Part of the entertaining I have to do while in Austin involved an all-girl excursion to what is probably the ninth best (out of 10) strip club in town, the Crazy Lady. Initially we'd tried to see a band at the Hole in the Wall, but upon discovering they'd already played, decided that the strippers might be more fun. We were let in for free and settled in to scope out the talent. The first three to arrive, before myself and another friend, were told "Don't sit with the male customers that you don't know. But if any of them bother you, let us know and we'll take care of it." When I walked in, one of the managers recognized me from another club (though god help me, I couldn't remember which) and realized that, oh, we were cool, since one of us is a stripper. He was also kind enough to send over a round of kazis because, you know, chicks like sweet shots. I'm sure the waitress was thrilled when I ordered bottled water but we tried to take care of her.

There wasn't one pair of fake boobs in the club, though I saw a couple of pairs that would have been good candidates. The talent level wasn't terrible, but it wasn't great either; no total knockouts in the club. There were, however, a few girls who were hot enough to buy lap dances from. The guest of honor got one from a naughty nurse (who used to be a doorgirl I worked with) and a blonde with glasses and a ponytail with a gigantic back tattoo that made me laugh. It was quite a piece of work involving a pinup in Daisy Dukes . . .

While we were there they ran a flashdance, where all the dancers come out on the floor and do mini-dances for two dollars; they were actually more than mini, about a minute apiece, leading me to think, "These girls are working way, way too hard for two bucks." One of them, who had a knockout figure, was brand new and one of her moves was to straddle my leg while bouncing her crotch on it. But it wasn't bouncing as much as pounding, and it hurt me and made me worry about the sensitivity of her pudenda. Another dancer, while balancing herself on my arm, pinched it between the chair arm and her entire body weight, nearly bringing tears of pain to my eyes. I sincerely hope I have never caused physical pain like that in the course of a dance.

The first dance I got was from a very slender and cute girl who really needed to let her eyebrows grow out, but had a tiny, round, perfect ass. She was soft and sweet and sold the dance based on the fact that she was the only one to walk over and ask to join us. Props to the dancer who will approach the table of five women. Of course, we had money on the table, so she was also apparently smart.

Another girl caught my eye with her black lingerie, long, curly, dirty blond hair and gorgeous face, so I requested a dance. She sits down, introduces herself, and I ask her how long she's been there.

"I haven't danced in about two years. Last night was my first night back. I'm a widow; I just lost my husband of 13 years."

I was sorry to hear of her loss, and of course I have sympathy for anyone for whom this is the case, but I was left speechless by this particular conversation opener. As a sales technique it pretty much ensures one dance, but probably not a desire to keep her around . . . she kind of made up for it with a terrific lapdance, but oh, god, isn't it like stripper rule #3 not to talk about things like that? I know it's part of some girls' hustle to break out the sob stories, I just can't believe I was on the receiving end of it. So strange.

What I learned from this evening is to stick with Palazio and Perfect 10 for my recreational outings in Austin, by the way, although the Crazy Lady is good for slumming (as is of course my club of choice for working in Austin).

I bet you're all wondering what I'm reading right now. Well, it's Burr and Calming Your Anxious Mind. Yes, I fell prey to a self-help book. When it's pretty obvious what I should do to calm my anxious mind: exercise, meditate, and quit drinking so much coffee. But I'm a reader, not a doer.

The past week at the DII was totally unreliable; I had one day where I left with $17 and another when I couldn't leave because guys were keeping me on the couch for so long. Apparently my quest for a reliable day shift begins and ends in Texas.

Last Saturday was very, very quiet for much of the day, with most of us hanging out in the dressing room stretching and chatting for the first hour and a half while the club couldn't open due to computer problems (no computer online = no cash register). So I meandered up on to the stage for another set in front of five guys. A new customer wandered in, got his drink, and tossed a $5 on the rack for me. "That's cool," I thought. "He'll probably get a dance." Then on my second song, he tosses a $50 up there, and I do a triple take. It's been ages since I've gotten a bill that large on stage; I got a few $20s now and then in Indiana, and one $100 shower in singles, but a $50 bill grabs your attention. Obviously, he turned out to be a charming and witty young man and kept me company until my next round. And of course he had ties to Texas, and talked about how hard it was to spend the same amount of money in Portland that he would run through at a club there, as there wasn't much "salesmanship" on the part of the dancers there. This is very, very true; the dancers don't push private dances as much here. More on that later, I promise.

So I was happy with what I'd made after he left, and was doing my last stage set of the day when a customer at the rack asked for a dance. And then kept going so long, I was there for another hour and had to go back up again.

