widowcentauri

Cadillac Lounge — I’m Out!

In Adventure, bullshit, Cadillac Lounge, cheap men, culture, drama, Massachusetts, New England, paying for it, perverts, politics, strip club, Tour, traveling, whores, Widow Centauri on April 18, 2013 at 3:21 pm

No More Cadillac Lounge

Last week when I went to the cadillac lounge I was asked to sign a form saying that prostitution would not be tolerated, that anyone caught engaging in such activities would be fired immediately. I asked the housemum if this was going to be enforced. She shrugged and told me that she can’t be everywhere.

I went to the Cadillac Lounge on Sunday. I really need to be working so I went it. I have had issues with sunday management before. I was assaulted by an employee on a sunday and no one followed up on the situation. This particular sunday I was working like a happy little stripper, wishing I could be at home visiting the family I had in town, not dancing naked for strange men who I have to tell not to bite, scratch, touch my face, or attempt to insert any fingers into my bodily orifices. They always laugh but I just look at them like they are bad children. “Don’t do that and we won’t have a problem” I tell them.

I take a guy into the champagne room. We are chatting. It is loud and I think he likes my blond wig more than my conversation. His english is broken and my spanish is bad. We are smiling and making eye contact and then he stands up and takes his pants down. Just pulls them right down. “You can’t take your pants off in here” I tell him. “What?” He says shocked. “No really, pull your pants up or the dance I over” and he insists that other girls let him get naked.

This dude is a short, middle aged, pudgy little dark skinned man. I don’t have any interest in looking at his dick as it peeks out from under his roll of belly fat. “Pull your pants up” I say loud enough for people to hear in other rooms. He gets huffy so I walk out into the lobby area and, lucky for me, the manager is sitting right there. “This guy took his pants off in there and is insisting that it is alright” I tell the short Italian manager. H puts his fingers in his hears and closes his eyes, shakes his head back and forth and sings la-la-la” Indicating that he wants nothing to do with this.

I head to the dressing room, then realize that this is no place to be. I head to the toilet to process what just happened. The girl in the stall next to me is shooting up. Another really young dancer comes in shivering. I know this shaking bird has a baby or two, but I didn’t realize that she was part of the bathroom needle party. I just sit there in the stall with doors that don’t lock, on a chair, next to the toilet, looking like I’m freaking out. I’m pretty sure management is gonna follow me into the ladies bathroom and demand that I refund the money to the dude with no pants. I’m sitting there thinking about my option, buying time to figure out what to do.

I like working at the Cadillac Lounge, sometimes. Actually I used to really like working there, but then things got really shitty. Management started giving me grief when the hoursmum isn’t around. The dancers who dominate the place offer hundred dollar blow jobs. I used to be able to sell a bottle of whisky and sit in VIP with a customer all night swapping stories and doing shots, making money. But they changed the rules. I don’t know if it was because of the time the biker refused to leave his bike after I sold him a bottle or if the liquor laws changed in the state while I was busy writing my thesis. I’m not sure. I only know that I can no longer hustle my ‘let’s get a bottle’ special. I like that sort of night. I’m bumbed that it is no longer an option.

So between the junkies sucking and fucking for peanuts and the fact that I have a person in my flat I would rather be spending time with, and the fact that I was gonna take the next few days off anyway and then I was also gonna take all my clothing and shoes home to wash — well I decided that if it came down to it I would walk out. Or at least I was thinking about it pretty hard.

I have been dancing at this particular titty bar for over a year now. I don’t generally last more than a few months before shit goes wrong. Things are getting out of hand at the Cadillac Lounge. Management has started fining dancers for showing up at 8 pm, not 7 pm. This was sprung on me Saturday night when there were plenty of dancers. “Oh yeah, you have to pay an extra $25 dollar fine for being late” “late?” I asked, looking at my watch. Yeah. Random fine. Due now. They have been doing this for all sorts of random things.

Two big signs in the dressing room read PROSTITUTION IS ILLEGAL but no one seems to care. It is just there to save the club from crashing and burning if the fed ever gave a fuck about the junkies sucking dick in this place, which I’m pretty sure isn’t gonna happen. The fed have greater business to attend to in the smallest and most mafia run state in the nation. This little whore house is just a front. For what sort of business I do not care to know. But I am certain that the titty bar is not doing a huge job bringing in upscale clients. It is not charging enough for a cover or for drinks. It seems to be the cheapest drink in town.

Great.

But back to the bathroom. I’m sitting there and the junkies are sharing a needle and in walks the big black bouncer. He hovers over me and tells me “you know some of the girls here so extras and the guy assumed that you would, what do you think the back rooms are for anyway?” I looked at him defending the actions of the pants dropper and began to run over the last couple of weeks that I have been back at the club. I was sitting there thinking about what to do while this massive man, who should have been on a basketball court, screamed at me that I needed to give the dude with no pants back his money, presumably to buy a belt.

It wasn’t even a lot of money. It was the principal of the thing. The fact that two days prior I was asked to sign a paper that said I would not be engaging in such activities, and now here the management won’t even back me up.

Yeah, I’m out.

I said fuck it. I packed my things into my pink sticker coated Brookstone suitcase. The other dancers in the dressing room looked at me and I said goodbye. The bouncer came in and told me to keep my mouth shut. Not to tell any of the girls what was happening. “I am saying goodbye to some of my coworkers” I told him. You really think you can keep me from telling them what the hell is up? Whatever dude. I’ll be out of here in a minute.

The manager came down to yell at me. I told him I was not going to argue about it. That the situation was rageingly hypocritical. “This is not a good idea” he told me “ you should just give him back his money. He is a friend of the owner.” Everyone pulls that ‘I’m friends with the owner’ shit. This guy was not a friend of the owner. This dude possibly was the owners gardner, but they were not friends. I have danced for the owner’s friends and they all kept their pants on. All of them.

This was bullshit.

So I’m going out tonight in search of a new club to dance in. Given that I am heading to NOLA next week I’m gonna hit some places that I don’t really want to dance. It would be super if a subbie wanted to take me on a little tour of the clubs. We could go a s customers and scope some places I really would not mind working. Or I’ll just go hit up a few places and make a little loop of clubs until tuesday when I fly away.

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