free food, a bathroom, two showers, a washer/dryer, and all the free toiletries and supplies you could ever need. It’s fucking plush.

Anyhoo, I’ve got my makeup laid out, my phone and flatiron plugged in, my bag on the bench. I go to grab something from my locker, and when I come back twenty seconds later, there’s a tiny, adorable, drunk airhead in my spot. Her locker is directly across the walkway from my shit, so I guess she thinks that place at the counter is just hers. But in reality, you know, the world where the rest of us live, the counter is public space, and I happen to be using it. She’s basically dropped her dance bag, clothes, boots, etc, right where I was sitting. Her fourteenth drink of the day is sitting in front of my makeup.

I walk up, confused, and she goes, “Oh I’m sorry, were you using this spot? I’ll be out of here in like ten minutes, is that okay?” It’ll only take me five to put on my makeup and run the flatiron through my hair. Am I going to wait around while she goes through her drunken getting-dressed routine? Fuck no. Also, she’s got one of those really loud nasally voices that carries really well, especially when she’s wasted. And yeah, she’s wasted. I don’t want to be within thirty feet of her, much less three. I say, “Well dude, I’m kinda already set up right here.” She frowns at me, like this makes no sense to her at all, and says, “Look, there’s plenty of room right there,” pointing down the row of benches etc, “Why can’t you just use one of those spots?” Okay, now I’m pissed. Who the fuck does she think she is? She persists: “Seriously, I’ll just be like five minutes.”

Now, I’m not a very confrontational person by nature. I’ve never hit anybody in my entire life, never even kicked a man in the balls. If I wasn’t at the end of my rope with these dumbasses, would this have been the point where I would have backed down? Maybe. But as previously mentioned, I’ve had it up to here. So I go, “This is public space, and I was here first. I don’t see why I should have to move. Why don’t you go use one of those spots?” Again, this seems to be a foreign concept to her, and she stares at me like I just asked her to solve a polynomial equation or something. Wow. Am I about to get into my first fight? She comes back with, “Look, I’m not trying to cause drama or anything, I just don’t see why you can’t wait, I’m only going to be here like three minutes.” Why does her number keep getting smaller? Oh right, she’s used to lying to get her way. I really don’t want to fight, so I back down. It was really just the principle of the thing, and in five seconds I’ve got my arms full of my stuff, and I’m moving down the row. I toss, “In anthropology, we call that ‘displacement’” over my shoulder as I retreat (one of my favorite references. Such a useful word). Again, this makes no sense to her, and she yells, “APOLOGY?! But it’s really not a big deal!” LOL. Omg. Poor thing is so confused. How adorable.

Fuming, but amused, I plop down next to Cheyenne, who’s like, “WTF was all that?” And I mutter out a brief explanation while drunk bitch is still down there loudly spouting passive aggressive crap about how she really won’t be that long and doesn’t see what the big deal is. I’m nearly done with my makeup when she apparently finishes donning whatever bullshit Ed Hardy inspired street clothes she wears, stumbles down to us, and goes, “See? All done. You can have that spot now.” My goodness, I’ll bet this bitch is downright impossible to date. I raise my eyebrows at her and say, “Um, now I’m set up in a different spot, and I’m almost done. No way I’m moving again.” And again, “Well, I’m not trying to cause drama.” Really? You’re not? Because it sure seems like that’s exactly what you’re doing. But instead of saying that, I just stare at her. When they’re that wasted, you just have to stop responding and eventually they’ll go away. But instead of going away, she puts her arms around Cheyenne, cooing, “Hey sweetie I haven’t seen you in sooo long! Did you switch to nights?” WTF. She’s still in work mode (makes me wonder if she’s ever NOT in work mode), and so she’s faking affection to try and get what she wants. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even know Cheyenne well enough to be hugging her, who goes, “I’ve always worked nights.” “Oh well, I’m on days now, I have good clientele so…” and eventually she leaves. Cheyenne and I stare at each other in the mirror. I go, “Ugh. Do you even know her?” “No. I hate drunk bitches” “Me too” And that’s that.

