When strippers start in this industry they find they have 3 directions they can go. They can go toward the Light, which means in today's reality that they may as well learn to pull french fries from boiling oil when the beeper goes off.
Or they can go to the Gray, which is where the majority of strippers end up. Fighting for neither evil nor good, but merely struggling to keep up the Scion payment and buy quality weed.
And then they can go to the Dark Side where they sacrifice small animals and hot wings to the Horned One Below, soak their tampons in a solution of crank and smack, have children that sometimes survive and commit lurid acts of genital miscreation on a nightly basis.
This sadly is the way of things. Until someone invents a time machine that can take us back to the pre-internet days, things are only going to get worse for the industry. Which I find ironic because we have more girls trying to audition than I've ever seen before.
Back when I was at a different club a couple of years ago we might've seen 4 or 5 girls a week trying to land a job. Now that number is more like around 20-25 a week and most of them are fucking hideous and decidedly ghetto. It seems like the days of supermodel hot dancers is drawing to a close and that lowered expectations is the new norm.
Fuck that, I say. If you're going to spend your hard earned money having a stripper dance for you, by God demand excellence. Don't settle for something that relies on darkness and booze to make it bangable. It's your titty dollar and by tipping a weathered skank, you're devaluing that poor little dollar to the point of worthlessness.
These days an uber-hot dancer can write her own ticket. Super hot girls are such a rarity that one could literally disembowel another dancer on stage and no one would care except the Floor Walker (me) who had to clean up the pile of entrails and toss the remains into a tree chipper.
Which would fucking ruin my tux.
Eight years ago at least a third of the strippers I worked with were world class, and by that I mean they could walk into any strip club on the face of the planet and get a job. Now, out of 75 dancers I work with I can probably say that about 5 of them. Maybe 5.
On a good day.
Seriously guys, raise your standards. Maybe that's why all the clubs have been so slow lately, maybe dudes are voting with their dollars and are vetoing thong goblins. I don't know. What I do know is that in another 5 years being a Floor Jockey will pay roughly minimum wage with the occasional blowjob as a perk.
DING fries are done.
Part 2, because one of you asked for it,
Another tale of Bouncer fury
from days gone by
Probably my favorite fight I was ever in, and arguably the best (based upon sheer volume of blood shed) was when I was pulling double duty at what amounted to a hillbilly bar located in the no man's land between suburbia and farm country. This was at the tender age of 30 and it was my third security gig.
I ran the kitchen during the day and evening but at 10PM would change into my security shirt and bounce the rest of the night.
And trust me this place needed a bouncer, badly. It was a new establishment at the time which meant that we got all the redneck assholes that had been banned from every other bar within a 10 mile radius. Therefore we had fights every night. Every fucking night.
Since the owner was really trying to operate a family restaurant and not a hick bar, we had a lot of weeding out to do...
Tonight's Special: A dozen wings, busted lip and traumatized children, $6,50..
So this one time I was peacefully working in the kitchen during a day shift when a waitress runs in and says we're having a problem with 2 customers out in the bar and would I come throw them out.
"Sure" I replied, ever willing to be helpful.
Turns out these 2 drunk dick gobblers were playing pool, but would go up to the bar every now and then and just take food off a random customers plate and eat it while laughing.
This is rude. I don't like rude very much.
So I stride out of the kitchen still clad in my grease stained apron and confront the one guy who's standing next to the pool table. He sees me coming, knows exactly why I'm there and is silently wishing he was a foot taller, 150 lbs heavier and actually knew anything at all about fighting. I can see it in his eyes.
He wanted to leave the bar immediately, but his ego just woldn't let him. He did, after all, have a friend with him and combined they were nearly as big as me.
I pinned him up against the pool table with my body and asked why the fuck they were eating other peoples' food. He tried to push back up against me so I grabbed him by the throat and threw him onto the pool table.
It was at this point that I realized I had made a classic inexperienced bouncer mistake. I had turned my back on his buddy and that buddy chose that moment to hit me across the back of the skull with his pool stick.
If felt like I had been punched in the back of my head but other than that it didn't faze me in the slightest. He had gotten too close to me when he swung and ended up making contact with the middle of the cue rather than the thicker, heavier end. As a result the stick broke against my fiendishly dense Celtic/Viking skull.
He did however now have my undivided attention.
When I spun around to deal with him he was standing there blinking in disbelief at the pathetic foot long remains of his fearsome pool stick. I chose that moment to bend him backwards over the bar and headbutt him so hard the back of his head hit the bar hard enough to rattle drinks 8 feet away. His nose detonated like a catapulted gerbil and I opened him up on the back of his skull like a pinata made of poor choices.
So I was bleeding like a stuck pig from an inch long gash in the back of me noggin, Douche A had gotten off the pool table and was holding his suddenly not-so-badass pool stick in a threatening manner while Douche B was sliding to the floor bleeding all over the goddamn place.
I dragged bloody Douche B up by the collar, launched him against Douche A who dropped his pool cue to catch his hurtling buddy and then grabbed both of them at once in a bear hug and carried them out the side door to deposit them on the gravel and stated, in no uncertain terms,
"Don't fucking come back. Ever."
Then I went inside and applied a cold compress to my leaking brain-holder, had a beer and went back to work when the bleeding stopped.
Still have the scar today.
Scientists will tell you that head wounds bleed a lot. They're not wrong which just goes to prove that science is frequently right.
Now if you'll excuse me I have some beer to drink and some poker to get my ass kicked at.*1
Don't poke the bear,
-The StripperHerder
*1 No footnotes for you!
