by Dee Simon
“Gentlemen, you’ve seen her on the cover of Maxim magazine, she recently did a spread for Stuff, now check her out live on the Ruby Club’s center stage. Give it up, boys! This is Natasha.”
I gave a great introduction to a girl named Raven who had posed for several adult magazines during her ephemeral porn career. I liked Raven because she was a rocker chick who always danced to ACDC and loved strobe lights. Before she walked onstage, I’d announce something like:
“Gentlemen, I hope you’re ready to rock and roll, cuz our next entertainer is gonna rock your fucking world. You’ve seen her in Penthouse. You’ve seen her in Cheri. You’ve seen her in your wet dreams. Live at the Ruby Club. Give it up for Raven.”
Then I’d hit the strobe lights till at least two pervs in the front row had a seizure. I found it amusing to draw attention to the porn magazines that the dancers had been featured in. The name of the magazine would immediately capture the attention of every customer in the room and prompt them to move to the front row, or “erection section” as we referred to it. Though it was rare, some girls possessed an ironic sense of humor, and for them, I’d fabricate porn magazines that they had been featured in.
“Gentlemen, straight out of the pages of Black Tail magazine. Fellas, put those hands together, the very beautiful Alizé for your pleasure.”
“Fellas, you might have seen her spread in Barely Legal. Well, now’s your chance to check her out live onstage. Give it up for Roxie.”
Not only did I have a personal relationship with these dancers, they tipped me quite well, so it was in my best interest to provide them with an elaborate introduction. Conversely, I’d reserve my standard introduction for the dancers that did not tip me or for the ones that I didn’t like. My standard “intro” consisted merely of a dancer’s stage name and request for applause. One of the greatest opportunities for a strip club DJ to sling some quality cheese is when customers are not tipping the dancer onstage. As a personal rule, I rarely spoke during a dancer’s performance. I felt that it interfered with their stage show and, quite honestly, no one really cared what I had to say. My only exception to this rule was when the stage was barren of dollar bills. At any strip club, it’s imperative that customers tip the dancer onstage. By throwing a few dollars on the stage, customers show their appreciation to the girl getting naked and demonstrate their interest in that dancer. At every club I worked at, when the crowd is not tipping, the DJ is allowed to openly deride them. The extent of the derision depends on the management of the club. At the Doll House, the DJ was basically uncensored. Management would even allow us to spotlight the non-tipping customers and ridicule them directly. At the Ruby Club and other upper-tier venues I’ve worked at, I was allowed to mention tipping but not in a discourteous manner. I would closely watch a few dancers’ stage shows and note how many tips she received. It’s not like I was expecting a customer to “make it rain” every time a girl took the stage, but at least they could throw a few dollar bills up there. If there were only a couple dollars on the stage and a large crowd present, I would coax them to start tipping by repeating these innocuous lines:
“Gentlemen, I know you didn’t come all the way to the Doll House to hang out with a bunch of dudes. Move on up to that front row and find out why we call it the ‘erection section.’”
“The bigger the bills, the bigger the thrills. It’s time to move on up to the erection section and party with that pussy.”
“Gentlemen, you provide the greenery and I’ll give you the scenery. Let’s work together here.”
“Fellas, let’s get some tips up on that stage. These girls are working hard to keep you hard. So show a little love out there tonight.”
“Gentlemen, think about it this way: If you were getting naked on that stage, these girls would tip you, and they would tip you real good.”
“Gentlemen, don’t be shy. These girls aren’t going to bite. If they do, they’ll bite you in all the right places. Move up to the front row and take care of this sexy lady.”
Now if these lines went unheeded and the girls were still not being tipped, I’d become much more vengeful and personal with my remarks. That’s when I’d focus one of the club’s spotlights on individuals and groups of non-tippers and ruthlessly mock them in front of the dancers. Turning the volume of the music down to near silence, I’d announce:
“Hey, I want to take this moment to talk to the sausage fest in the back over there. What are you guys doing in the strip club tonight? Is it your first time? Are you strip club virgins? Let me clue you in on a strip club custom. When guys go to strip clubs, they tip the girls and buy one or two lap dances. So far, you guys have done neither. Real men don’t sit in the back of the club and play with each other’s ball sacks. So gentlemen, let’s join the team here and show a little appreciation tonight. You can play with each other’s balls at home.”
