Amateur night, take 3

My last night in Missoula was the Sunday before Labor Day, the last Sunday of the month, and amateur night. I've worked two other amateur nights at this club, one being great and the other being awful for earnings. This one was a record night for me at the club thanks mostly to the first customer who sat at my first stage set of the night and subsequently bought two hours in VIP before 10 p.m. The shocking part about this was his complete lack of fitting the profile of the average VIP-purchasing customer; he was under 30 and from Mexico, and at first I felt a little odd about the whole thing, about being his paid companionship and all, since he seemed sweet and lonely, but then he started propositioning me and getting grabby and my compassion began to be balanced with irritation.

As I've mentioned before, the great thing about amateur night here is the lack of ringers. At just about every single one of these things, the contestants are usually experienced strippers trying to win the cash prize or a job at the club, as some clubs use them as an easy event to get people in the doors combined with condensing all of their hiring into one night of the week. I'm happy to say I haven't had to enter one of these to get hired, although I've known some very experienced dancers who have. I believe the Seattle Deja Vu engages in this practice, with the prize money serving the purpose of buying the mandatory Seattle stripper license.

Not so in Missoula; there's real amateurs. One of them was the mother of one of the dancers at the club. Said dancer didn't work that night, so I didn't get to see her reaction, but I was told this wasn't the first time her mom had competed. There were also some, well ,average local girls, some hot local girls, another older woman who sported the first full bush I've seen at a nude club in quite some time, a truly amateur hottie who'll probably be working at the club, and a ringer, who, if she hasn't done this before, surely studied well. The ringer placed first, the young hottie second, and one of the older women took third. By audience response she should have gotten first place, clearly, as the crowd whooped and hollered for "Gramma!" to win. And yet it didn't seem too mean-spirited.

Back in the dressing room between sets I saw the dancer manager helping a contestant sort her tips. A small pile of quarters was next to the bucket, which seemed odd. First I thought how rude it was that someone threw quarters on the stage. Then I realized that if they made their way into the tip bucket, the contestant had to pick them up rather than ignoring them or tossing them back at the offending "tipper," the two most common responses to those sorts of shenanigans. And finally I realized the manager was unwrapping them from twisted dollar bills, in which they'd been used as ballast to make them reach the stage when tossed from a distance. "You can keep all of these; we're not going to deal with quarters," the house mom said (the amateur night contestants, like the house dancers, give up a percentage of stage tips to tip out club employees. Now I know they won't take a percentage of anything less than $1.00).

Then I received text messages all night from Mr. W, who spent six hours in the cat ER with our cat; blocked them out and continued to work. It was such a strange night. Those two hours in VIP kept me out of the crowd as it was building to its peak, and when I emerged it was into a completely different club, one filled to bursting with a line out the door waiting to get in. I hate the ultra-crowded nights and always have; I find them overwhelming. It makes it harder to pick out my target customers and requires defensive walking through the club. I have to take a deep breath, position myself somewhere with a good view of the crowd, and them map out a route that gets me to accidentally bump into the most likely customers. It worked out well enough, though I'm tired just thinking about it.

After last call, after the lights went up, the club was a disaster area. This is one of the few places I've worked where bringing up the lights actually reveals a pretty nicely furnished, clean club, but after hundreds of recently returned college kids tramp through a bar, it's noticeable. It reminded me of nothing so much as the Pink Pony in Atlanta two years ago the night before the NCAA championship game; a busy night, lots of money, and lots of really drunk girls who weren't strippers.

Once safely in my truck and headed home, I called for a kitty status update, and promptly lost it, then pulled into the Taco Bell parking lot to shut off the engine and cry about my cat, about being away from home and about feeling like a fuckup who'd neglected her little family all summer. All that money I'd made, it should have been kind of a celebratory night, but it wasn't. It was cold and rainy, and I was alone five hundred miles from home.

Tuesday was a long day on the road; my beloved cat went into the emergency pet hospital late on Sunday night, thanks to the amazing Mr. Wayward who sat in the waiting room for six hours with her. The news isn't good so far and she's still there, and it was a hard ten hours on the road with plenty of time for me to worry. I had to block her out of my mind; every time I'd think about it, I'd burst into tears.

I'm not much of a crier. Maybe once a year. But it really hurts to think about this. She's old but has been in pretty good health until recently. It's a kidney issue and I really don't think she'll be with us a lot longer. My one hope is that she's well enough to come home for a while before we say goodbye.

Reading about other people's pets is probably as interesting as hearing about their dreams, but I've gotten a lot of very sweet messages from my friends and thank everyone for their kind words.

Asses

It's true. Photo courtesy of the lovely and gracious Mia M.

MSNBC goes to the Denver titty bar

Rumor has it that the marquee now reads "DNC thanks for nothing". I'm awaiting confirmation on that.

Big sky, country.

I have been in Montana for most of the summer, as it turns out, and the Wayward household is moving out here for the fall and winter. It's just too nice to leave. I like the club, I like the city, I have found a nice routine here, and we're lucky enough to be very mobile. I've found an apartment and will be hauling some things out here from Portland next month.

Weirdly, this is the first time I've actually relocated because of a better work environment. I have one friend who's moved at least four times to settle for months in a city where she enjoyed working, and I have traveled a lot over the past two years, hitting more clubs in that time period than I had in the previous ten years.

I think this means I might be able to deduct the moving expenses as well, though I'm not sure if that holds true for independent contractors. Also, I'm scared to learn to drive in the snow. Portland doesn't get it, Ohio did, and I didn't even try to learn there, just stayed put.

This is the kind of town that people visit and dream of moving to; it inspires those fantasies of settling down and enjoying the sleepy college town life. Probably just like Austin did in, oh, 1987. Don't look for me fly fishing or anything, but I'll probably attempt to take some more serious skiing lessons this winter.

strippersontheroad.com is live!

My friend and occasional co-worker Tara has done something really wonderful and thoughtful for all of us who travel frequently. She's created strippersontheroad.com, a strip club review site geared towards dancers. It's already amassed a good collection of detailed information on clubs from Alaska to Florida and all points in between. I hope all of my dancer readers will head over there and review their clubs. You don't have to give it all away, but even the most basic information (is it contact or not? topless or nude? 18 and over or 21 and over? blue collar or upscale?) is so helpful.

Thank you, Tara! You get a stripper gold star on both nipples for this one.

Me, getting ready to dance for a guy, getting him to sit down.

"What's your name, hon? I'm Susan."
"That's my mom's name!"
"Well, you can call me Bubbles if it's gonna be weird for you."
"No. If you fucked like her, that'd be weird!"

I literally fell to the floor laughing.