Ava Adore

Shift: 11.07.10, 5pm-12am.

Started out with John, a gent I’ve sat with before. We talked Jets games and Metallica tickets and his life that’s going awry: he and his wife are having screaming matches. He loves his 3 young children. Which is more damaging: divorce or hostile environment?

Hard questions. He also likes to question me about my love life, he’s seen Ch. and I make out for money for him before (you mean we get paid to do what we normally do?). I don’t reveal much of anything.

He asks about coming out to my folks. I give an abbreviation version. I’m not all-out to most of my clients - I think that merits a whole other post. He doesn’t get dances but again, tips me very well, and without my asking. A pleasure.

After that all the post-game kids come in and crowed the bar for about a half hour to an hour, and while they’re useless for dances in favour of their beers, they’re good for macho posturing and made it rain for me twice. Thank you!

When they cleared out, one of the football game kids remained; he’d apparently really taken a shine to me, called me over after my set with an ‘Aren’t you available yet?!’ His name was Brian; he’s a painter, works in abstract with spray paint.

We talked art and galleries and big families and Etsy before he took me for a 15 minute private (please and thank you) where he was incredibly kind and respectful (please and thank you) while still showing he enjoyed it. Please and thank you!

I told him to come back. I hope that he does. By that time I was about done with my shift for the day. I spent time with an older duo of friends who weren’t tipping me as well as I’d liked; then I went on stage another time and high-tailed it out of there.

Douchebag Count: 0
$hift Grade: B+

Shift Roundup!

10.20.10, 10.22.10, 10.24.10, and 10.25.10, all 6pm-12am.

It’s been boring, what can I say. First we chalked it up to the playoffs, but the Yankees lost out due to the fact that they weren’t playing like they fucking cared—Come on. Come back out of the woodwork. You want my tits, I want your money. Fair trade.

Anyway. Each night had one good thing about it, like Keith and Bob, whom I always like bullshitting with. Ch. and I call them Penn and Teller; Keith looks exactly like Penn, and Bob looks close enough to Teller that we don’t care if they’re different people. Ch. likes to think it’s really them.

On Sunday one of my regulars, Charlie (of Proud Mary fame), came in to visit. I authentically love spending time with him. He’s such a bloody sweetheart. He just moved to Bayside, and I used to live in Whitestone, so we talked about that for awhile. He comes in with his friend Joe, who likes to hang with Lilah.

Charlie does this thing, I’m pretty sure it’s an unconscious tic, but when he’s happy or pleased, he makes little whimpery-sigh puppy noises. So if you’re leaning into him and rubbing his back and talking, he just kinda makes noises like this. It’s adorable but I don’t want to call him on it in case he gets self-conscious.

Monday I got to see Jim, who doesn’t get dances but tips well because he’s one of the liquor suppliers to the House and he does spends and I’m his favourite to chat with meanwhile. Last time we talked about Napoleon and Russia. This time ranged from Tarantino to Louis XIV.

Oh, does anyone know: Did Tarantino cameo in Kill Bill as he does in most of his other films? If so, as who? I need to find this out.

Other than that, not much went on. Hung out with regulars Tony, John and Jeff; got a few dances from randoms; nothing to remark on. I don’t remember what I wore, partly because I’m ADD with it and partly because Penn and Teller like to tip me to go through my wardrobe.

Douchebag Count: 0.
$hift Grades: C, C, D, and C, respectively.

Ask Me About My Minky

I forgot to mention that story from Sunday night.

Courtesy of Gary, whom Ch. originally heard as Larry, and who was so drunk he couldn’t remember his name when I met him so I’d dubbed him Brian… Anyway, So Gary/Larry/Brian calls the vajay a ‘minky.’

Hearing a gentleman of a certain age call anything a minky is fucking hysterical. Hearing a sloshed, non-British gentleman of a certain age point, red-faced from booze and blushing, at Ch.’s vajay-area and call it a ‘minky’ is even more fucking hysterical.

In conclusion, ‘minky’ is now a necessary part of our stripper vocabulary.

Shift: 10.18.10, 6pm-12am.

I am happy the Yankees are in the playoffs.

I am happy the Yankees are in the playoffs. I am happy the Yankees are in the playoffs.

Maybe if I keep repeating it, it will become true. Okay—that’s a little harsh. Being a Yankees fan, I am happy they’re in the playoffs. What I am not happy about is that the Serious Faced Sports Fans—a large chunk of clientele—don’t want to be distracted by chatty women with only slightly concealed breasts as they watch the game.

Which means they watch the games at home with their Serious Faces as we get closer to the playoff’s conclusion. Which means I’m slightly cranky. Not as cranky as Summer Season cranky, but about as cranky as a child who has a lollipop, and is promised another lollipop next Sunday, and then, come Sunday there is no lollipop.

Spent last night getting only stage tips and heavy barside tips from Tony, a respectful regular who comes in and just blows cash on drinks and tipping but nothing else—he’s always high as a kite and a good time to chat with. Then the gents from the other night, Keith and Bob and newly Bart, came in and tipped me for about an hour.

“Vegas” Jeff came in and Ch. sat with him for a bit; we didn’t get to catch-up long, but he did say something really nice to me: “When I saw you when you started, you were a dancer—now I see you and you’re a performer.” Aw, shucks.

