Ava Adore

DSM of Dbags: Type B: “Father Figure.”

Installment two of the catalogue of the douchebags I meet.

Last night’s Douchebag of the Night: Type B, the “Father Figure.”

The psychology of Father Figure involves a ten minute or more lecture series that is meant to be flattering, concerning how you’re “too good” for this place, that you’re just “different” than the other girls and “above it” and should really get a different job. As with other douchebags, propensity toward not tipping.

On my way back to the locker room after a set last night, an elderly gentleman grabbed me by the wrist as he stood on the short dark steps in front of the lapdance room. He had a very heavy Italian accent; my hearing isn’t stellar to begin with, so I had to lean in to hear him over the music.

He starts talking, as Father Figures are wont to do, about how ‘different’ I am, how my personality really makes me not ‘fit in’ here. Here’s the kicker: We hadn’t spoken yet. He’d only just seen me dance on stage. Way to make the judgment call, however ‘flattering.’

I didn’t know whether or not he’d spend money on me at this point yet, since he did, after all, pull me aside. So I’d coyly replied, ‘I don’t fit in here? What, do you not like me?’ with my best big-eyed-girl doe eye impression. And he went off on an entire other tangent on how of course he liked me, but I don’t ‘belong here.’

All standard fare for a Type B. The weird thing was how he went on for about three minutes, literally, about how girls who work in clubs ‘lose trust.’ I asked him to clarify. He cited that somehow, by virtue of working in a club, my friends and family, who are aware and even accepting, are ‘losing trust’ in me.

I asked him how and he failed to answer. About then, especially concerning a ten minute conversation with no tipping nor promise of tipping, I left to head to the locker room. Later, I was talking with Rm., who had run into him at the club before. He’d given her the same exact speech.

The better question is, sir, why are you here?