When I first started, if a customer was rude to me, I would snap right back with some equally rude retort. I had an arsenal of come backs for every occasion and every mean comment. It didn’t make me a single dollar, but it did feed my ego. With experience, I changed my approach. I wasn’t there to teach anyone a lesson, I was there to make money. On a case by case basis, I would elect to silently walk away, ignore their behavior and pretend like I didn’t hear the comment, or make a cute quip that steered the conversation in a new direction. Divert and destroy.
Occasionally male customers take pleasure in insulting the dancers intentionally, but all to often they are just completely clueless on how to talk to us, fumbling what is intended to be a conversation starter into an odd and ill received comment. For example:
Him: (insert any oddly worded or outright insulting comment about my physicality here)
Me: “Oh babe I’m so glad you noticed— I’m definitely not perfect, I’m just really really close.”
Smile. Subject change.
Divert and destroy.
My responses have become more smoothly crafted and soft. More understanding. More than ever I realize that stripping as a job can have a healing effect on customers. When they are rude it’s a cry for help. Patience and understanding can earn a payday if you put in a little work.
Saturday mid shift, 5 to 9pm, the opposite of the Dolly Parton song. I was tucked in the stairwell of the tiny hallway that led to the dressing room, scanning the room. A slender man in a blue and white plaid button up shirt looked irritated. His handsome salt and pepper face was knotted in a scowl. I have learned that you don't want to rush the angry customers. They're there to blow off some steam, maybe take a shot, and they don’t want to be pounced on. Ten minutes ago I'd already walked by and casually said hello and welcome to Mary's, kept walking. He said thank you but refused to make eye contact. He hadn’t even turned to look at the stage where my coworker draped her long blonde hair over one shoulder, swaying slowly, her bare hip curves undulating to a slow song. There were two empty shot glasses in front of him. This mid shift was slow, so I couldn't help but notice that the other two dancers working with me had already made their passes at him. They’d left rather quickly, moving on to other corners of the red lit room. He had probably bitten their heads off or turned them down flat; and they thought he wasn't worth any more effort. While most customers are pleasant, we do get a handful who seem intent on being jerks. Even though I knew my prospects probably weren't good, I figured I'd give him a chance.
I sauntered over slowly with my shoulders pulled back. I lifted myself into the anchored bar stool to his left, sliding my bare ass onto its cold vinyl top. I gently moved my right hand across the bar top toward his, but stopped just shy of touching him. “Would you like some company?” I spoke softly, tipping my head forward, attempting eye contact. His shoulders hunched, he was lurched over his half empty glass staring into the dark brown liquid. His eyes did not meet mine. He barely moved, but he did speak. “Ugh, leave me the fuck alone” he grumbled.
Any average fool knows that dancers will approach you if you choose to enter a strip club. If you don’t intend to tip the dancers and just want to sit and drink, go to the bar down the street—the one with no sign that reads “Live Nude Girls”.
I didn’t respond to his grumble. I just sat there, slowly slid my arm away from his, sitting up straight and pressing my back into my vinyl half-back bar stool perch. I took a few breaths and let my shoulders relax. I stared forward into the mirror behind the rows of tall liquor bottles. In the mirror I saw his head lift and tilt toward me. He was surprised I was still there. I kept my face forward and my voice soft. “It’s ok, we don’t need to talk. I’m just gonna take a break here for a minute.”
“I didn’t mean to be like that.” he said. I turned to look at him, and his sullen eyes met mine. “Oof, seems like you’ve had a heavy day, no offense.”
One corner or his mouth smirked, and he shrugged. “Yeah it’s been rough.”
“Well, should we do another shot then?” I smiled. He waved the bartender over.
After a bit of whiskey, Dan and I started talking. He was from Chicago, but his dad lived in Portland. He was in town to help his aging father move into an assisted living building downtown. His father fought it. They’d spent a long day arguing. Dan was racked with guilt about pushing his dad into a major life change, but relieved that he’d begrudgingly accepted that it needed to happen. He helped his dad move boxes into the new place all day. He’d been walking back to his hotel on Broadway when the flashing vintage neon sign of Marys Club caught his eye, and he thought some whiskey might help him relax.
After listening to him, I quipped “I just read in a medical journal that boobs lower stress levels. Should we do some private dances? I mean, you are stressed out and this is clinically proven-you can’t argue with science.” Both corners of his mouth smirked.
Over the next few hours we talked about all kinds of things—hiking, music, shoes—and he’d circle back and talk more about his dad and what was going on. He needed to talk about it in small doses. In between my stage sets, we’d sit at the bar and talk or continue our conversation in the private dance room. When I danced for him, he’d lean in close to my neck to smell my hair and I’d see him smile.
At last call, he asked when I was working again. “Not til Wednesday night.” With a look of disappointment, he said he was leaving the next day after lunch with his dad. Knowing from our conversations that he was on instagram, I told him my handle so he could see when I posted my schedule. He’d be flying back to town again to see his dad in a few months. “Come by here any time, seems like it’s close to where you usually stay. I’ll be here.” He smiled.
The next day, I was sitting on the patio of my favorite Thai place a few blocks from the club. My little brother was in town and we were having lunch. He knows about my job and we were talking about Portland bar culture. The sunlight drifted through the trees onto plates full of rice and rolls. Tourists walked by with pink boxes full of Voodoo Doughnuts. Looking up, a familiar face approaching caught my eye. It was Dan. As he got closer, I realized he was with an elderly man in a baseball cap, walking slowly with a beautiful wooden cane.
It must be his dad.
He saw me and seemed unsure of what to do. Say hello? Keep walking? I was pleasantly surprised at this, it meant he knew it wasn’t appropriate to out a sex worker.
I took the initiative, smiled and waved him over. “Hey! Good to see you again! This is my brother, we are having lunch. Where are you headed?”
Dan looked relieved I’d spoken first. He told me they were walking down the street to get a pizza. He introduced his dad. The old man grinned and leaned closer to Dan, half shouting “Is this the lady you met at the bar last night?” John turned red and nodded yes. I very much doubt he told his dad we met in a strip club, but that didn’t matter. I was tickled. His dad shook my hand. After a casual chat they moved along up the sidewalk toward the pizza place. My brother and I laughed at the encounter.
The next day I checked my instagram. There was the sweetest message from Dan. He thanked me for our conversation, private dances, and for my patience.
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