The rodeo's in town. Yee-haw. I'd forgotten all about this until I got to work Friday morning and noticed first an unprecedented number of cars in the parking lot, then a full-size chuck wagon pulled up by the front door and a milling crowd of cowboy hats. Everybody had hats -- the waitresses, the bartenders, the fat manager with the Brooklyn accent. Everybody.
I didn't get the memo about dressing for a hoe-down, which I suppose is what happens when you skip out of work for two weeks running. The girls who went overboard with the cowboy thing looked dumb. My favorite was the girl who wore a tight white wife-beater (no bra), a jailable pair of cut-off Daisy Dukes, and clear heels. It would have been better if she's been barefoot, but the club has rules. I wore my regular outfit with a black dress, and got a rake-over from the shift manager (who is moving further and further from the ranks of my favorite people) about how he would normally send home any girl who didn't dress to theme, but OK, just this one time, I could stay.
This is a regular technique of his, and one I find particularly chafing. Always he has to make a big deal out of how he's letting me get away with something, and I owe him a really big favor. (Translation: tip me extra.) I wish he'd just say yes or no, but of course, he has a living to make, too, and a large part of that living is chiseling anything extra he can get out of the dancers. I do give him credit for using guilt and wheedling, rather than straight intimidation and extortion, as some manager do.
Anyway, so the customer base also contained a high proportion of hats. That part was fine with me, though. I like dancing for cowboys. They tend to be loud, emotional, bawdy, and fun. Some have the initial guardedness common to self-identified blue-collar guys (although don't be fooled: the 'humble cowboy' schtick is a lifestyle choice that many go to considerable expense to maintain. Anybody who spends $300-1200 for a hat can afford a dance or two.) Once you're in under a cowboy's guard, though, they warm up fast. I was lucky to stumble early on a dude who looked like Marlboro Man and who was not merely a wearer of expensive hats, but also maker and salesman of a succesful line of custom cowboy boots. Boot Man was looking for a sweet old-fashioned girl to get sentimental about, and Grace the Small-town Homecoming Queen just so happens to be one of my rotating cast of optional personalities, readily availabe for a fee to be negotiated on purchase.
Later, the Plumber stopped by to talk about Sun Tzu's "Art of War."
So a good time was had by all, but sadly it wasn't one of my better weekends moneywise. C. points out that if I am serious about stripping as a career, I have to work more than two days a week. I know that's right, it's just the details that have to be ironed out. Like, when would I get my other two jobs done? Also, definitely need to sample the waters up at the club I visited the other week. I'd like to think that my steadily declining income has something to do with the club I'm at, which, quite honestly, is going to hell in a handbasket, Theme Days and all.