Last weekend was pretty ordinary. The city's home team lost, and the mystery ship that the management promised (surprise, surprise) never docked. Or maybe it did, and not a single sailor wandered through our doors. Not a lot of anyone wandered through though, so it wasn't just sailors and beefy NRL players who were lame. Many, many many bachelor parties. You know what I've learned? BACHELOR PARTIES SUCK!!! Most of the guys there are simply out for a night, supporting a buddy. They aren't looking to blow large amounts of dough. Most chip in for the bachelor, but even that communal money pot is pretty shallow these days. I'm shit at hustling, and these ladies I call co-workers can be motha-fuckin sharks. I only saw true justice once this week, and it was when the queen of the hustling, grass-cutting game was sent home early for pushing guys too hard.
I had a fun hen's party with a 50's housewife theme. Brought the bride-to-be up on stage to shake it around to "Bad Things". She spun around the pole with her poufy dress fluttering behind her and the whole place was cheering and throwing money on stage for her. She made more than $80, and gave it all to me. Woo. I'm starting to think that women are my specialty.
I stayed in the stripper house with most of the other ladies. I'm actually surprised that there isn't more drama. I was expecting a lot of catty behaviour, or at least the occasional frosty moment in the communal kitchen. But despite a broken air conditioner in the living room, and a conked-out dryer, everyone got along just fine.
I walked to work all three days instead of riding in the cab at 6:30. I like the walk, its all downhill from the house to the club, and it takes me close enough to the water to smell it. I get a feel for the night from how busy the pubs look, all doors open to the street. I wave to the doormen who I am starting to recognize. They probably know what I am and where I'm going by now. Getting to the club hours before everyone else means I have the change room to myself, time to practice on stage and plenty of opportunities to flick through the club music to choose my songs for the night. I'm always acutely aware that I'm the only naked body exposed to the security camera, 24 hour/day monitoring and time to time I wonder how often the screen is watched in there. The rest of upstairs is dark and quiet until I turn the music on, and only occasionally does someone like a bar back or a tittie-girl from downstairs wander by. I enjoy the solitude. I use it to get into the zone, to drop into the Nicki persona slowly, like easing yourself into cold water, inches at a time. I start calling everyone "baby" and "doll" and practice smiling with my voice no matter what I am saying. When the club doors open, I want that mask complete. Some nights I hardly remember a single conversation, they are that meaningless.
I made $400 less than I'm used to, but I still managed to pay for a LOT of things we had coming up. There is no question that this is the easiest way to make quick money, and I'm finding that men in these places are actually a lot more polite to women than the average male specimen is on the street. Maybe its the cameras, or the grouchy, muscle bound men in black standing quietly in the shadows with watchful eyes. Whatever the motivation, I don't deal with nearly as much dick-itis as I do when I'm just another girl walking around on the sidewalk without stripper shoes on.
Speaking of which, I DESPERATELY need a new pair of heels.
Tomorrow I'm off to the furthest city from home yet, another coastal one. I'm not looking forward to it. It means hubs and bubs can't meet me on Saturday morning for breakfast like they did last week. It means two flights and a bus ride, and I'm not sure I'll make enough to justify it. BUT, its a big city, with anonymity, and I promised I'd check out all the big cities on the East coast, since this job means we can move basically anywhere, so I need to know where I enjoy working. Hopefully soon we buy the second car, and I won't have to bus it to places anymore. I'm developing a healthy loathing for buses.
The reward comes on Sunday, when I am meeting up with Hubalicious and Presley in Sydney for a MUCH overdue family vacation. A whole week of whatever....catching up with friends, revisiting old haunts, introducing Presley to many new people....I can not wait!
Anyway, enough procrastinating. I have clothes to pack, dinner to make, and far too many inches of skin to shave and holy shit! Its 4 p.m. already!
Laterz
Tuesday, 11 June 2013
Lil' Ol' Luggage
Today I finally got around to sorting out my rolly-bag from last weekend. Its been sort of...spewed out onto the kitchen floor as Presley has intermittently pawed through it (for edibles?) As I grouped and piled, debated, and decided, I explained to bubs."This is mommy's survival pack. This is what she lives out of on those days when she is away from you.
ALL the stuff I need fits into this one little case. Its like a porta-home.
Its also mommy's briefcase.
