I try not to let the positions of the sun, moon, and other planetary objects dictate how I go about my daily life. That being said, there are two things I really try to avoid when there is a full moon: using public transportation and working at the strip club. People get weird. Hipster girls on lesbianic friend dates find their way into the club, act like assholes, and then blog about it.
I’ve never been to Pumps myself, but I can visualize a strip club with the lights on and the music off, the bartender counting out the till, the bouncer placing stools on the bar, and the dancers getting dressed. On a busy Friday night, this might be the first time they’ve all been in the same place at the same time. They can finally ask each other “what was up with those really drunk bitches?” and “did you see when they got kicked out and one of them screamed that she left her scarf and that we’re mean? It was amazing.” And then someone will note that maybe the supermoon brought out such bad behavior from a pair of women who didn’t look like they would be jerks. Some of them would give the two the benefit of the doubt and agree that they are probably nicer people when they’re not doing shots underneath a 14% bigger, 30% brighter moon.
The thought of writing about this makes me tired, but here goes:
Have you ever had a private dance before? They are awesome and after having my first one I am now ready to spend every cent I make on having fancy ladies with complicated shoes rub their butts on me.
Props for this! Nothing wrong with that statement.
I asked for my change in all ones in preparation for Pumps. I told the guy at the wine shop “I’m meeting someone I work with for the first time tonight at a strip club so I need lots of ones. She is kind of like my boss. Oh don’t worry, I’m a writer, not a sex worker.”
See, strippers don’t go around hitting up wine shops in order to have a lot of singles. The club owner gets the singles from the bank. The bartender makes change and gives them to the customers who give them to the strippers. The strippers either cash them in at the bar or take them to a drive-through ATM.
Which brings us to tipping. Offhand, I would say you maybe need to do more of it.
Whether you were actively staring at the girls or not, they would walk up to you, interrupting your conversation if need be (in our case, catching our attention by yelling out “GLASSES!”) and push their tits together indicating that they want you to put money between them. [...] One girl towards the end of the night actually got way rude and tried to say we weren’t tipping the girls enough.
Those greedy hos get your money, we dropped some fat stacks to pay for these hangovers.
Well, which was it? The “greedy hos” don’t typically act “way rude” if you’re dropping “fat stacks.” Sigh, I’m tired already. In the spirit of their piece (sans the mutual masturbation tone), I’m bringing in Elle to finish this post.
“The new version of yuppies are truly the only ones who get a thrill from strip clubs. As a stripper, I see them all the time. All fancied up for a weekend night out with their boyfriend or girlfriend, looking to feel superior by insulting women who are legally making an honest living. Taking pride in harassing strippers is like being proud of snubbing a grocery store cashier, or stiffing a waitress. The night that you bothered to write about is probably already long forgotten in the minds of the women who had to put up with you that same evening.” What she said. And just remember this piece of conventional stripper wisdom: you can tell a lot about a (wo)man by the way s/he acts in an environment s/he thinks is free of consequence.