I only worked on Tuesday and Wednesday of this past week; I had an awful cold Monday and spent Thursday packing and yesterday traveling. I'm in Austin until the 30th and will be working a little and entertaining a lot.

Here's the Sun article about Mimi in New York, which made me remember the time I allowed myself to be interviewed and photographed on stage. Hah. Mr. Wayward and myself had the pleasure of meeting Mimi and her cohorts last week while she was in Oregon, though we didn't accompany her on any club visits, one of which is detailed rather hilariously in her blog. It was a very pleasant evening, and she told me how surprised she was at the actual dancing ability of the Union Jack's girls. "In New York we aren't allowed to use the pole," she said, "because it's not classy." Because, we agreed, everything else we do is so very classy that hanging from the pole would rip the audience out of the illusion that we're models pacing a catwalk or debutantes, etc. Hell, at least her club (Scores West) had a pole. Some of those classy joints don't even have them, and you're left to strut around, since those types of clubs will want you to wear a lycra "gown" that allows for little real dancing or movement. But hey, you look classy! I've only worked in a few clubs of that sort and while I like to put on my pearls and pin up my hair, part of the fun of being a stripper is, you know, being trashy.

Not five kids, a trailer, stretch marks and tattoos of your incarcerated sweetie's name trashy, but wearing red lipstick, having long fingernails and rhinestone earrings, cussing and telling dirty jokes trashy. Extensions trashy. Let me make that a little clearer; Christina Aguilera trashy, not Britney Spears trashy (and who would have thought Xtina would be the classy trashy one?).

And, of course, as I've mentioned here before, it's always the customers who take pains to tell you how "classy" you are who will then insult you by asking why they can't fuck you for money . . . after offering a really low sum. Heh, I'm probably not going to do it either way, but the guy who offers me $5K is clearly a misguided sweetheart whereas the one who boasts of never paying more than $200 to "date" is a jackass.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, so it's always funny how some clubs want to class it up a bit. I worked at one where suddenly we were told not to do any floorwork (splits, crawling about on all fours, spreading legs, etc.) on stage. Perfectly fine during a table dance, but not on stage. I have no idea what their goal was with that edict; it was a no-touch nude club, so pretty much its sole appeal was lots and lots of crotch shots. And for those of you thinking "ick, naked girls on the stage," please bear in mind that we don't wipe our spread pussies about on the stage. When lying back, it's on the tailbone, when doing the splits, it's not all the way. And of course, there's always a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a towel to clean the pole with should you be afraid it's . . . sweaty . . .

The whole concept of "classy," or, rather, "upscale," in a strip joint interests me a great deal. It's pretty much run its course, but in the 1990s you could find a flourishing steakhouse with tits in every mid-to-major American city. It's a market that's since been saturated, and of course, expense accounts and corporate outings aren't what they used to be. But there are still clubs that operate on this model (Scores and PEC in NYC, The Men's Club in several cities, the Lodge and Cabaret Royale in Dallas, VIPs in Chicago, the larger Vegas clubs, the Cheetah in Atlanta, and many more). I believe that it originated with Rick's in Houston, but I think further research is required.

The interesting thing is that the girls, apart from the really strict clubs, don't sustain the facade that begins with marble entranceways, exterior fountains, and valet parking. It's singularly unsettling to walk into a club like Cabaret Royale, which has fireplaces and VIP cubbyholes and a separate steakhouse to see a girl with a bad weave, booty shorts, and plastic boots on stage. If you're walking into Titties and Buttcheeks, that's what you expect. But upscale club? Hell, yes, I want artifical "class" to extend to the dancers.

Not that I would give up my booty shorts and plastic boots, though.

Stuff is here. It's been six weeks since it was all packed up and three weeks since we took occupancy of the apartment, but there were all kinds of dull and annoying moving snafus. But stuff is here for me to enjoy until leaving for Austin again in a week, where I'll be for ten days. A bachelorette party will be one of my activities if anyone has any deranged entertainment to suggest; clown stripper, perhaps?

It rains a lot up here. For instance, it's the 12th, and Portland's already received the same amount of rain it usually receives for the entire month of January. Also, it's slow at work.

One customer sat in the club for about an hour, then left, then returned a half hour later.

"Where'd you run off to?"
"Oh, I had to take my little girl out for a while. She's waiting outside in the truck."
Dear lord, I have to get up and tell management someone's left a kid outside in his car.
"Uh . . . "
"She's a six-month-old yellow Lab."
Oh, thank god.
"Ahhh. Hah hah hah."

That was about the most interesting thing that happened today.

Pardon the mess as I remodel the site. Photo pages will be down while I'm dealing with them.


also, Hook 'em!