by Dee Simon
“Fuckin’ pregnant, huh?”
Lauren nodded and forced a thin smile. None of the house moms liked Tommy. There wasn’t much about him to like. Continuing this unwelcome conversation, he inquired, “So, you have to go out and buy new clothes and shit?”
Without answering his inane question, she waved goodbye to me and hastily exited the booth. Tommy was taken aback.
“What the fuck crawled up her ass? You know I never liked pregnant bitches. They’re all fuckin’ stuck up and shit.”
I laughed uncontrollably for about ten minutes, and when I finally composed myself, I said, “You should write a book.”
“About what?” he asked, eyeing me warily. Tommy was always suspicious of being made a fool of, which stemmed from his distrust of anyone with a college education.
“About dealing with pregnant women.”
“Why? They’re all bitches. I don’t want to fucking deal with them.”
“Nevermind. Forget I said anything.”
Our conversations typically revolved around Tommy telling me stories of the strip club days of yore. Beyond that, we had little to say to each other. When I first started at the club, he told me that I could listen to him “perform,” but he better not catch me using his lines or “my ass will be grass.” His admonition was good enough for me because I thought his lines were crap. When he found out that Ryan had been stealing his lines, he came to me first.
“Hey, bro, I heard some fucked-up shit the other day. That new guy is using my lines. Do you know anything about that?” I could tell by his furrowed brow that he was really bothered.
I responded diplomatically, trying to avoid being ensnared within the drama. “You know, I might have heard him using lines that sounded like yours, but I don’t know for sure. I don’t really pay much attention to him.”
Tommy then queried both the management and the house moms who confirmed that Ryan was indeed making good use of his “sacred lines.” He decided to find out for himself and took time out of his busy schedule to visit the club on a day shift and listen to Ryan on the mic. Regrettably, I wasn’t there to witness this incident and had to rely on the eyewitness account of Ashlee, one of the other house moms. She said that Tommy’s face contorted into a bitter grimace as he heard his lines being desecrated. It proved too much for him to bear, and he bounded upstairs to the DJ booth, grabbed the back of Ryan’s head, and slammed his face into the wall. Though he was stunned for a few seconds, Ryan quickly recovered and pushed Tommy off of him.
“What the fuck, man? Why’d you do that?” he screamed, checking to see if his nose was broken.
“Motherfucker, you’re using my fucking lines.”
“Why don’t you fuck off, you fat bitch?”
This flippant remark pushed Tommy to the breaking point, and he grabbed Ryan by his neck, smashed his face into the wall a couple more times, and attempted to throw him over the railing. Ryan frantically clutched the brass railing with his right hand and feebly attempted to fend off Tommy’s blows with his left. The whole time, Tommy kept screaming: “I’ll come right through your fucking teeth.”
Ashlee said the fight only lasted a couple minutes before two managers and a bouncer pulled Tommy off poor Ryan. Tommy’s bloated face was bright red, and he was breathing so heavily that everyone thought that he was about to have a heart attack. Ryan, on the other hand, was clutching his bleeding nose and screaming about suing him, the managers, the club, and anyone who didn’t intervene. They suspended Tommy for two weeks, and as fate would have it, Ryan ended up going to jail for domestic battery and never returned to the club. The moral of this story is that a DJ should really try to use his own lines.
