Anyway, one thing you'll never hear about in the strip club industry is the pain we feel in our personal lives while making a living within this branch of sin; every three months in these taxed homes of ill repute = another blackened cloud on our souls.
Believe it.
Every jobholder in a strip club has whored themselves out, be it physically, mentally, musically, financially or managerially . . . and every one of us do it because it's easy and we are lazy individuals. And lazy is okay, just don't get this bad:
Personally, sometimes I'll play video games to forget what I heard/witnessed last night. Oftentimes that doesn't work and I'll fall asleep with some fairly morbid thoughts, which is only proven by the saturated pillow underneath my head after I awaken, but at least I can say I attempted to forget everything I'd pretended to embrace the previous night.
Ya know, typically it's some stupid shit like how your girl's purse needs to match her boots, the weave has to look authentic as to not allow others to perceive her as a forfeited individual, or most likely, money needs to be dished out that evening so she can feel like someone is "taking care" of her, despite $100s put out yet her entire head looks significantly less than magazine worthy no matter the fashion show in your undersized bathroom.
But such is a stripper.
As to forget about the bitches for a moment, let us concentrate upon the male, chauvinistic bastards who delegate, point fingers and talk shit even more than the actual entertainers do while on their own 3rd Jagerbomb/2nd line of cocaine.
There exists no Mensa candidates who reward/punish dancers and customers while within their seven hours of employment at ANY shithole strip club. The illusion is that we are superior to the females making us money in the first place . . . and if that holds true, then how the fuck can an asshole like me talk some monumental shit about strippers to begin with?
Every employee in a strip club has major pain in their lives. There's a weak spot in our collective moral fiber; we're all fucked and unrepairable beyond our parent's guidance, a judge's leniency, and this so-called 'Surgeon General's' warning. Security, bartenders and deejays --- escaping the broads on stage --- we have all missed/purposely eluded majesty in life. Quite simply, we are uninspired therefore we allow the desensitizing of our souls and sometimes we get compensated fiscally for selling ourselves out. Sure, sometimes it's a blowjob, a free hit of Ex or a wheelbarrow of liquor, but usually it's a small wad of cash we'd otherwise never fucking see that makes us bow to amorality.
Whores.
It's fun to make fun of the chick on stage, but if you pay your bills by way of these same chicks grinding cock for money, you're no better. Hell, I'm no better. I love this job because it's cake; it has seriously allowed me not to finish my 4th year of college without much regret, therefore it's silly of me to point fingers at women who are up on that pole making a living when I don't know what the fuck I'd do for rent if I weren't playing music and voicing that stripper is the next best thing to a supernatural blow-up doll in the private dance area.
And yet you can't feel pain, my pain . . .
our pain.
As much as I poke fun at strippers, customers and owners . . . if you're outside this fucked industry and feel like dipping your feet in/tasting the glam . . . .
Don't drink the water. Don't come in here. By all means stay outside the ring.
It's been said on here that most people on this rock have a passion in life, and with this urge to succeed in at least one category, most of us would have what most would label a center . . . something pure we gravitate towards when all else has unveiled blackness, be it your "happy place," preferred antidote for life's hardships and such; everyone probably has that one entity they return to in order to reclaim solace/serenity.
I have to admit, I love the idea that instead of returning to my vomit in life, I continuously rediscover some form of solid foundation, if for nothing else than to return me to my roots of being an upstanding, morally intact person who thinks positive of most days while persons in zip codes surrounding me rot in decrepit, duplicitous stages of putrid living. It's a mental security blanket everyone should have while we deal with corruption, pollution, cancer, betrayal and every other life-ache that sticks its venomous thorns into our sides.
Beyond those black clouds, we all crave sunshine, and right about now I'm probably speaking beyond anyone in the strip club industry: We all have a rock. A crutch. A booze. A pill. A man. A woman.
Well, every strip club owner who hates my fucking existence, every ex girlfriend who wishes the worst would happen onto me, and every dancer who needed a chuckle at my personal misfortune, you can all smile now.
My mother died October 31st, 2008. I loved her more than anything you hold holy.
The upside---if there is one---is that there is nobody on this planet who I'm worried of judging me from this date onward. Believe me, I would secretly
murder any one of you in exchange for ten more minutes with my mother. Despite some misogynistic utterances, mother fucker'ish paragraphs against lesbians and racist jokes I've repeated while under the ailing ruling of the strip club industry, I was and will always be a mamma's boy, and I'm not ashamed to admit the tears bleed daily from my eyes like an incurable retinal gonorrhea because she's gone.
Ultimately, while working around addicts, alcoholics, the abused and otherwise, I finally understand the pain and ugliness this business has perpetually rained onto individuals, and I'm not taking anything away from persons who aren't in the strip club industry; Just saying: strip clubs are houses of agony camouflaged to be something tantalizing and alluring, when really
every employee---in some way---is dying inside without the average onlooker knowledgeable.
STRIP CLUB EMPLOYEES: Tell me this industry doesn't reduce you as a person and I will call you a fucking liar.
It's made me become an acceptable/intolerable drinker, wife-beater, felon, software pirate, half-assed father figure, shit-talking deejay, smart-ass'ed, crazy, ballsy bastard most would talk shit about, but there was one person who wouldn't discredit me for any of that.
She simply labeled me a good son.
Z.
And at what point does one get off their knees, put their anguish into their palms and plead to the nearest person, "Please, somebody take this from me."
