I have been working at the Gold Club in Groton Ct for about a week now. It is exhausting. I was really spoiled at the Cadillac Lounge. They let me do anything I wanted. At GC I am trying to not piss off management. I was hired after both my size and my age were questioned. I need to not act like an entitled old lady stripper. I have no seniority here. I’m dancing on stage for the first time in years. At Cadillac Lounge they almost never put me on stage and when they did I just entertained myself on the huge island of stage. GC has three stages in two different buildings. I am constantly running back and forth from club to club. I’m up on the stage shaking my ass. I’m rocking the super fetish model look with a corset and stockings. I wear a wig. The look is really good but it is the least appropriate thing to stripper dance in ever. Popping my ass while wearing a corset is really starting to dig into my flesh.
Last night my wig fell off while I was dancing on the nude stage. There were three teenage boys sitting in front of me and no one else in the place. I guess I have that going for me. Very few people actually saw my wig fall off. I told no one. I just grabbed it and put it right back on my head and told the boys to tip me. After all, they got to see an exposed part I don’t generally expose on the stage. It was extra to see me with my wig off.
This is a young dancers club. I hate being on strip club stages. I’m young enough to be up there but old enough to know better than to make a habit of it. Last night a woman walked into the club made a beeline for me on stage and reached right up and tried to take my glasses off. “I love thoooose” she said in a slurred voice. Apparently she was so drunk she thought she was at the mall and I was some mannequin she could remove the glasses of. I almost decked her with my instinctual reflex to block the hand coming toward my face. She looked all butt hurt.
And there was Mr Look At Me, I’m So Cool. I have a love hate relationship with people who have just steeped out of the 1980s. It must have been quite a fucking party to be a young adult in the 1980s. Mr. Look At Me, I’m So Cool was 50 ish, built like a body builder, dressed like a banker, fakely tanned, clean shaven, and five feet two inches tall. He was handing out hundred dollar bills like candy. All the dancers swooned. The bartender ignored every other thirsty wanker at the pub. In his own mind Mr Look At Me, I’m So Cool was a gawd among men. It was so self righteous and egotistical I could not pander to it. I saw all these strippers jumping for him. He pad the bartender to chase him around like an overgrown child. He was pathetically archetypical of the ideal strip club patron. Mr I’m So Cool, Look At me comes in about once a month, like Santa Clause. When people see him they know, the club sugar daddy is here. Everyone was so excited.
But I resent 1980’s men in a way that can only be described with a photo of Ronald Reagan on a dartboard. Yes, I need his money. But I hate him. So, I play it as cool as I can. I do not spit in his face or engage him in the conversation of wealth separation, corporations bedding down with politicians, or any element of patriarchy. No I just smile distantly and wonder how Mr I’m So Cool, Look At Me sleeps at night. I want to fuck his ass with a huge black dildo and make him lick the shit and blood off of it. I want to make him give a hundred million dollars to charity. I do not want to have fun with him. I want to take his money. It will better serve me.
If nothing else The Gold Club has been a change in scenery. It is a much more fast paced club than what I am used to. I am used to moving at my own speed. Not being rushed by a middle aged man with hair down his back who plays three different songs and expects the respect of DJ Aristocat, Miss Kitten, or Dmitri from Paris. I’m not sure how long I can keep up at this pace. I really do like the club. Maybe there is a better way to work it.