The Red Light Special
Aside from the money and frequent sex, ridiculing customers had to be the third most attractive feature of the job. Over time, spinning records at a strip club becomes tedious, and eventually a DJ must search for new and creative ways to amuse himself. I never tired of ridiculing the perverted patrons. At the Doll House and several other lower-tier clubs I worked at, one of the best times to mock customers was during the dance specials that we had to run every half hour. Most strip clubs offer dance specials that encourage customers to buy lap dances. And these specials are quite effective in making money for the club. More often than not, seasoned customers would wait until we ran a dance special because they felt that they were getting more for their money. Since the owner of the club typically takes a percentage of the dancers’ private dances, it’s imperative that the club has a high lap-dance count for every night shift. In fact, at most clubs, the DJ is evaluated based on the number of dances he sells during his shift, and when he is underperforming he will lose his night shifts. It was one of the more stressful jobs I’ve ever had. I never knew whether or not I’d be fired or demoted that evening. It always amused me that management considered it to be the DJ’s fault that customers weren’t purchasing lap dances, as if we had telepathic powers that compelled patrons to waste their money on lap dances. At the Doll House, the owner forced the girls to charge twenty dollars per lap dance of which half went directly to the house. He even hired employees who kept track of the girl’s dances so that he’d know exactly how much she owed the house at the end of her shift. In his small, sadistic mind, the best way to keep the dance count as high as possible was to run a Red Light Special every half hour.
The dancers and the DJs despised these specials, but regardless, they boosted lap-dance counts and consequently earned more money for the club. They were aptly titled because of the flashing red lights located in the four corners of the room that the DJ had to switch on prior to announcing the special. The majority of the specials consisted of a 2-for-1 dance or occasionally, a 3-for-1 lap dance. For the unaccustomed, a 2-for-1 dance meant that the customer purchased the first dance, and the second one was on the house. Though the dancers disliked giving a free lap dance, the songs for the specials were a bit shorter than the songs for regular dances, and quite often, the customer would remain upstairs with the girl and continue to buy dances after the special had ended.
Personally, I detested the Red Light Specials because they disrupted the continuity of the show. It takes a while for the DJ to connect with the audience, and as soon as I’d establish a connection, a manager would call on the radio and tell me to run a special after the next song. Then, I’d begrudgingly flip on the flashing red lights and summon all the dancers to line up by the main stage for the Red Light Special. But what I despised most about the specials was the god-awful music that we were required to play from the club’s ESPN Jock Jams compilations. If you’ve ever been to a professional sporting event, you’ve been subjected to that wretched music: “Who Let the Dogs Out” by Baha Men, or “Whoomp There It Is” by Tag Team, or “Jump Around” by House of Pain, or the most vomit-inducing of them all, “Unbelievable” by EMF. Years have passed, but the memory of that music still makes me cringe. The club owned the entire set of Jock Jams compilations and ordered the DJ to play a couple tracks to pump up the crowd as they watched the dancers walk in a single-file line up the stairs onto the main stage. Once the entire gaggle of strippers were all onstage, they’d turn around and face the crowd, smile, and clap their hands along to the beat of “Whoomp There It Is.” And I’d announce in my loudest and most enthusiastic monster truck rally voice:
“Gentlemen, it’s time for a Red Light Special right here at the hottest hot spot in town, San Francisco’s own Doll House. Guys, check out all these beautiful ladies ready to please you, ready to tease you, ready to rock your world. Ladies, how you doin’ tonight?”
The dancers were conditioned to scream excitedly at the utterance of the last phrase and then hastily exit the stage. As they were leaving, I’d announce, still in my hyper-enthused monster truck rally voice:
“Gentlemen, all of these beautiful women are stepping off that stage and available for a 2-for-1 lap dance. It doesn’t get any better than this. You buy the first dance, and the second one is on the
house. That’s right. You heard me correctly. Two dances for the price of one right now and right now only. Take advantage while you can. Your wet dreams have come true tonight. A butt-naked lady on your lap for two songs for the price of one. Double the fun with a 2-for-1. Fuck yeah. Let’s do this, fellas. Partner up, couple up with the lady of your choice, and get yourself a 2-for-1 lap dance.”
