Thief! Thief!

I’m bummed about going back to work tonight. I woke up angry, not feeling like pleasing anyone or heading back into my masochistic job. I yelled at the Ex-I’m-Fucking, the dogs, his dog, my wildish frizzy hair.

Green beans, onions, kidney beans, bean sprouts, sweet potatoes, carrots, green pepper — roasted in lemon juice, basil, cinnamon, sunflower oil, and agave nectar. Pan-fried tofu to throw in. Dinner for work, maybe I’ll be hungry by then.

He’s been staying over much more often lately. Sure, laziness and not wanting to drive him an hour round-trip home. Some of it’s loneliness. In exchange for feeding him and paying him for dishes, he gives me sex I actually like. Nine years I’ve been sleeping with him, off and on, including dating a handful of times, casual one-nighters, and an engagement. Dating is too complicated anymore, for me, and I’m not really into dating anyone else for awhile. Sex, occasionally. Occasionally has turned into frequently, willing away the loneliness and depression, a distraction.

Running my pre-work bath, now, and running out of time to blog.

Skip to the part about Thursday.

I caught wind that the two bouncers on duty had pulled aside — out of the dressing rooms, where I’d been with one of the dancers — two girls and told them that this group of nine or ten twenty-somethings had put nearly a thousand bucks on a credit card for dance tickets before they’d walked through the door. They were on a business credit card, and looking to blow some cash quickly. The others, including me, were specifically not told.

The oafish DJ pulled me aside, along with all of the others, and made mention that this is what had happened. He didn’t think it was fair, and he ruined the bouncers’ plan. It was nice of him, and when I managed to get a few bucks from the guys in dances, I kicked it his way. Fuck those bouncers.

A slow night dragged on, with little to do. I’d long forgotten the “communication mishap” with the bouncers when I reached the stage for a set around two o’clock, when I see a five hit my stage from the same group. Nice, but not worth more than an extra ten seconds of  time spread-eagle on the stage, I did my short dance at the rail and moved to his buddy, who threw down a $5 ticket (the club’s Funny Money in exchange for running a credit card). Not bad, until he whined, “THAT’S ALL I GET FOR $5?!” I raised my eyebrows and kept dancing. I could still hit up their friends for dances after my stage, and the crowd was dwindling. Once in a great while, I know when to keep my mouth shut for the sake of some cash.

Another $5 ticket, and two of the guys are sorting out the multicolored tickets on the rail. I moved to a few others who threw down various combinations of one dollar bills, and returned to the pole in the center.

I’m overhearing this conversation:

“If we put down $X, do you think that will get her attention?”
“If we put down $X, what do you think she’ll do?”
“Here. Put that [stack of tickets] there. Maybe she’ll actually DO something. [Laughter]”

I’m wondering what the hell they want me to do. What do they want from a stage show? Do they seriously think there’s something “more” than a chick spread-eagle in front of them on a stage for a few bucks? Young guys are idiots, and I’m half convinced that porn is forcing strippers to do more for less (not that I don’t approve of and occasionally enjoy porn, but it has some shitty drawbacks). I see $110 worth of tickets sitting on my stage, and naturally, I go over. The guy in front of the tickets is watching me as I grab them, and makes no effort to stop me — until I repeat the spread-eagle-on-stage thing. Again. Whaddayawant?!

He immediately starts screaming, “SHE STOLE MY MONEY. SHE STOLE ALL OF MY MONEY. SHE STOLE MY MONEY.”

I sit, bare-ass naked, and explain that I didn’t steal shit. Eyebrows up, jaded face on, calm and even voice. I’m not drunk, but I wish I was. This? Really? My life. Damnit. Fuck it. I offered a compromise: I’ll keep the tickets regardless, but do $100 in dances for a member of the group.

I get off the stage, and head for the bouncers to beat the men there and get a head start on explaining that I didn’t, in fact, steal the moron’s tickets, and they deserved to be taken, fair and square. I’m completely sober, I haven’t had a drink all night, they were taunting and teasing me by putting it on the stage, and they simply know better that anything that hits the stage is fair game for me to take — for whatever stage dollar-dance thing I’m going to do, of my choice. Them’s the rules, that’s customary, and they’re old enough to know better and have been tipping appropriately all night by keeping tickets to themselves and putting whatever amount they wish on the stage when they choose to. It isn’t “new” to them, and this wasn’t their first time in.

Homie Bro comes striding over, ranting about how I stole his money and he’s spent $800 in the club that night alone, and he’s a fairly regular customer that brings his team in often….and blah fucking whatever blah. A second bouncer joins us, and the second bouncer simply agrees: too fucking bad for Homie Bro. Excellent. The first bouncer asks for a word away from me, in the lobby, and they magically came to the conclusion that I should be fucked out of the tickets, and apologetic.

I threw $100 in tickets at the bouncers, demanded I keep $10 for my own inconvenience, swore, and walked away. “YOU tell the assholes they get to keep them, and I’m keeping $10 for my fucking time.”

Remember how I paid $24,000 into the club last year in house fees, dance fees, and mandatory “tips?” Or that I’ve been paying in nightly for four years? Oh — we all forgot that part over a few tickets. I follow all of the rules, pick up after myself so the staff doesn’t have to, get along with the other girls, and use my manners with the staff every night; I’m not sure what the hell put me on the shit list with the bouncers. I’m nothing but reasonable and polite to them.

I took the $10 in tickets to the door girl, where I smashed one into pieces in anger and threw several unopened drinks across the lobby. Not my finest moment, but I’d just been screwed out of $100.

Nevertheless, I finish the night, manage to sweep up a few last dances gritting a smile, and head over to the Ex-I’m-Fucking’s dad’s place to pick him up.

I demand that he go on a mini-vacation with me. He listens, there’s some sex, I feed him in exchange for the sex. It’s almost like a complete role-reversal from just hours before. I feed him and his dog, find him menial and brief chores to do around the house in exchange for cash, and he gives me sex to distract my brain. More or less, it’s nearly like Paying for It, except I used to date him and shit. It’s weird. But it’s casual, and I can send him away when I’m through with him for the day. It’s…basically perfect. And emotionally empty, both good and bad.

I spent my weekend blowing the small amount of cash I’d made in anger, hitting up the science center, seeing a documentary about some people that climbed Mount Everest, catching the new “Oz” movie in 3D, eating delicious vegan food and sushi from a favorite places, ran a slow eight miles on the hamster wheel while it snowed outside. I put myself behind on bills because I just didn’t feel like working, or dealing with the club, or having to work my ass off while fighting off shit from bouncers, or working to get nowhere while feeling like I’m being fucked with.

Alas. Back to work. Uncle Sam wants his fuckin’ money, too, and he’s fuckin’ serious about that April 15 deadline shit.

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~ by The Stiletto-Shod One on March 12, 2013.

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