Dancing Like a Stripper…

We’ve all either heard someone say, or have said ourselves, “I’m gonna quit this job and become a stripper”

Y’all.

Years ago I was married (gasp!) and we bought a house, and then like a month after that purchase, my husband lost his job. So, I became a stripper.

He and I had gone to this club several times as customers, we were always treated well, always had a good time. The girls had joked around, asking when I was gonna come work there. So, when your former 2-income household becomes one, and your brand new mortgage is due… I needed work quick, without a stupid long time for training or waiting for background checks… I needed paychecks, now. (Some clubs might have training and background checks set up, mine definitely did not)

And you know what? It’s hard work.

I’m sure eventually you get use to it (I only worked there for a month), but that first week, your feet are on fire, your legs feel like you’ve been running a marathon, you can’t lift your arms over your head. Imagine attempting to go from couch slug to olympic athlete overnight. That’s pretty much what it’s like.

And that’s just the physical side.

I was very lucky. Most of my customers were amazing. I had a construction crew that came in once a week, on pay day. Half a dozen guys. As respectful as patrons at a strip club can be. One night as I was getting off work, my windshield was frozen over and one of the guys came out, in the cold and scraped it for me. So, please know I’m not saying it’s all bad.

But I had a coworker who had a guy who asked her to shit, in a cup, for 20 dollars. So you have that too.

Also, everyone thinks all strippers make bank. And I’m sure some do very well. I didn’t. I had another full time job at the time, working overnights in a call center, so between my availability and also being the new girl at the club, I was on day shift. Noon to 8pm. Not exactly prime time at a strip club.

You get the older men who don’t want to sit alone at home, they’d rather sit alone at the club. It gives the illusion of being social, even if they barely mumble a word, as they sip beer all day. You get the more awkward younger guys who are maybe too intimidating to roll up to the club on a busy Friday night. It is the island of misfit toys, y’all. And these pockets of people aren’t here for the champagne room (my club didn’t even have one), they aren’t here for a bachelor party, they aren’t making it rain. So, you are busting your ass, sometimes literally, for a few bucks. And I don’t think people really understand that.

The next time you’re like… wanting to grumble about how crappy your current job is, and you’re just gonna go “be a stripper” realize what you’re saying.

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