Friday, April 9, 2010

The first of many stripper stories

So, a stripper walks into a bar, dresses for work and clocks in.

Uhm...there's not really a punchline to go with this, as it's sadly NOT a joke. This is a typical weeknight at Xposed in Canoga Park, and I am aforementioned stripper.

Last night - I'm dressed for work, smoking, preparing myself mentally for another grueling night of drunk, greasy, broke, unattractive, men and even broker (sic), but adorable, 18 - 24 year olds.
A stripper and I are discussing (for the second night in a row) the possibility of the existence of the secret society, the Illuminati. The conversation consists of me, the curious skeptic (I am a walking contradiction, this seems to be a pattern with me) and the other, shinier, ditsier, pop-culture diabetic stripper who seems to know all the secrets of the universe. She is called "Sweetness." She is divulging to me, in a cloud of cigarette/marijuana smoke and marshmallow/cotton candy-scented body spray, the secrets of the Illuminati and Free Masons.

As much knowledge as someone on our socioeconomic level is allowed, anyway, but she seems to enjoy portraying herself as someone with money, so of COURSE she knows what she's talking about! She simply MUST!
She seems to be the most versed in the perks one enjoys when joining a secret society, such as not having to wait in line for clubs, shitloads of money, access to this and that, blah blah blah. Super high-class broad, she is.

So I go on stage, am tipped by a man - surprise surprise! But more specifically: middle-aged, probably mid-40's, upper-middle class, business type with salt-and-pepper hair (ugh...I hate that term). Typical Canoga Park businessman douche bag.

Later on I notice on the security cam in the DJ booth that Sweetness is giving salt-and-pepper man a lap dance. Nothing unusual about this - just an observation.

Fast forward thirty minutes - I am scoping the club for poor schmucks to give me their money while I grind on their lap topless or nude for a VERY short period of time. This is what is lovingly referred to as the "lap dance." It's the best source of income for a stripper, and being a girl who doesn't like to waste time, I was utilizing every opportunity to make this concept a reality.
I walk up to the salt-and-pepper man. We're discussing the thing I brought up earlier, you know, the "lap dance" thing. I am inquiring whether or not this brilliant specimen, this shining example of a man, would like for me to perform one for him, but with haste, because we were entering the last moments of the two-for-one lap dance special.
Smiling and reeking of Hugo Boss, he smiled a laser-whitened yuppie smile which shone brighter than the silver chain snaking through his salt-and-pepper chest hair. "Are you gonna let me slip my fingers in your pussy?"
I looked at him with disgust. "Do I have to let you put your fingers in my pussy in order to get a lap dance with you?"
He replied something to the effect of "yes" and I walked off, very slightly irritated but not surprised or fazed. (I then told my manager, because let it be known that I am a tattletale and if you bring your ass to my club and ask for sexual favors I will have you thrown out.)

I then realized that Sweetness, the high-class, intelligent, woman who is so well-versed in the finer things, must have been on the receiving end of some salt-and-pepper fingers very recently...