Ava Adore

DSM of Dbags: Type L: “The Waffler.”

Installment twelve of the catalogue of the douchebags I meet.

The other night’s Douchebag of the Night: Type L, “The Waffler.”

The psychology of the Waffler is a cowardly one. He knows where he is (a strip club) and what goes on there—and he didn’t just ‘come for the game’ and $9 beers. He looks like a client, talks like a client, walks like a client… but he just can’t seem to decide if he wants to act like one. The indecision is debilitating but you won’t know it until the last second—BAM! Waffled.

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DSM of Dbags: Type K: “Dramatic Foil.”

Installment eleven of the catalogue of the douchebags I meet.

The other night’s Douchebag of the Night: Type K, “Dramatic Foil.”

The psychology of the Dramatic Foil hinges on the presence of a Boobytrap. For some reason, this gent decided to take his lady friend to the club. And since this particular lady is a Boobytrap, she’s not too interested in being there, and he’s not too interested in being there: he’s interested in upping his chances with the lady he brought. It’s been awhile since I had a new douchebag to catalogue, but the Night of the Living Douchebags highlighted this specimen for me. We were overrun with Boobytraps of all sexual preferences and orientations. This guy came in with some of them.

The Dramatic Foil isn’t actually interested in the girls on stage—and heaven forbid he should be, because that would ruin his brilliant plan. You see, he believes that by bringing his girl to the club, he can ego-boost her and use us as playing field for comparisons.

“Oh baby, you’re so much hotter than that girl.”

“She doesn’t even do anything for me. I’m only looking at you.”

“You dance way better than her!”

“I’m glad you’re not like these girls. You’re different.”

You get the idea. I’m sure the tactic sounds better when some of the words are drowned out by enigmatic thumping bass lines. Anyway, he’s trying to impress her, and it doesn’t do so well with impressing us, especially since neither of them want to be there and neither of them want to tip. Awkward!

Go home and critique porn already. Oh I forgot, you haven’t gotten that far yet to be able to watch porn with her, and that’s why you’re still doing this stupid shit for her attention.

DSM of Dbags: Type J: “Boobytrap.”

Installment ten of the catalogue of the douchebags I meet.

Last night’s Douchebag of the Night: Type J, “Boobytrap.”

The psychology of the Boobytrap basically includes breasts—less colloquially, this trait is found in cisgendered women, because the gendering is the basis for the issue. Most cis women believe that because they, too, have a vagina, they should not have to pay you. If anything, you’re competition to their status as ‘arm candy’ or ‘hot dancer.’ Exceptions apply if not heterosexual.

This post has been a long time coming. We get this all the time. All the time. I held off on it because it’s true, we usually avoid women customers. And this, coming from me, the lesbian stripper.

But the bottom line is few good things come of interacting with women clientele unless they initiate it. You’ll either piss off their boyfriend—or they’re already pissed off that their boyfriend brought them to begin with—or they wish they were you.

It just not a good breeding ground for manners—or tips. And that’s the problem. On the floor, we stay away… but if you’re sitting at the bar attached to the boy who brought you, you’re taking up bar space. You’re in a chair. You’re in a paying customer’s chair and I just worked my ass off. You give me a goddamn dollar.

“I just got dragged here.”

“I’m not tipping.”

“I’m not interested.”

These are not acceptable responses from anyone sitting at the bar, man, woman, or otherwise—but this is the usual go-to response from a woman. And I hate it. Put up the dollar, okay? Then take it up with your boy because I didn’t ask you to be here, in a stage chair. Go sit in the corner or leave.

This is different for non-heterosexual women. Most non-hetero women seem to fall into the posturing young men do: that is, they view it as a ‘rite of passage’ to go out with ‘the bois’ and ogle at women and not pay them and go home to their ‘hotter girlfriends’—or toys, or hands, what have you.

Bottom line is you’re still a woman and you’re still not tipping me at the stage. Cut it the fuck out. And especially don’t start dancing bar-side like you could do it better. It’s tacky and I hate you. That being said, not all women are douchebags at the club. I have had excellent lady-clients; Hayley jumps right to mind.

It just seems that all women who are douchebags fit in this one category.

DSM of Dbags: Type I: “Runaround Sue.”

Installment nine of the catalogue of the douchebags I meet.

Last night’s Douchebag of the Night: Type I, “Runaround Sue.”

The psychology of the Runaround Sue is rooted in commitment issues, a misplaced sense of power, and a disproportionate ego. He makes promises he does not intend to keep, strings you along, and then hangs you out to dry—all before you realize he’s a jackass and not actually a respectful client. He actually believes you’d prefer you’d go to dinner with him instead of pay your bills.

_{Ed note: On a sliding scale of douches, Runaround Sue seems to be a mix of the Bank Run/ner and That Guy, only with less skill and naivete, respectively.}

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DSM of Dbags: Type H: “Cockblocker.”

Installment eight of the catalogue of the douchebags I meet.

Last night’s Douchebag of the Night: Type H, “Cockblocker.”

The psychology of the Cockblocker is pretty much self-explanatory, as, in the case of That Guy, it transcends the strip club. Not unsurprisingly, this gentleman may even be more of a douchebag to his friend than to any of the girls, because he’s a whiny and/or angry pansy hellbent on ruining his friend’s night and any attempts at fun. Go listen to Dashboard Confessional already.

Am I the only one who finds it amusing and ironic that the ‘Cockblocker’ winds up being letter H? I have visions in my head right now of Mike running to CVS to get Preparation H. C’est la vie.

Anyway, as if I didn’t talk enough about Mike in that shift summary, Mike was the Chief of the Cockblockers. I think he has an army of cockblockers just waiting on his beck and call, because his prowess only proves he’s trained others.

Regardless, not only did Anthony give Mike the money for his lapdance, Mike managed to somehow so thoroughly not enjoy it that it ruined all future prospects for his own lapdances as he tried to ruin prospects for Anthony, too.

And then, after calming down the post-lapdance raging Hulk he’d become, he drowned his sorrows (I guess?) to the point where he tried to drive home drunk, making his friend leave a private session to check on him. That drunk.

There were other instances, too, like the numerous times he tried to get Anthony to leave because of he was in a sour mood. Really man? That is some world-class cockblocking. I congratulate your skills.

Do not come between a man and his desire to part with money in exchange for hot asses. Or, just don’t come between a friend and a good time, I think is the best take-home lesson, strippers aside.

Either Anthony is used to Mike’s cockblocking ways and this wasn’t a first, or he was just undeterred in his quest for a good time last night—and for that, Anthony sir where ever you are, I salute you.