Life at TJ's Place
Saturday, May 22, 2004
Our new feature has a boyfriend and I met him last night for the first time. He was creepy. I always expect to see Fabio or someone like that, but it’s usually not the case. Feature Boyfriend was small and almost embarrassingly shy. He had the clammy dead-fish handshake and didn’t make eye contact. He recoils from sudden movement or loud noises. You know the guy. He was the boy on the funny home video show who teases the hoofed animal, or the kangaroo, at a zoo, and gets viciously kicked, or hacked-on (by the llama he was hitting in the chest, with a stick) and psychologically scarred forever. He was a bed-wetter as a child, and probably tortured neighborhood pets. I am assuming all of this, of course, but I’m pretty sure I’m right. I didn’t like him, and he was the type of person who could care less if anyone likes him, especially Midwestern hicks. In his world, we are here to provide him corn, and beef, and runways to make emergency landings on when he flies between the coasts.
I’m always curious about those relationships. Our feature this week was beautiful and funny and had a great personality and a body made possible by modern science, then you see her boyfriend/manager/errand boy/thong-washer and you wonder what the situation is. He looks like me when I was in 8th grade. I imagine he fears for his life during sex sometimes with her. Relationships are complex. When I am with Sarah Michelle Gellar people will say the same thing about me. Look at the geek. I will flip them the bird and say, “Yes, but I am boning Sarah Michelle Gellar, when she lets me, and you are not.”
I just walked a mile in his shoes and understand the relationship perfectly. I wish him well.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
This afternoon, Walt, our bouncer, found a leather pouch of some sort that had been run-over in the parking lot. He picked it up and looked at it. I think he thought it was drug paraphernalia, because he sniffed it, then sniffed his fingers.
I found Walt in the bathroom a few minutes later with his head in the sink, running cold water over his eyes. The leather pouch he touched and sniffed was a pepper-spray canister holder, with the little canister still in it. It had been crushed by the tires of a car. When Walt picked it up, he smelled it, which irritated his eyes, then he rubbed his eyes with his hands that had the chemical all over it. Walt is the toughest person I have ever met. He was a mess. It makes me wonder how those assholes on the cop shows can get sprayed with enough Mace to kill a buffalo and still keep coming after the cops.
Is it true that in some jurisdictions, if a cop wants to carry a Tasor gun, he has to first be shot with one? And in order for him to be an instructor, he has to be shot again? I heard that yesterday and I’m not sure if I believe it.
I got a comment today from Tanya, who said she had a dream about my blog. In her dream, she made a comment on my site, then the next day I devoted an entire post to her.
Seriously, how often do you get the chance to say, “I just made someone’s dream come true today?” It doesn’t happen to me very often. I will seize the opportunity now.
This post is all for Tanya. She said her dream was that she commented on my site, then the next day I devoted a post entirely to her. So here it is. Thanks for making me feel like a superstar.
If you go to her site, please be nice. She’s a sweetheart.
Monday, May 17, 2004
We haven’t had a “feature” in a couple months, and I just found out at the manager’s meeting today that we will have one this week. I just met her an hour ago and I will hate her by the end of the week, if not by the end of tonight. For anyone who doesn’t know, a feature is not a normal dancer. She’s a minor nude or porn celebrity, like a former Penthouse Pet, or Miss Nude World of 1997. They usually have an amazingly raunchy, though totally impressive, resume. They come to the club and dance for a week and completely turn things upside-down. We have to set up booths so they can sell their merchandise, devote an employee to her while she’s in the club (for taking photos, selling merchandise, etc). Features vary. Some are nice, some are manipulative, evil, greedy bitches. What sets the features apart from your normal dancer is that a feature generally has breasts the size of medicine balls. Watermelon-sized boobs are the absolute bottom end of the scale. We usually have a dozen girls dancing in the club who are prettier.
It is usually a requirement for a feature to have a name that implies I have really big tits. The last name is the “big breast” name; the first name starts with the same letter as the last: Amy Alps, Judy Jugs, Mandy Melons. I just made those up on the spur of the moment, but I’m sure at least two of those are actual stripper names.
Having a feature in the club is very stressful for Kev. He has to actually be a DJ and not just sit on his ass and play music. He has to work the lights instead of setting them on some auto function and forgetting them. He gets screamed at by the hideous feature bitch because he played the wrong song, or didn’t promote her photo booth enough (as in, “Hey, check it out, guys…between sets, Judy Jugs will be available in the northwest corner of the barroom…get an autographed photo of you and Judy for only $10 and make your totally lame friends jealous!”). If the feature is a jerk, eventually all the regular dancers will start hating her and I will have to listen to it, in the office, praying the feature isn’t lurking around outside. I will calmly ask my dancer to please lower her voice. Actually, I’ll really say it like this, “Shh! Shut the fuck up! She’ll hear you!” They reply with I don’t give a fuck if she can hear me or not, that fucking stuck-up bitch!
This will be my week. Friday at 2:00 am will be a happy time. This winter one of the features treated me like shit all week, to the point where I really couldn’t take it anymore. I just completely shut her out. The last three days I didn’t speak one word to her. I don’t know if I’ve ever hated someone so much in my life. And then, after our last shift together, she walked into the office and said, “You hate me, don’t you?” I told her she wasn’t my favorite person in the world. She said, “Let’s go out and have a drink and I bet you’ll be loving me by the end of the night.” (Yes, I caught the loving me double-meaning part, although I think she was probably too stupid to make that clever of a comment on purpose). That was the night of the monthly staff and dancer party, where I would be surrounded by friends and women I’ve fantasized often about having sex with. I thanked her and declined. She told me it was my loss.
This is the first thing our new feature said to me after I met her this afternoon: “Please don’t tell me that little closet your bouncer just showed me is my dressing room this week?” And it’s only Monday.
Sunday, May 16, 2004
This week or possibly next (depending on the weather), we will begin our 3rd annual spring car wash on Friday afternoons and Saturdays. Dancers (and occasionally a waitress, if they get her drunk first) set up a car wash in the corner of our parking lot, for charity, which is our good-faith gesture to the city and the chamber of commerce, who try to shut us down about every odd-numbered year.
The car wash costs $20, and usually the car being washed has about 8 guys crammed in it all looking out with their noses pressed to the glass like little kids. The dancers can’t be topless in the parking lot. They wear bikinis, cut off jeans (by cut-off I mean something that can only be called a denim thong), wife beaters, half-shirts. There is not a bra within 200 yards of our club on car wash days. My personal favorite is the wife beater; I can’t explain how good a wife beater looks when it’s wet, on a pair of breasts. Half-shirts are good for flashing, the girls tell me. Our car washes are more about the scenery than the quality of the washing. In fact, if you bring your car in, it will be more violated than washed. Your side-view mirror will be humped, your radio antenna will be part of its first pearl necklace, the hood will be crawled on, sometimes by more than one dancer at a time. Many cars leave the wash looking worse than when they came in, but there hasn’t been any complaints yet. I tell the dancers to be careful about the flashing, because one time the car will be filled with cops and our little charitable donation to the city will be over. It hasn’t slowed them down, though.
Here is the one nice thing about the car wash, and I’m not trying to change anyone’s opinion of strippers, but the girls volunteer for the car washing and don’t make any money for it. The only thing they get out of it, really, is a better tan.