Last night I loaded up the boyfriend and drove us to a club on the northern outskirts of town that I've been hearing good things about. I was impressed, but then I'm a sucker for a new club. I can still be wowed by the seedy glamour of pink lights and heavy bass and gyrating naked bodies in blacklight-responsive thongs. In a new club it's easy to overlook the inconveniences and little moments of ugliness. It's easy to believe in glamour and good times and easy money and excitement.
This club is the "sister club" of my current one -- the cuter, sexier, more popular sister, apparently. The dancers were hot -- no fatties, no scares -- although there were few real standouts. Customers were plentiful and appeared to be biting.
I tipped a dancer with many tattoos and shaggy Elvira hair, a cutie. She stopped by after her stage set and I bought a dance for the boy and one for myself. They were nice dances, medium contact; she wasn't a very sensual dancer, but she had an adorable smile. There were some dances going on in the room, although not a huge number. It was early, though. Dances seemed to be lower mileage than at the current club. I did see a guy running his hands up between a dancers thighs, but she batted him away, whereas at my place this kind of touching is more or less standard
I bought Elvira a drink and she gave me a little run-down on the club, seemed to think it was a foregone conclusion I'd be hired, which was nice. She offered to get the manager and disappeared for a while but couldn't find him. She brought me an application, though. I think I'd like to work here and so I'm terrified, paralyzed with self-consciousness, like I always am before trying out at a new club.
What if they won't hire me? What if I'm too ugly, too fat, too flat-chested, too old, too young, too something, not something enough? As if working at a better club for more money would prove that I'm better and worth more. I know that shouldn't be true. But sometimes is.