The dancers made their way through the room asking customers if they’d like to take advantage of the special. Most of the customers would head upstairs and buy a 2-for-1 lap dance. Like a sordid version of a high school Sadie Hawkins dance, it always amused me watching the pervert and the stripper walk hand-in-hand on their way towards the lap-dance booths. However, there were always some miserly customers who chose not to participate in the 2-for-1 and preferred to wait it out for the next dancer to come onstage. My General Manager, Joe, told me that I should have no mercy for these “deadbeats.” When I started at the Doll House, Joe micromanaged my specials and would leave the back office to watch me perform them. He leaned on the booth smoking a menthol cigarette and offered his unwelcome critique.
“Sanchez, your specials suck major ass. I wouldn’t buy a fucking dance from you. It sounds like you’re selling fucking magazines. Sell some whores, not magazines. Fuck. At least act like you care, asshole.”
Joe was exactly who you’d picture to manage a shitty strip club. He was a tall and thin, uneducated, mustachioed misogynist who had been to prison more than once for domestic violence. Though I think he was originally from Indiana, he affected a southern accent and would tell me in his faux redneck drawl that I needed to get “fucking pumped” for the specials. In his opinion, the specials were the DJ’s moment to prove his self-worth to the management. As much as I hate to admit it, he had a point. My specials did “suck ass.” I thought the whole charade lacked purpose. There I was, a college graduate who recently lost my high-paying dotcom job, putting a gaggle of strippers on a stage for a lap-dance special. It was demeaning to the women and to myself. In my mind, I could picture my father, the rabbi, frowning in disappointment as he watched his son—who should have been a lawyer or a doctor—auction off hookers for hapless perverts. But my attitude changed after about a couple months of working there. It was either out of boredom or, more likely, economic necessity, but I started having ironic fun with the specials. I affected a mock zeal to my voice and really got into it. Whenever a manager would tell me to run a special, I eagerly flipped on the red lights and acted like I was auctioning Rembrandts at Sothebys, even though, in actuality, it was more like Frazettas at a garage sale. Soon, I sold more dances than any of the other DJs, and due to my high dance counts, I was promoted to night shifts. In time, I earned Joe’s respect, and instead of critiquing my performance, he stood proudly by the booth and derided the customers who refused to participate.
“Sanchez, that was a damn fine special. It really was. You had me convinced. But still, look at those motherfuckers sitting there. Fucking cocksucking faggots.” Joe’s face was contorted with deep disdain, and I could tell he was genuinely upset. “What the fuck is wrong with you people? You don’t like women? What the fuck?”
With his elbow perched upon my shoulder, he told me in earnest that they weren’t cooperating because they were “fucking homos.” He really believed that. A man could have no legs and be physically unable to walk to the lap-dance booths, but if he didn’t at least try to crawl, he was immediately branded a “faggot” in Joe’s mind.
“Man, they don’t even know the taste of pussy. Probably never even seen one,” he said with disgust.
His tone gradually changed as he became more riled. His eyes scanned the room and he shook his head in complete and utter disgust. With his elbow still perched upon my shoulder, he looked me in the eye and said, “These motherfuckers aren’t team players. Look at ‘em. They would rather sit with their dicks in their hands on the goddamn sidelines than get on the field and play ball. Fuck ‘em. You should have no fucking mercy for them because God has no fucking mercy for them. Fucking faggots.”
Well, since I now had Joe’s consent, I could basically say anything I wanted to the customers who didn’t buy a 2-for-1 dance. It was liberating and afforded me the opportunity to infuse some creativity with my derision:
“Gentlemen. What’s up with this? You came here to party with pussy, not with the balls. These ladies are moist, wet, and waiting for you. And you. And you over there with the purple shirt. So let’s get this party started. Move away from the balls and towards the pussy. Buy a 2-for-1 dance while you can.”
I’d wait thirty seconds or so, and if they still refused to buy a dance I’d continue:
“Gentlemen. There’s a half-naked woman right in front of you who wants to treat you to a private encounter, and you’re saying no. Seriously, take a step back and look at yourself. You are refusing to party with a half-naked woman. Now, I’m no psychiatrist, but in my opinion, you might be gay. You’re choosing to hang out with a bunch of dudes instead of a beautiful naked lady. Yes, you could very well be gay.”