The higher I got, the more creative I’d become, especially if the drug of choice that night was methamphetamine.
“Gentlemen, it’s time to worship at the altar of the vulva. Step on up to the front row, put a dollar bill in your mouth, and let’s praise the blessed vulva.”
“Gentlemen. The bigger the bills, the bigger the thrills. Give a little, get a lot. I know that dollar bill is burning a hole in your pocket. Put it this way. Once you start tipping, I’ll shut the fuck up. And I know everyone wants that.”
“Gentlemen, in the corner over there. This is God. That’s right. The Supreme Being. Tonight I’m feeling wrathful, and I’m rather displeased with your behavior here at the Doll House. You have not tipped a single lady tonight, nor have you purchased a lap dance. Let me ask you some simple questions: What the fuck did you come here for? Do you know how I feel about sodomy? I don’t like it. Move up to the fucking tip rail and show some generosity to these young ladies before I strike you down with a lightning bolt, a flood, or AIDS or something.”
The most egregious offender was the customer seated in the front row, or “erection section,” and not tipping the girl directly before them. Not only was this offensive to the girl onstage, it was an affront to me as well. This particular breed of miserly bastard received no mercy. I made it my mission to shame this man until he threw a couple dollars onstage or hastily exited the club. And I always busted out the spotlight for them.
“This is for the dude in the red hat in the front row: Not tipping in the front row is like going through a drive thru and not ordering any food. It makes absolutely no sense. Get some tips on the stage or move to the back of the room.”
“Gentlemen, we call that area at the front of the stage the tip rail for a reason. That is where you place tips for the dancer onstage. The no-tipping seats are in the back of the club. So if you’re not going to tip the lady, move to the asshole seats in the back of the club and let a generous man have your seat in the front row.”
Or, sometimes, I would make it a direct, personal attack:
“Hey, fat guy in the flannel shirt with the shitty haircut. You are seated at the tip rail, which means you should be tipping the dancer onstage. If you are not going to tip her, move your fat ass to the back of the club and let someone who is going to tip have your seat. Thank you. And do yourself a favor, when you go back to Wisconsin, lay off the Doritos, man. Jesus, your pants must hate you.”
While these comments were entertaining, they sometimes had serious consequences for the club’s security. I’ve been the instigator of several altercations, and had it not been for the bouncers and, on one occasion, a couple dancers, I would have had my ass severely kicked. One Saturday night at the Doll House, I mercilessly derided a group of six or seven guys who had been at the club for over two hours and had not spent any money tipping the dancers or buying private shows. I did the spotlight thing and said:
“Hey, this is for the group of guys in the back: Quit making out with your boyfriend and party with the pussy on the main stage. I know we’re in San Francisco, but you guys are in a fucking strip club. Jesus Christ. T
his isn’t the cock and ball show. You guys should be at a leather bar in the Castro. You’d have more fun.”
From working at the lower-tier clubs, I’ve learned that random homophobic insults tend to inspire fellow patrons to participate in the mockery and ultimately influence the ridiculed party to start tipping in order to save face. In this case, the audience laughed at the group, and one guy started screaming, “Yeah. Faggots. Party with the pussy.” The collective mockery angered the group, and one outspoken member took it upon himself to begin heckling me. Hecklers are a common occurrence in strip clubs, in particular the ones that serve alcohol. They are usually intoxicated meatheads whose fragile sexual identities have just been questioned by the DJ, and not only are the other customers laughing at them, the girls are laughing at them as well. Their pride has just been damaged, and they are upset; their only recourse is to focus their aggression on the source of the derision: the DJ. In this case, the heckler screamed obscenities at both the dancers and me. Every time I would ask the crowd to give a round of applause, the heckler would yell, “Fuck you. You suck. These bitches are ugly.” His constant interruptions were annoying and pushed me to up the ante. I turned the music all the way down, focused the spotlight on the offender, and used one of my favorite heckler lines:
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. This is for the loud homosexual in the back over there. I don’t come to your work and slap the dick out of your mouth, so would you kindly shut the fuck up and let the girls dance. There are some guys here who want to see some titties tonight. Am I right?”