Tuesday, 4 June 2013
During the night, a voice cuts through sleep and the dark like an axe through a sweet, innocent chipmunk.
WAAAAAA!!!!!
Now, we haven't been consistently eliminating that last 3 a.m. bottle the way I'd planned, but hey, there's been monster teeth coming through, and I've been away a lot the last month. The point is, I'm alright with doing the sleepy shuffle out to the kitchen to warm a pre-made bottle. I like the cozy 5 minutes of cuddling with a half asleep bubs. I enjoy the way he smells, and the absolute quiet of the witching hour.
I'm NOT alright with being hauled out of my bed three times a night. I don't enjoy anything about that. This morning, 4:45 a.m. found Hubs and I lying on our sides, facing each other, my left hand clapped over his exposed up-turned ear, and his right hand clapped over mine. Presley had been fed, cuddled, changed, patted and crooned to, and we were NOT getting up for him a fourth time.
And that is how I learned that our darling little monster can whinge for an hour straight.
I'm not sure if we are doing this right, forcing Presley to stay in bed until we are ready to attempt the morning. I don't want to neglect him, but at the same time, I don't want him running roughshod over our lives. Especially now that he is approaching a year old and should theoretically be sleeping through! I am afraid that if 5 a.m. becomes the norm, then 4 a.m. will be the crappy wake up hour that he moves on to from there. Sweet Jesus, will I ever sleep normally again?
I left all my parenting books when I moved overseas, and for now, the two of us are our own island nation, making this up as we go along.
Tonight, Hubbalicious brought earplugs home from work. Hooray.
WAAAAAA!!!!!
Now, we haven't been consistently eliminating that last 3 a.m. bottle the way I'd planned, but hey, there's been monster teeth coming through, and I've been away a lot the last month. The point is, I'm alright with doing the sleepy shuffle out to the kitchen to warm a pre-made bottle. I like the cozy 5 minutes of cuddling with a half asleep bubs. I enjoy the way he smells, and the absolute quiet of the witching hour.
I'm NOT alright with being hauled out of my bed three times a night. I don't enjoy anything about that. This morning, 4:45 a.m. found Hubs and I lying on our sides, facing each other, my left hand clapped over his exposed up-turned ear, and his right hand clapped over mine. Presley had been fed, cuddled, changed, patted and crooned to, and we were NOT getting up for him a fourth time.
And that is how I learned that our darling little monster can whinge for an hour straight.
I'm not sure if we are doing this right, forcing Presley to stay in bed until we are ready to attempt the morning. I don't want to neglect him, but at the same time, I don't want him running roughshod over our lives. Especially now that he is approaching a year old and should theoretically be sleeping through! I am afraid that if 5 a.m. becomes the norm, then 4 a.m. will be the crappy wake up hour that he moves on to from there. Sweet Jesus, will I ever sleep normally again?
I left all my parenting books when I moved overseas, and for now, the two of us are our own island nation, making this up as we go along.
Tonight, Hubbalicious brought earplugs home from work. Hooray.
Monday, 3 June 2013
Nipples, No-Nos and Notorious Houses
Turns out, every taxi driver in the city knows which address is the stripper house. I wouldn't even have to give it, if I didn't want to. I could just flop in the back and say "off to the stripper house please" and we'd make it there just fine. The first night on our ride into work, as the last of 8 girls climbed into the maxi van, the Driver asked "going to the Showgirls?" One of us said "yes", and then after a beat, someone else said "obviously" and we all laughed. Roxy, sitting across from me piped up "Actually, no. Take us far, far away" "To the airport Sir!" a girl yelled from the back.
The conversations I overheard and was a part of the last three days makes me want to carry around a sneaky recorder so that I can repeat them word for word here. I can't do it justice from memory. Especially the rides home when both my brain and body are completely drained, and all I can do is lean back against the seat and smile as the conversation flows around me. Maybe next time.
I thought I'd be the only mother working in the club. Turns out, I was one of 6!! Three of the other mums travel together, and around 5:30 p.m. is call-home time, and you can overhear different conversations throughout the house. "How was school?" "Are you being good for Grandma?" "Mommy misses you very very much! Do you miss me? I will be home soon with lots of money for our holiday." One woman skyped with her son as she put on her makeup and did her hair. I called hubby and he held the phone to Presley's ear so I could tell him how much I missed them both. I wonder what I will tell him if I am still doing this when he is old enough to notice I'm gone and ask why? Just thinking about that idea makes me feel kind of weird in the tummy.
