I got beat up by a stripper last month. Well, not really beat up, more assaulted. Long story short she insists on thinking that I fucked her boyfriend.
This happened to me once before when I worked at Mary’s Club. A girl I worked with—she said she was studying to be a nuclear physicist and I believed her—was dating an absolute cad I’ll call Lucky.
Lucky frequently sat at my rack and was always asking for a date, my phone number, some pussy. And I always turned him down. Then one quiet day shift while I was reading Beth’s Economist in the dressing room, all holy hell broke loose. Lucky, the bastard, had actually told his old lady he’d laid me. The nuclear physicist was PISSED and threatening to detonate like an atom bomb.
The situation was so absurd I had to restrain my laughter. Instead I tried to hypnotize her.
“I did not fuck your boyfriend. I did not fuck your boyfriend. I’m in a long-term monogamous relationship. I did not fuck your boyfriend.”
She threw a hairbrush at me or something and then left town to have the bastard’s baby. But she never got over it. I had most definitely fucked her bastard boyfriend. Nothing I could say or do would convince her I hadn’t.
My grandma told my mom told me that women are snakes in the grass and are not to be trusted. But for most of my time in this fair industry, I’ve been delighted by the sisterhood at the strip bars and the ho’s-before-bro’s ethos. I’Il lay down my heart and soul for any lady in the dressing room. Anyone else, even my lovers, has a hard time getting me to cough up my email address or phone number.
So this most recent guy I didn’t fuck... Truth be told he and I have barely gotten along at all since his last girlfriend slapped me at Dante’s. But his latest lay got it in her head otherwise. So she wrote a slanderous article about me in a now defunct rival of Exotic’s which inferred that I a) am a talentless writer, b) am overweight, c) have herpes and d) am fucking everyone’s boyfriends. Then she quoted Anton LaVey, damning me to an eternity in hell for my wayward ways.
Girls I work with—the ho’s-before-bro’s girls—were incensed. They wanted blood. I’ve heard reports that the budding satanist was threatened onstage and more. But I stayed out of the fray. It was, quite frankly, ridiculous. Plus, after twenty years of fucking it up, I’ve finally learned that it is indeed better to turn the other cheek and to forgive and forget.
Three months later, I stopped by a strip bar for an Irish Coffee on my way to work. She happened to be dancing.
My young friend—who, as Goddess Severina pointed out, is so plain as to be almost unrecognizable—spotted me instantly. She accused me of coming in on her shifts to antagonize her. She was hysterical.
“Honey, you’re so vain.” I replied calmly. “I don’t come in for you; I come in for a drink.”
She threw a fit, threw my drink and purse across the room, then had me 86’d. This was mildly upsetting. But it made for good times at the pish-posh restaurant I work at when I came in, feathers ruffled, and said, bewilderedly,
“I just got beat up by a STRIPPER!”
Later in the week I phoned the club’s owner to apologize for the incident and to determine whether I was indeed 86’d. Yup, I was.
It’s remarkable, I told him, for a strip club owner to put a dancer’s relationship drama before a customer’s dollar.
“We have a policy here,” he said. “Whenever a girl feels uncomfortable with a patron, we ask him to leave.”
Holy shit! I thought. A ho’s-before-bro’s STRIP CLUB OWNER! I wanna work there! But... I’m 86’d.
Oh, well. I’ll get my Irish Coffee across the street. In the meantime, I’m printing up new t-shirts, just in time for summer, that say, “Jesus Christ, Lady. I did NOT fuck your boyfriend.” Get yours today at xmag.com!
[And by the way, if a guy I’m trysting with strays, I don’t go after the bitch, bitch, I go after the hound.]