Saturday, April 08, 2006

nightshift at the grind factory

Oh, where to begin. I roll into the club around 7pm -- valet parks my car, as mandated by management and I tip him a few bucks. In the dressing room, I shuck and start lacing myself into my corset before I realize my thong is still on the bathroom doorknob, where I left it to dry last night. No problem, because the club has a fancy schmancy in-house boutique. I'll just put my pants back on, throw a T-shirt over the corset, and go buy a thong. It'll be ridiculously over-priced, probably, but fine. Only it turns out the boutique is closed tonight. Why? Because.

I'm about to go home empty-handed when another dancer -- pretty Eastern European girl -- tells my there's a Target across the highway, and why don't I just go buy something there? So I head out, still wearing my corset. Valet unparks my car, for which I tip another dollar or two. I zoom down the access road some distance before I find a turn-around. By now it's 7:30. At 8pm, the house fees go up something like $15. At Target, I speedwalk through Sportswear, Maternity, Juniors, and Hosiery and hit Lingerie. All I need is a pair of white thong underpants. It doesn't seem like a tall order, but I am coming up empty-handed. Then, bingo. There they are. Perfect. But they only come in M, S, and XS, no L. Drat! Er, M then. I'm right on the borderline between medium and large in most things, anyway. I track down a sales associate and ask if I can try the panties on. She say no, and gives me an odd look. That's when I realize my T-shirt has ridden up and exposed an inch or two of laced black vinyl. Fine. Fine, fine. I buy the panties. All set. Back to work. Miss my exit on the way back and have to go several miles before I can turn around, but whatever. Valet parks my car again, and I give him another coupla bucks. This is getting expensive.

The panties are too small, of course. They cut visciously into my gently rounded hips, creating a sharp valley of underpant between two rolling hills of flesh. So attractive. The stockings I bought earlier in the day are also too small, squeezing rings of fat out around my inner thighs. I look ridiculous. I've got a cute little dress to cover up my shame, but the second I start dancing, I'll have to let it all hang out, so to speak. Never mind. It's dark. No one will see.

I hit the floor and almost immediately sell four dances to two guys. It was all worth it. It's going to be a great night. Head back to my locker to dump the money. It's gone. What? I retrace my steps, but the odds of finding lost money in a titty bar are, well, slim. Fine, fine. It's still early, I can make it back.

Next table I sit with is a group of young guys. I sit down with the one with glasses. I introduce myself and learn that his name is Alex, and they're here to celebrate their friend Blake's 21st birthday. Blake at the moment is spread-eagled under a vivacious brunette named Kelly or something. I do have the fleeting thought that most of the guys at this table look several years past 21, but what do I care? Alex forgets my name -- "no, no, don't tell me, I want to guess." Yada yada. I give him many hints. "Grape?" he guesses. "Grope? Kate? Rope? Rape?"

Yeah, man, I named myself Rape. I thought it would be cute. "GiveupOKit'sGrace," I say. Time's a wastin'.

Alex starts to giggle. "I knew that," he says. "I didn't really forget your name. You know what else? His name's not really Blake. And it's not really his birthday, either. Tee hee hee. He's getting married tomorrow. And my name's not really Alex, either. Hee hee. Want to know my real name?"

Bye, dude.

Oooh, then there's Eric -- "I don't buy dances but come sit with me when you're bored." OK. When I feel like working for free you'll be the first to know.

There was another bachelor party up in the VIP. They sent out a runner who came back with me. They were all drunk almost past the point of speech. I sat on somebody's lap for a minute while they all told me how much they loved each other and what great guys each other were. I'm pushing the issue of who I'm supposed to dance for and when, cause I am hating it back here. The one who fetched me pushes me toward the bachelor, "but when you're done with him, come back to me." Next song starts, and I start dancing for the bachelor, who can barely sit up and looks totally unhappy. Ten seconds into the dance, he shoves me off him and throws up. His friends say they won't pay me because I "didn't really do a dance" and "besides, you made him throw up." Fine. I'm gone.

On my way out the bachelor party I am rounded up by a very tiny man of South Asian origin, with a strong accent. He's ready for me to dance right away, so when the next dance starts, I unfasten my dress and let it fall. "You give me good dance, right?" he says. Uh-oh.

"Sure, sweetie."

Ten seconds later: "Put your boobs on my dick."

Yeah. OK. No. I keep dancing. He gets insistant. His nervous little hands are everywhere. I dance evasively, but he's not having it. He's grabbing me and trying to pull me this way and that, but since I probably outweigh him a good 50 lbs, he's getting nowhere. I stop the dance -- something I rarely have to resort to -- and tell him he can pay me now and I leave, or we can finish the dance and then pay. His choice. He chooses to finish, of course, but as soon as I start dancing, he's all over me again. Seriously, this guy is child-sized. I feel like I'm wrestling with a fourth-grader. I stop again and grab his chin so he has to look up at me. His face squinches up like a kid who knows he's in trouble. "I just want a good dance," he says.

"You are not in control," I say. "I am in control. What you're doing is inappropriate and disrespectful. You're going to sit there perfectly still and I'm going to give you the best dance that the law permits." I've never actually lectured a customer before, but I am way past my boiling point.

Weirdly enough, he really likes me after this. I have to go to the bar with him while he puts the dance on his credit card. Pain in the ass. So I have to stand there with him while the bartender carries out the whole multi-step process.. "I'm so sorry,"says the tiny dude. "What I did was wrong. I haven't been with a woman in a long time."

Ah, you sorry bastard. You're in over your head and so am I. I actually give him a pat on the shoulder. He asks me to come back and sit with him, but I'd just as soon hang myself with my own ill-fitting thong.

At long last, 2 am arrives, and I am gone. If I hadn't lost that money, I would have had an average night. As is, blech. The valet brings my car around and I tip him again. At least someone had a good night.


diopter said...

Aw, Grace. Hope you don't have another night like this again!

Clothing Specialist said...

Interesting blog, be sure and check out my site / blog when you get a chance at Thanks and have a great day.

John Flowers said...

if you have a chance, check out clothing specialst's blog. he and are a scream.

ah, to answer your questions: i am 29, not bearded, and a lover of all things vaginal. as for being a loser, i don't think it's possible to read my blog and think, "Well, that guy's clearly got it together. I need to be more like him."

Grace said...

Dear Clothing Specialist: Fry in hell.

JB: I guess the definition of loser is fluid. In my mind, no one who can make me laugh (on purpose) can qualify.

Diopter: If it makes a good story it's worth it, right? On a side note, I want to give you an affectionate nickname, but "Diopter" hardly lends itself to cute diminuitives.

diopter said...

True, 'Diopter' isn't a moniker that easily lends itself to cute nicknames. HA! Get it?! "lends" sounds like "lens." Ya know....cause a diopter has to do with the refractive power of lenses?

(I'm totally the only one laughing at this nerdy pun, aren't I?)

Grace said...

No, I get it. I just had to focus for a second. :P

(Those two semesters in engineering school weren't wasted after all!)

diopter said...

haha, very nice. Touché!