I made great money, despite it being quite slow Thursday, and absolutely DEAD Friday and Saturday. We closed an hour early each night, because there were just no customers. I was lucky enough to find a couple deep pockets attached to lonely hearts. If I had a type, I would have to say I seem to attract the nice/awkwardly sweet fellows, and that's the way I like it. Forget egos and confident swagger, it just pisses me off, and seems to encourage them to think they have special bargaining rights. Two for the price of one? Just because you are young and hot? Um. No. I don't get special deals at the grocery store or hair salon because I have a pretty face.
There were more mining based employees, more drugs, although less obvious steroid users. It sounds like there are quite a few high rolling regulars that drop major cash, but I didn't meet any of them. I expect you have to be any place for a few weeks to build up regulars and get to know faces. That being said, quite a few guys came in multiple times over the weekend:
1. Mr. Cart, a short dark man with a goatee that made him a spitting image for a mischievous dwarf or garden gnome. I learned some basic math from that nice man. Main lesson was that if you have a known extender, some one who usually buys more dances immediatly once his time runs out in the lap room, its more money in my pocket, and less in the club's if I don't push him to spend more initially.
It goes like this:
$100 gets you 10 minutes.
$130 gets you 20 minutes.
You'd think most guys would see the obvious bargain and spend $130 off the bat, but surprisingly, there's a LOT of extenders. 20 minutes ends up costing you $200 instead, which I get $120 out of, instead of the $85 I'd receive if you spend $130 up front. Thanks Mister Cart!
My goal this weekend is to turn every Butt-and-Booby-Blind customer into an Extender. A bird in the hand, right?
2. Birthday Bob If you come to a strip club alone on your birthday, I'm probably going to ask why. I'm that kinda girl. But Bob's answer (or rather, what he didn't say) was that he would rather spend his time here, with all the nice girls, spoiling us like the princesses we are. No friends or family came in with Bob, and no one made him a birthday cake, or came to see him (I asked). When Bob walked in the room, as I approached him to say Happy Birthday, he handed me a white and silver bead bracelet. Bob's birthday, and he is the one giving out gifts. All night around the club girls sparkled in cubic zirconium and wafted clouds of perfume courtesy of Bob, and a couple of us thought that next birthday, someone should bring in a card. It gave me pause, as I wondered how many of us might still be around, this time next year. Stripping is a flash in the pan occupation, and time goes by quicker if you smoke and drink, as so many of them do.
There were others, but by far the freakiest freakazoids were the husband/wife-uncle/niece-old/young ....uh...twosome. Seriously. In the space of about 10 minutes, they told me they were married and looking for a threesome, then uncle and niece trying to find a girl to sleep with the guy while the niece watches (I mean, I'm into quite a bit of kinky shit, but....just the psychological fuckery of that....ew.), then complete strangers who just met. It was puzzling to begin with, and then just annoying. I left, realizing a conversation with those two would get me nothing except freaked out. Just for all you potential customers out there, ummm..... joking about obvious incestuous intentions is NOT FUNNY. In fact, I would call it a Hard No-No. Just because we are dressed all sexy like doesn't mean we naturally want to hear your filth.
I made a few new work friends, including a Canadian, a girl who strips using my real name, and someone named after an unlikely Disney cartoon character. There was a girl dancing for her very first time, looking like she was about to vomit the entire night. I think it was nerves. The self-proclaimed "Token Black Girl" was lovely and quite a few of the ladies could dance their asses off. There's hard hustlers, the really drunk chicks, and the lazy loungers slumped in pairs in the darkest corners. Its been the same in both clubs so far.
Oh, during my last stage performance on Saturday night/Sunday morning, a chick flashed me her pierced nipples and asked me to come home with her and her boyfriend. Just another working moment, 3:45 a.m.
The conversations I overheard and was a part of the last three days makes me want to carry around a sneaky recorder so that I can repeat them word for word here. I can't do it justice from memory. Especially the rides home when both my brain and body are completely drained, and all I can do is lean back against the seat and smile as the conversation flows around me. Maybe next time.