The entire room erupted into laughter and applause. Even a few of the heckler’s companions were laughing at him. The heckler, however, did not appreciate the comment, and he along with three of his friends rushed the booth. They were large meatheads, much larger than myself, and I predicted that I was on the brink of getting my ass kicked. Fortunately, the booth was located in the front of the club next to a large concentration of club security who immediately tackled my assailants. The fracas quickly turned into a melee with customers, managers, dancers, and security fighting each other. The heckler somehow got past security, grabbed my shirt with his left hand, and started pummeling me with his right. I slipped out of his grip and kicked him as hard as I could in the crotch. He fell to the ground and was stunned for a couple of seconds, allowing me enough time to scramble out of the booth and head outside of the club. When a fight breaks out in the club, the bouncers force the troublemakers outside and beat them on the sidewalk so as to avoid any excessive property damage. There must have been about twenty people fighting in front of the Doll House that night. I stood at a safe distance across the street, smoking a cigarette with a couple dancers. We watched the chairs, tables, fists, stilettos, chunks of hair and teeth fly through the air. It was a fleeting moment of tremendous violence. Within minutes, the cops soon arrived on the scene and quickly stopped the fracas. The ne’er-do-wells were subdued, handcuffed, and lined up against the wall in the alley, and slowly but surely everyone’s adrenaline levels returned to normal. The guy who attacked me lay on his stomach with a cop’s knee in his back. His face was bloodied, and he cursed at the top of his lungs as I walked by:
“I’m going to fucking kill you, motherfucker. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. You’re fucking dead.”
I gave him a wink and a smile as I walked through the torn curtains back into the club. Thankfully, I never saw that man again. Violent brawls were commonplace at the lower-tier clubs I worked at. In fact, there was at least one fight almost every night of the week at the Doll House. I never fought unless it was a matter of self-defense. And in those isolated incidents, I’d do my best to kick my assailant in the balls and run away and hide like an abused housewife. Since the club’s management didn’t provide their employees with benefits or insurance of any kind, I would have to pay my own medical bills. And needless to say, my damaged pride was not worth a broken nose.
The Ghost of Strip Club DJ Future
Like every other strip club DJ, my lines are not completely my own. Whether we admit it or not, we all “borrow” from each other, especially when we’re first embarking on this fruitful career. But there are certain fundamental lines that all of us must employ to keep the show running smoothly. For example, the DJ has to know how to direct the girls to the proper stages, or they will have no idea where to go. If he fails to announce their stages correctly, the dancers will wander about in a morass of confusion due to their inherent lack of common sense and the fact that most are stoned or drunk during their entire shift. The stage rotation is specific to the club and can only be learned by paying close attention to a more experienced DJ. Novice emcees should hang out at other local clubs and steal lines from their DJs. I visited at least four or five different local clubs, listened closely, and lifted a bevy of lines. I then tweaked them somewhat to fit my style and make it less obvious that they were stolen. It’s perfectly acceptable to steal lines from DJs at other clubs, but it’s verboten to steal lines from a DJ at your own club, in particular from a seasoned DJ. This is because the dancers will listen to you parroting the other DJ’s lines, and, always willing to create unnecessary drama, they will promptly inform him of the infraction. And even worse than losing your credibility, you’ll most likely be accosted by the peeved strip club DJ veteran and receive a stern lecture about stealing lines. I’ve seen this happen many times.
