Ava Adore

DSM of Dbags: Type G: “Money Talks.”

Installment seven of the catalogue of the douchebags I meet.

Last night’s Douchebag of the Night: Type G, “Money Talks.”

The psychology of Money Talks involves sheer desperation and very grabby hands. We don’t why he can’t seem to get ass from any other female on the planet, but there he is, in his tipping glory. Unlike other douches, Money Talks has the willingness to spend—but also thinks this buys the privilege to mistake a strip club for a legitimate brothel.

Money Talks is like the Boss Level of Screwdriver. While the Screwdriver is more mental, and deals in ‘promises’ of sex, Money Talks is physical, and wants instant gratification.

Last night was not the first version of Money Talks that I’ve met, but certainly the worst. Usually we don’t waste time with grabby folks and walk before they can even blink—but that kind isn’t usually tipping 20s consistently.

After Paul had left, this new dude tipped me a 5 and called me over, so I decided to go see what he was about. It started out alright, he tipped me a 20 right off the bat, and slipped some singles into my t-back, and we got to talking.

It was the usual bullshit, would I like to be his girlfriend etc, all part of the game and harmless enough. The first red light that went off was when he said, ‘I’m hot, right? You’re attracted to me. Say you’re attracted to me. Then you could tip me instead.’

I told him the tipping went one way here and the creepiness was starting to edge out of his eyes as he got more comfortable with me. He tipped me another ten in singles and started to get super uncomfortable with the touching—and I mean really uncomfy.

I told him, as we do, “Boundaries!” and he got pouty but listened for all of 2 minutes before he went back to trying to touch my vajay over my t-back. I pushed him away and said, “Seriously, take the hint. Do not fucking touch me again or I am walking.”

He begged me to stay and tipped me another 20. After some useless banter of really inappropriate innuendos and him trying unsuccessfully to get me to put my hand on his groinal region, he tried to get under my t-back and I actually slapped him in the face.

I was beyond pissed and really uncomfortable, so I told him that’s a 20 dollar fine, because I was gonna take it and walk. I learned the hard way with Lilah that sometimes the bottom line in the club is that money is the only language anyone understands.

They want to hand you their wallet? Take it. They want to take advantage of you? Take advantage of them. He tried to wheedle and negotiate his way into a) paying less of a fine and b) still keeping me there. I told him to have a nice life and walked away.

By this time Steve was waiting for me with a drink like a godsend. I saw, unfortunately, that Ra. had taken my place; I’ll do a profile on Ra. at some point, she is an amazing person. Anyway, I didn’t want her to go through what I’d gone through.

I excused myself a moment from Steve and went to grab her away, which she was appreciative of, because she’s a little less direct than I am. We went into the back and complained to the manager. We got him kicked out. Bastard deserved it.

In conclusion to the sort of gent he is?
His first words to Ra. were: “So, do you like being molested?”
(You cannot make this shit up.)

Play Within a Play

Those of you who have ever studied Shakespeare, performed theatre, or stepped inside a strip club have some idea… It’s all, to a degree, performance—and there are plays within plays. The audience changes, but the actors remain.

Respect and trust are key here. I’m friendly with all of the girls, but I’m just closer with a few, and some I will push more boundaries with than others because through experience I’ve come to trust them as performers.

This is vital concerning “bisexuality” in the workplace. I put this in air quotes because, currently, I am the only all-out lesbian at the House. There are a few authentic bisexuals—Dy. and Jn., for example—but most are just acting the play within the play.

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R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I said it once and I’ll say it again: one of the reasons I love working at the House, specifically, so much, is the respect the girls give to one another on the whole. I love the girls I work with.

Respect is everywhere. Girls watch out for each other, a sort of sisterhood-of-the-locker-room. We mainly don’t wear a costume similar to another girl’s, we don’t dance to ‘her’ songs, we don’t steal her gimmicks. We all make our own way.

We don’t step on each others’ clients—ever. I was so floored one day when an older, more experienced girl at our club was requested by my client, whom I was already sitting with.

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DSM of Dbags: Type C: “Screwdriver.”

Installment three of the catalogue of the douchebags I meet.

Last night’s Douchebag of the Night: Type C, the “Screwdriver.”

The psychology of Screwdriver takes ‘sex sells’ to heart. These men are total tools only interested in spending time with you if you’re going to go home with them after the club. (Which, by the way, is illegal.) They confuse strip clubs with brothels. As with other douchebags, propensity toward not tipping.

I think this conversation explains itself:

Lilah: (Sitting with three new men.) Oh hey, this is my best friend Ava, have you met her yet?
Douche: We’ve met before. She doesn’t like me.
Ava: I think he has me confused with another girl here. I don’t know him.
Douche: I think you do. [TOWN NAME], right? You don’t like me. You said you don’t like men like me. (Insinuating his race.)
Ava: No, [OTHER TOWN NAME]. Lilah and I both live there.
Lilah: We grew up together. She’s very sweet. She wouldn’t say that.
Douche: Well then (pulling me closer, trying to feel me up below the waist), I guess you like me.
Ava: Sure, I like you (removing wandering hands to establish boundaries).
Douche: Are you going to come home with me?
Ava: (Shyly/coyly) No, I don’t do that.
Douche: Then you don’t like me.
Ava: I like you fine, in the club.
Douche: No, then you don’t like me. Are you going to come home with me or not?
Ava: No, I don’t do that, we can hang out here but I’m not going home with you.
Douche: If you’re not coming home with me then I don’t want you. You don’t like me.
Ava: Then you’re right. I don’t like you. Thank you for your honesty.

At which point, I walked away to visit the DJ to find out when my last set was. Lilah came over shortly after; apparently she’d been having a similarly rude conversation with one of the other men in the group and also had an attempt at a vajayjay feel-up.

She’d also received a ripped-in-half dollar only as tip (which, bee-tee-dubs, is a direct insult). Our DJ said one of the bouncers was looking to throw the group out and getting pretty angry, so Lilah went to go tell the manager what happened. After discussing the set with the DJ, I headed back and walked in on the explanation.

Turns out I had a half-dollar waiting for me, too.

It doesn’t sound awful in words, but it was. Especially considering I hadn’t even been sitting with them any longer, it was insult to injury. I don’t have a good analogy, but it’s kind of like leaving a waitress a quarter, only with more emotional weight, and a kicked puppy thrown in for shits and giggles. Yeah.