Exhibit B:

Speaking of being impossible to date, some of these girls really don’t treat their boyfriends very well on the phone, when they’re drunk at the end of their shift and usually fishing for a ride home. The other day I was putting on my makeup and there was this girl sitting down the bench from me, going, “Alfredo. Stop. ALFREDO. Stoooop. Alfredo! STOP.” Like, over and over again. It got kindof amusing after a few minutes, and I started playing marco polo with her. She’d go “Alfredo!” and I’d chime in with, “stop?” Of course she didn’t notice, but we had a good snicker at her expense. “Alfredo. Stop. Where you gonna be when I get off? How come you not answering when I call? Alfredo. Stop.” My point is, when you walk in stone cold sober at 6pm, the girls who’ve been there drinking since 11am can be the hardest to deal with.

Being drunk and ornery isn’t a good way to convince your lover to come pick you up. But it gets worse. I remember one night, there was this chick with alcohol poisoning. I’d seen her earlier in the night, doing all sorts of stupid fruity shots with a big table, hooting and hollering and carrying on, and by 1am, she was done for. She was literally passed out face down in a puddle of her own vomit on the floor of the house mom’s office. They had to clean her up and carry her out into the hallway, and she didn’t budge during this process. Passed out cold. So they’re asking around trying to get her a ride home, and someone mentions calling her boyfriend. Apparently this situation had arisen before, because the house mom goes, “We did. He won’t come get her. This has happened too many times.” Wow. I mean, I don’t even know what else to say, but wow.

Exhibit C:

Oh, this one is the best. Are you ready? You’re not ready.

So the other night, I descended stage six and walked into the dressing room just before there was a fight at the tables nearby. Apparently this stripper attacked a neighboring table and bit a customer. It gets better. So I hear about this crazy girl, you know, the one with pink extensions in her hair, and then at the end of the night, there she is in the dressing room. She’s got a wild look in her eye and she’s singing something incomprehensible at the top of her lungs. I’m walking past her to the house mom’s office to tip out, and our eyes meet as she’s belting out whateverthefuck. I didn’t mean to, but I guess I shot her a weird look, because I mean really, WTF is she doing? She sees me shoot her said look, and starts yelling at my back after I pass, “Yeah, you’re lookin’ at me. You’re lookin’ at me cuz you know I made way more money than you did tonight, right bitch?!” I just spent four hours upstairs making bank, and never even took my dress off, so no, our respective earnings for the night were definitely not the source of the look I shot her. I still have the same wide-eyed expression of disbelief on my face when I get to the office, and the dance manager is sitting there next to the house mom, looking bewildered. I don’t even say anything, but I look at Bob, and poor Bob just goes, “Um. Yeah.” Poor Bob. His job sucks. The dance managers (as opposed to waitress managers, bar managers, general managers, etc) have to switch positions about every six months; it doesn’t take long to burn out on dealing with our bullshit.

I go back to my locker to finish getting dressed and pack up my stuff. Crazy girl is a few lockers down, and has dumped out the contents of her bag all over everywhere, and she’s rooting through it for something while talking shit to her friend. “I’m gonna go up to the DJ and pick up my CD, and you’re gonna watch my stuff. If anything’s missing when I get back, I’m going to fucking cut you.” Whoa. What a great way to treat your friend who is currently doing you a favor. So she storms out, and I turn around to her friend with the same wide-eyed expression. Her friend looks sheepish and simply says, “Sorry.” I’m like, “Don’t be sorry! I feel bad for you, having to wrangle her. WTF is she on?” And the friend comes closer and whispers, “Shrooms.” Ooooooooh holy fucking shit, this just got WAY more interesting. So crazy girl decides to take mushrooms, come to work, and is clearly having a bad trip because she’s biting customers, singing at the top of her lungs, and going all aggro on everyone. Wow.

After that, I took my time packing up, so I could eavesdrop some more. She comes back and starts spouting more nonsense, and I’m sitting cross legged on the floor a few feet away with my back turned, just laughing my ass off and trying not to make it too obvious. By the time I leave, she’s curled up on the floor, bawling. WOW. You really can’t make this shit up. I can’t believe they didn’t fire her.

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