When I worked at the Ruby Club, there were four DJs on rotation: Tommy, Ryan, Larry, and myself. Tommy and I worked the night shifts, and Ryan and Larry, who were less experienced, worked the days. Ryan had to be one of the least creative people I’d ever met, not to mention the worst emcee that I had ever encountered. He was a tall, thin man in his mid-thirties, with buzz-cut hair that he shaved himself and a mouthful of rotten teeth. Ryan had recently moved to San Francisco from somewhere in the Midwest, and one could immediately discern from his dead-eyed expression and the irritating way he slowly sucked air in and out of his open mouth with each breath that he had huffed his fair share of aerosol products throughout his formative years. I don’t think Ryan had graduated from high school, and he would evade the question when I brought it up. Although he claimed to not use any drugs, Ryan seemed like he was in a perpetual state of “high” at all times. Our interactions were limited, as we only saw each other for ten minutes or so during shift change. And our typical conversation involved his endless queries about whether or not I’d “fuck that bitch onstage.” While I set up for my shift, Ryan sat on a bar stool by the soundboard, slowly smoking a cigarette and staring at me. Eventually, he’d signal for my attention, point to the girl dancing on the main stage, and ask in his laidback stoner drawl, “Would you fuck that bitch?”
Humoring him, I’d survey the dancer for a few seconds and respond, “I suppose it’d be more fun than jerking off. Yes, I would.”
He’d burst into laughter as if I had told the funniest joke he had ever heard, and once his laughter deteriorated into sporadic chuckles, he’d say, “I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick,” and start laughing again. We’d repeat the same routine two or three more times until my shift started. That joke never became stale for him, but it always confused me. How could he gain control of my genitalia? Was he telekinetic? I never questioned him though. Rather, I’d smile and nod, deftly avoiding further conversation. He sometimes spoke about how many clubs he had worked at in his hometown and that it was “bullshit” that he didn’t have any night shifts. He carried on about his years of experience, but I had never met a DJ with less style and originality. He had only been working there for a month or two when I—along with half of the dancers—noticed that Ryan was making good use of Tommy’s signature lines. Not just a few scattered lines here and there; he was using every single one of them. It was as if he had written them down and recited them like an actor does the lines of his script. At first, I was a bit hurt because I always thought that I slung some decent lines, undeniably better than Tommy’s trite prattle, but apparently, they weren’
t good enough for Ryan. However, upon further consideration, I came to the conclusion that it was a good thing he wasn’t stealing my lines because I didn’t want to have to give him the lecture. In fact, I didn’t even know the lecture well enough to give it.
To put it mildly, Tommy was enraged when he caught wind of the pilfering of his lines. Tommy was very proud of his status as senior DJ of the club and was overly protective of his “sacred lines,” which is exactly how he referred to them. Personally, I thought Tommy sounded like the dirty old man that he was, but he said it took him years to perfect his style. At the time of this writing, Tommy had been working in the industry for about eighteen years, and it’s understandable the reason his lines were sacred. His lines were all he had. Tommy was a thrice-divorced forty-seven-year-old man with a huge gut, a greasy mullet ponytail, and arms covered in faded pin-up girl tattoos. Outside of the club, I never saw him wear anything other than a faded Chicago Bears jersey and stained sweatpants. Tommy was as close to the stereotype of a strip club DJ as one can get. I used to consider him “the ghost of strip club DJ future.” Not only did he have the trademark horrendous teeth, he was also a recovering alcoholic and meth addict. The highlight of Tommy’s life was the late eighties when he used to roadie for Faster Pussycat. He lived in Hollywood back then, and as he would attest whenever someone mentioned eighties hair metal, “Those were the fuckin’ days, man. Back then I wore the cuntboots.” He definitely did not wear the cuntboots anymore. Those cuntboots had been buried under a filthy mattress filled with shame, regret, and failure. Honestly, I don’t think Tommy had been laid in the past ten years without paying for it. One of my fondest memories of Tommy involved an interaction between him and Lauren, one of the club’s house moms. The house moms essentially served as liaisons between the dancers and management. Lauren was noticeably pregnant at the time but still worked a shift every now and then. One night Tommy dropped by the club to pick up some of his CDs, noticed Lauren chatting with me, and looked her over a couple times before interrupting our conversation.