And that’s my story. I spent the entire night hanging with Ch. and Jo. at Tony’s side and then Keith’s side, with stage interludes. Lo. got her job back, she’s working Saturdays and Sundays. I still have bruises. I wore Closer, Snow White, and Punk Rock V2.0. I’m still not feeling too hot; may not work tomorrow.

Douchebag Count: 0
$hift Grade: C

Shift: 10.17.10, 6pm-12am.

This shift was not as intense as Friday’s, thankfully. It was slow for a Sunday, surprisingly. I made my first $100 simply because Ch.’s drunk, handsy client Gary thought I was cute and Ch. was nice enough to share, and the drunk guy was good enough to continue to tip us both heavily, so it was win-win.

Ch. left hella early because her knees were killing her. I gotta get that girl some Tiger Balm patches. I made stage tips the rest of the night until Brett and Felicia came in for her post-birthday lapdance (Happy birthday girl! I don’t think you read this, but you rock anyway) right before I left, around midnight. I love those clients.

Lo. came in to visit around 11:30, which was pretty cool! We caught up, she’s trying to get her job back because it turns out Mi. got fired (!) which I didn’t know until last night. I don’t know what Mi. could have possibly done to get fired, but seeing as it’s Mi., it must have been pretty bad; I know they like to keep her. I am surprised.

That’s about it. Watched bad Japanese horror at Ch.’s after my shift. Was ADD with clothes, wore Lorenzo, La Cage, SOS, and Baby Firefly. I need to update my locker list badly. I have new bruises on my hip from landing a new trick. Learned two new tricks, still working on getting them to look right.

Douchebag Count: 0
$hift Grades: B

Shift: 10.11.10, 6pm-2am.

Possessive.

That’s the word that comes to mind after last night.

Blood, too, but I’ll get to that later.
We’ll start with ‘possessive.’ We’ll start with Keith.

It was slow, because it was a holiday kids are off from school, so after I sat with a great gent for a half hour, Ch. and I sat barside and bullshitted for another half hour. At one point I happen to look up, surprised, to see Keith standing there. Right next to me. Mouse quiet, ninja style.

He remembered me from the last time he came in; he said he’d come to see me. Alright, that’s cool, I’m down with that, I didn’t remember much but most people who come to see a specific dancer have brought money for that dancer, and the more we talked the more I remembered a few things.

He’s like a twisted Father Figure, he believes the best of me and that this isn’t the way, but since he knows how I feel about it he’s taken it upon himself to Protect Me from Other Men there. Ch. got appropriated into the umbrella for the evening, or so he told me he didn’t ‘like when the other guys hit on her.’

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Shift: 10.10.10, 6pm-2am.

It looks like we might be rounding the bend back into Stripper Season, which I’m thrilled about. The sun goes down, it gets colder, beaches have less half-naked women… and so you come back. You always come back. Disney villain laughter here.

It’s about damn time, and I’m ecstatic to be working the cold season again. I’ve been kept so busy that I haven’t been able to update the last two shifts from Wednesday and Saturday: I made B grades each night but I definitely still hate, hate working Saturdays.

I didn’t work Friday like usual because I went out with Ch. instead and dyed her hair blue. It brings out her eyes and she’s fucking adorable. Just saying. Anyway, Story came in to work with Lilah and I at the House last night, so that was sweet.

She had great shoes! Leave it to me to notice that. Teeze-05s in candy apple Red, in case you were wondering. It was cool to have a kindred blogging spirit around, plus just the charisma and wealth of experiences she brought with her. A definite pleasure.

For my part, it was the Evening of Dudes with J-Names. I got a dance with a teddy bear named John, 2 from a Hollister guy named Jerry, and 2 from Joe, who was a total sweetheart and was just happy to dance around with me at the bar like middle school.

I also got a private with Joe—and a private with a married couple a) who won’t be married for long and b) whose names I didn’t catch. That private I did with Vi. I danced for the gent, she danced for the lady; the lady is the second encounter of the Naked Vagina kind that I’ve had.

That shit never ceases to floor me. #Put That Away!

Like seriously? Seriously. Seriously right now you’re at a strip club without panties on getting a lapdance and trying to suckle Vi.’s breasts like an unweened child? Even for me, it was a bit intense. The husband seemed equally turned off, thus the ‘not married for long’ statement. His words, not mine. Good luck with that one.

Also, I’m running out of Douchebag profiles because I am better at picking them out right away. Sat with some guy who had the makings of a That Guy, his line was he was a millionaire on welfare. All his friends ratted him out for having money, but oh no, he’d rather take me to “real dinner with real drinks and real girls.”

Apparently I’m Not A Real Girl! Now I know what Pinocchio was on to. Anyway, I left his sorry ass before I could really count him as a waste of my time. Go me. Spent the evening in Punk Rock Princess (v2, with vest) and got new bruises on my inner upper right arm. Pics to follow.

Douchebag Count: 0.
$hift Grades: A+

‘You got a purdy mouth.’

“Your girlfriend’s got a great ass,” Rh. said to me barside around 1am.

“Yeah—But she’s not my girlfriend,” I correctly kindly, mixed between surprised and scared. It was odd that suddenly we were being viewed as a couple, when we are still getting to know each other! But also somewhat validating, insofar as coworker recognition.

It is still a pleasant surprise, though, especially considering our barback’s reaction, how open-minded a strip club can really be—how people can really be.

In this same ‘heteronormative’ space, where clients will as soon ask about your girlfriend as boyfriend, many of the dancers are equally as open, regardless of their orientation or religion. In a way, I simply hadn’t expected it.

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