Ahh. Three days of painkillers, television, and sleep. And of not smoking, which is annoying. Nicotrol just isn't the same. And I have eaten more pudding in the past three days than I did in the previous three years.

So, my return from South Carolina was pleasant; I was happy to get out of the condos there, which were a bit depressing. I went up to Columbus last Tuesday, and my extended stay motel was practically palatial in comparison. The cable worked and everything.

Pure Platinum was far better financially than the club in South Carolina; hourly, it was about a 65% increase. And the girls were pretty. On the weekends the fees can be high, but it was well worth the trip, and I am kind of pissed that I hadn't tried going up there in the first place, since the money easily, easily doubles what I made in Dayton.

I'm still feeling loopy as hell; I will attempt more coherent recaps soon. Though I guess I'll have new material as I'll be working in Austin next week. Schedule should be up by next Wednesday.

There just isn't any excuse for being dormant that long. I have been on the road, but I did have decent internet access--at least last week.

This morning I woke up at 8 to head for the oral surgeon's office. I'm sitting here now with a mouth full of gauze and a brain full of Vicodin; the perfect time to catch up. I'm also trying to quit smoking; you can't when you've had your wisdom teeth out, plus the pain medicine makes the cravings easier to deal with.

So, let's see, where was I? South Carolina . . . I was picked up at the cute and tiny Savannah airport by the club manager's sweet and funny girlfriend. After a trip to the grocery store, I was deposited in a condo with one other girl, though we had separate bedrooms. This girl seemed OK, though she'd been burning some pretty cheap and stinky incense and candles. I don't mind a scented candle, but that really stinky incense is nasty.

It was Super Bowl Sunday--and the cable was out in the condos, due to a dispute the manager of the club/owner of the condos had with the condo board. Had we been able to receive broadcast channels, it wouldn't have been a big deal, but even with the bunny ears there was no way. Smoky, my roommate, had no idea why I was so frantically messing with the television. I mean, she didn't know the Super Bowl was on. I ended up heading to a sports bar for the duration of the game, which worked out just fine.

So the next day, Monday, was to be my first at the club. It's a cute and little club, well-maintained and nicely furnished. But oh my god, it was DEAD DEAD DEAD in there. I bet on the best night the week I was there they had fewer than 50 people through the door. And there were no girls whatsoever. And the ones they had were questionable at best. Now, a couple were nice to me, and I don't want to insult them, but these girls either had decent bodies and buttafaces or pretty faces and guts hanging over their g-strings. I had to hear so many comments from customers about the other girls, culminating with, "You're the only one here who looks like she should be a stripper." It was one of those situations where, when a customer tells you you're the best-looking girl there, you're not sure if it's a compliment or not.

Moneywise, it sucked. My take-home on my best night was $209--a ridiculously low number. I mean, it was insane. I thought I would go out of my mind with boredom.

It seems as though they should be doing much better--they really need to work on fixing the girl situation. Give them free house fees (rather than $30 and then $10 off of each $30 dance all night), pay them, do something, because you cannot run a club with three or four girls working. Maybe you could if they were all hot, but that is so not the case here. Nice, sure, several of them (the skinny ones--who still weren't too hot--were all insane and doing massive amounts of coke), but not gorgeous.

Even though it was a bust, I am considering giving it one more shot during the week of a major golf tournament in April. I think that would make a huge difference in the girls working there and the clientele.

I'll try to think of some interesting anecdotes. The DJ had recently been promoted from washroom attendant, and he was hands-down the worst DJ I've ever worked with. He would come on the mike, drop the music way down, and start talking over the song; his transitions were really abrupt--like in the middle of a verse he would switch songs rather than trying to do them smoothly at all. He's a young black guy and he played all of this shitty 80s rock. I mean, the same 20 songs every damn night. He was sooooo bad.

One night an 18-yr-old came in after a school dance, of all things. I did a couch dance for him and the entire time his mouth was agape. I would have felt a little dirty if I hadn't started doing this at the same age.

Sigh. Once again, I'm well aware I'm no beanpole, and I certainly don't think women need to be skinny to be sexy. But I draw the line at a gut. You should never, ever see a gut on a stripper. It's not the venue for challeging accepted ideals of attractiveness.

Ah, in a week I'll be in lovely South Carolina, seeing some sun and surf. It's not going to be that warm, but it'll have a good twenty degrees on Cincinnati.

The club continues to be slow. I look forward to exploring Columbus in a couple of weeks.

So the customer from a few weeks back, the one who tips (well) for hanging out at the bar, and who I'm naming Harry, was in last night. The other dancer from last week, Ms. P, was there by his side. And more and more girls kept coming by, so I decided to take off in search of less attention-smothered customers.

Apparently, another dancer, Ms. J, has laid claims to Harry. She's been at the club for a while, and is a bit feisty. And god, the girls here are possessive of their customers. I'm not used to it at all; in most of the clubs where I've worked, there's a "the customer is always right" attitude. P and J both wouldn't relinquish an inch at the bar. At one point, I'm in the bathroom and Ms. J is complaining about having her "toes stepped on."
"Who does she think she is? I've been here for four years! Is she the new me?"

I stop by so I can get Harry to buy me a soda, and smoke a cigarette. Ms. P has disappeared to the stage, and the very tan, very thin, and very blonde Ms. J is chatting with Harry, haranging him for not tipping her enough.
"Don't you still like me? You haven't tipped me enough tonight and I'm getting insecure."

By the way, he's clearly enjoying this.

When he pulls out a couple of bills to pay the bartender, J says, "I want one!" He hands her a smaller bill and she says, "No! I want a big one!" Petulantly trying to wheedle a guy out of money for no good reason isn't something I've ever thought of doing; if it's offered, I'll take it, but I just can't imagine sitting there going, "Give me money. Pout pout." The whole scenario is so funny that I can't tear myself away from it. But then she starts talking about me to Harry, saying things like, "She's a rookie," which makes me laugh. She then says, rather disingenously, "Could you hear that?"

I wander over to talk to another regular who'd offered to help me find a car part I need, and then Ms. J starts hollering for me to come back over. Harry buys her a table dance from me; obviously at her suggestion. I'm not sure what she's trying to do here, but hey, I'll play along. I dance for her, then she dances for me--and her dance is the angry dance! She slams her ass into my stomach, slaps her butt, etc. Ordinarily I'd enjoy getting a dance from a cute, flat-chested blonde, but this girl's attitude was just way off. And then she finishes her dance and says, "You did good. You pass."

Huh? Pass what, you crazy stripper? The test of ability to give and receive dances? The ability to watch you try to hook your customer with a little forced girl-girl action? Whatever. Anyhow, I think this girl takes me at face value; i.e. well-scrubbed and sweet-looking. Which is fine. But while she's trying to enact her little test, or whatever, with me, I'm thinking, "You know, I've done things that are far naughtier with women who are far hotter for much better money."

Later in the night Ms. J wandered from the bar to the pool table, hollering "I'm drunk and I'm mad!"