And for the Spanish speaking patrons:
“Amigos, juega con la penocha. Dos baila privados para uno. Muevete de los huevos y al entra la penocha. Si no compras un baila privado, tu eres maricon.”
After a significant amount of ribbing, most customers either found a girl or simply caved to the one pulling on their arm, and headed upstairs for the special. The customers who still refused to participate were punished by having to stare at an empty stage for two songs while the staff scrubbed off the heel marks, disinfected the poles, and wiped the fingerprints off the mirrored walls. I particularly enjoyed taunting the penny-pinching perverts who were sitting there watching the empty stage. During the two-song special, I’d select two painfully slow, sentimental songs such as Neil Diamond’s “Love on the Rocks” followed by Journey’s “Faithfully,” or Foreigner’s “I Want to Know What Love Is” paired with practically anything by Air Supply. In my opinion, the stage maintenance was an isolated moment in the space-time continuum where a group of men could be alone in a strip club devoid of women for exactly six minutes. And to make a beautiful situation even more sublime, this group of men was listening to Barry Manilow’s “Mandy.” Regrettably, most members of the group were bored by the music or the absence of naked women and would shamefully leave the club, but there were always a few stalwarts who steadfastly sat there and stared at that empty stage until the two songs came to an end. It was for them that I made the stage maintenance an introspective, deep soul-searching, meditative male-bonding experience for us all.
“Gentlemen, look at your neighbor and move closer to him. No empty seats. Come on. Move over and sit next to the lonely soul on your right or that crazy cat on your left. It’s sharing time.” Barry was singing something about a man crying in a window.
“Fellas, for the next seven minutes, it’s just me, you, and Barry Manilow. There are no women here to tempt us. To distract us from eachother. It’s just us guys. The fellas. Hanging out. Let’s make the most of this experience.” We had reached the chorus where Barry laments sending his lover away.
“Fellas, that’s pretty much what happened here tonight. In this room. These ladies came to you, and they wanted to give you something special, and you sent them away. Think about it. Why didn’t we purchase a 2-for-1 lap-dance special? What stopped us?” Now we were at the point of the song where Barry realizes how much he needed Mandy in his life.
“Gentlemen, I don’t know why you didn’t buy a private dance. I may never know. But what I do know is that all of us in this room could have had a beautiful, fully nude woman on our lap for two songs for the price of one. But no. She’s not on your lap, is she? No, she’s not. She’s on another man’s lap right now. And who do we have to blame for that? No one but ourselves.”
I’d go on like this until Joe called on the radio and yelled, “Shut the fuck up right now, or you’ll be fired. And turn this shit off. Jesus Fucking Christ.” But sometimes
, Joe wasn’t paying attention or was outside smoking a cigarette or shoving a slice of pizza in his mouth while screaming at a dancer about her “piss-poor” attitude, and I continued my unwelcome harangue until the 2-for-1 Red Light Special had come to an end and it was time to put the next dancer onstage.
The Blowjob Adventures of Dr. Fellatio
During my five years in the industry, I worked at many clubs throughout the city, but one I recall fondly was a small club called Foxys located downtown in the bowels of San Francisco’s infamous Tenderloin district. I liked Foxys for two reasons: it was walking distance from my apartment, and it claimed to be a porno theater as well as a strip club. Foxys had a small projector that displayed pornographic films on a stained 6’ x 6’ screen hanging on the back wall just above the soda fountain machine. It was mandatory that porn was playing during the hours of operation. From the moment we opened our doors at noon till we closed the club at 2:00 AM, ass-slamming, cum-splattering porn had to be playing on the screen the entire time. Foxys was the only place I’ve worked where management required the employees to watch pornography. In fact, we would be seriously reprimanded and threatened with termination if there was no porn playing when the General Manager slipped in for a surprise visit.