I thought I'd be the only mother working in the club. Turns out, I was one of 6!! Three of the other mums travel together, and around 5:30 p.m. is call-home time, and you can overhear different conversations throughout the house. "How was school?" "Are you being good for Grandma?" "Mommy misses you very very much! Do you miss me? I will be home soon with lots of money for our holiday." One woman skyped with her son as she put on her makeup and did her hair. I called hubby and he held the phone to Presley's ear so I could tell him how much I missed them both. I wonder what I will tell him if I am still doing this when he is old enough to notice I'm gone and ask why? Just thinking about that idea makes me feel kind of weird in the tummy.
I made great money, despite it being quite slow Thursday, and absolutely DEAD Friday and Saturday. We closed an hour early each night, because there were just no customers. I was lucky enough to find a couple deep pockets attached to lonely hearts. If I had a type, I would have to say I seem to attract the nice/awkwardly sweet fellows, and that's the way I like it. Forget egos and confident swagger, it just pisses me off, and seems to encourage them to think they have special bargaining rights. Two for the price of one? Just because you are young and hot? Um. No. I don't get special deals at the grocery store or hair salon because I have a pretty face.
There were more mining based employees, more drugs, although less obvious steroid users. It sounds like there are quite a few high rolling regulars that drop major cash, but I didn't meet any of them. I expect you have to be any place for a few weeks to build up regulars and get to know faces. That being said, quite a few guys came in multiple times over the weekend:
1. Mr. Cart, a short dark man with a goatee that made him a spitting image for a mischievous dwarf or garden gnome. I learned some basic math from that nice man. Main lesson was that if you have a known extender, some one who usually buys more dances immediatly once his time runs out in the lap room, its more money in my pocket, and less in the club's if I don't push him to spend more initially.
It goes like this:
$100 gets you 10 minutes.
$130 gets you 20 minutes.
You'd think most guys would see the obvious bargain and spend $130 off the bat, but surprisingly, there's a LOT of extenders. 20 minutes ends up costing you $200 instead, which I get $120 out of, instead of the $85 I'd receive if you spend $130 up front. Thanks Mister Cart!
My goal this weekend is to turn every Butt-and-Booby-Blind customer into an Extender. A bird in the hand, right?
2. Birthday Bob If you come to a strip club alone on your birthday, I'm probably going to ask why. I'm that kinda girl. But Bob's answer (or rather, what he didn't say) was that he would rather spend his time here, with all the nice girls, spoiling us like the princesses we are. No friends or family came in with Bob, and no one made him a birthday cake, or came to see him (I asked). When Bob walked in the room, as I approached him to say Happy Birthday, he handed me a white and silver bead bracelet. Bob's birthday, and he is the one giving out gifts. All night around the club girls sparkled in cubic zirconium and wafted clouds of perfume courtesy of Bob, and a couple of us thought that next birthday, someone should bring in a card. It gave me pause, as I wondered how many of us might still be around, this time next year. Stripping is a flash in the pan occupation, and time goes by quicker if you smoke and drink, as so many of them do.
There were others, but by far the freakiest freakazoids were the husband/wife-uncle/niece-old/young ....uh...twosome. Seriously. In the space of about 10 minutes, they told me they were married and looking for a threesome, then uncle and niece trying to find a girl to sleep with the guy while the niece watches (I mean, I'm into quite a bit of kinky shit, but....just the psychological fuckery of that....ew.), then complete strangers who just met. It was puzzling to begin with, and then just annoying. I left, realizing a conversation with those two would get me nothing except freaked out. Just for all you potential customers out there, ummm..... joking about obvious incestuous intentions is NOT FUNNY. In fact, I would call it a Hard No-No. Just because we are dressed all sexy like doesn't mean we naturally want to hear your filth.
I made a few new work friends, including a Canadian, a girl who strips using my real name, and someone named after an unlikely Disney cartoon character. There was a girl dancing for her very first time, looking like she was about to vomit the entire night. I think it was nerves. The self-proclaimed "Token Black Girl" was lovely and quite a few of the ladies could dance their asses off. There's hard hustlers, the really drunk chicks, and the lazy loungers slumped in pairs in the darkest corners. Its been the same in both clubs so far.
Oh, during my last stage performance on Saturday night/Sunday morning, a chick flashed me her pierced nipples and asked me to come home with her and her boyfriend. Just another working moment, 3:45 a.m.
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