Asshole!!
Mother Fucking little Weasel!!! Christ I’m so fucking mad right now I’m still shaking. My head is pounding and I’m raging. I just want to tear out his balls shove them down his throat and slam his face into the heel of my stiletto!
Still shaking.
Sigh… I guess I’ll back it up…
It’s been an uneventful week at the Liquid Zoo. Too many spoiled drunken kids as usual, but the lineup was good, the schedule was ideal and everything was smooth… until about two hours ago.
I’m in the dressing room after my show, just touching up my makeup and cooling down when the DJ comes in. “I have a private show for you to do.”
I look at him and respond with “okay, $40.”
“No. I hold on to the money and you get paid at the end of the night.”
My eyebrows go up as I look at him, thinking about that idea. I’m not comfortable doing dances unless I’ve been paid for them. “No. I’m not cool with that. It’s my money. Take your $10, but I want my $30 for the dance. I don’t like doing dances unless the money is in my hand.”
Cocky and dismissive he explained, “Well we’ve had problems with dancers stealing before and this is the best way to do it.”
I don’t like where this is heading. “Sigh… Well I’ve had problems with bars before trying to rip me off. But fine. Whatever.” I shrug, ending the conversation and grabbing a pen. “I’ll log it.” I say as I write down DJ owes me $30 in my book and go do the dance.
From there it just escalated.
After my third show the DJ comes in again. “I have another dance for you to do.”
I’ve already thought about it and decided that I’m not comfortable with the DJ holding on to my dance money. It’s not legal, and it’s not smart. Without vouchers or dances being logged I have nothing to prove how much money is owed to me. I explain it to him. “No. I’m not doing dances unless the money goes to me. I’m sorry that’s just not how I run my business.”
“Fine you stupid bitch. No more dances for you. You’re cut off. You’re not allowed to do anymore private dances.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“This is how it’s done! It’s the best way to do it. Maybe if you’d been selling dances you would know that.”
“Excuse me? I’ve sold more private dances than any girl here. I’ve done dances every single night this week and this has NEVER been a problem until now.”
“You don’t want to do that dance fine. You’re done. You want me to fire you and you’ll never work here again. Fine I’ll get the manager.”
“Fine!”
After a brief encounter with the manager we’ve managed to smooth things over and I’ve calmed down enough to work. He gives me the $30 for the dance I already did. I go back out on the floor, sell a few more dances, and pay the manger directly for the $10 on each dance that the house collects.
It’s 1:00am and I’m getting dressed for my final show for the week. My Sister is in the bar and she wants to see the pirate show, so she will. I pull on the black PVC leggings and red and gold sequined bra and fiddle with mesh of my pirate shirt. The DJ comes into the dressing room and announces, “Hey Fuck Face give me your songs.”
My blood boils, my teeth clench and my pupils constrict as I stare at my CD case trying not to hit him. I don’t say a word. I don’t move an inch. After a minute he walks out, frustrated. The other dancer stares at me in disbelief. I’m raging.
Asshole DJ returns as I’m lacing up my red brocade skirt and demands my song numbers again. I glare at him “Oh I’m sorry were you talking to me? Because I’m pretty sure you don’t need to talk to me like that.”
“You stupid cunt! Everything had been fine all week then you have to get a fucking attitude and be a spoiled bitch! This is how things are!! Now give me your fucking songs or get the fuck out!”
“I’ve worked in a hell of a lot more strip clubs than you have, so I’m pretty sure I know how things are.”
“Listen you stupid bitch how about you give me your fucking songs.”
“Fuck you! Get out! Just get the hell out of my face.”
“You’re done! Forget it. I don’t need your shit. Your show is cancelled.”
“You are NOT canceling my last goddamn show.”
“Well when a cunt like you has to cause so many problems. Why should I put you on?” He smirks at me, mocking my anger.
My knuckles are white. My fists are clenched. Somehow I breathe long enough to give him the song numbers before he wrenches the CD out of my hand and slams the door behind him. My hands are shaking. I’m too angry to cry. I have to be on stage in two minutes and I want to fucking kill that self-righteous little prick. I want to scream. I glare at the door through which he disappeared and scream.
“SLAM!!” my stiletto punctures through the drywall from the force of the kick, leaving a full footprint hole in the wall. I look at the damage and glance over at the other dancer. She’s dumbfounded by the entire scene she just witnessed.
I take a deep breath; pull a poster off the wall and cover the hole I’ve just made. I watch my hands shake with rage. I have to be on stage, now! I take another deep breath, put the red brocade pirate hat on my head, adjust the feather, add another layer of red lip gloss and beeline it for the stage.
Somehow I survive my show. I just dance. Fuck him. I just dance, and dance and try to expel the excess energy. It doesn’t work, but it helps. On stage I’m safe. I still want to implant my stiletto in his throat, but I don’t. I hate him.
I pack my things, collect my pay, say goodbye to the other two dancers and get the hell out of the bar. I’m so done. Fuck him!!
Still shaking.
Sigh… I guess I’ll back it up…
It’s been an uneventful week at the Liquid Zoo. Too many spoiled drunken kids as usual, but the lineup was good, the schedule was ideal and everything was smooth… until about two hours ago.
I’m in the dressing room after my show, just touching up my makeup and cooling down when the DJ comes in. “I have a private show for you to do.”
I look at him and respond with “okay, $40.”
“No. I hold on to the money and you get paid at the end of the night.”
My eyebrows go up as I look at him, thinking about that idea. I’m not comfortable doing dances unless I’ve been paid for them. “No. I’m not cool with that. It’s my money. Take your $10, but I want my $30 for the dance. I don’t like doing dances unless the money is in my hand.”
Cocky and dismissive he explained, “Well we’ve had problems with dancers stealing before and this is the best way to do it.”
I don’t like where this is heading. “Sigh… Well I’ve had problems with bars before trying to rip me off. But fine. Whatever.” I shrug, ending the conversation and grabbing a pen. “I’ll log it.” I say as I write down DJ owes me $30 in my book and go do the dance.
From there it just escalated.
After my third show the DJ comes in again. “I have another dance for you to do.”
I’ve already thought about it and decided that I’m not comfortable with the DJ holding on to my dance money. It’s not legal, and it’s not smart. Without vouchers or dances being logged I have nothing to prove how much money is owed to me. I explain it to him. “No. I’m not doing dances unless the money goes to me. I’m sorry that’s just not how I run my business.”
“Fine you stupid bitch. No more dances for you. You’re cut off. You’re not allowed to do anymore private dances.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“This is how it’s done! It’s the best way to do it. Maybe if you’d been selling dances you would know that.”
“Excuse me? I’ve sold more private dances than any girl here. I’ve done dances every single night this week and this has NEVER been a problem until now.”
“You don’t want to do that dance fine. You’re done. You want me to fire you and you’ll never work here again. Fine I’ll get the manager.”
“Fine!”
After a brief encounter with the manager we’ve managed to smooth things over and I’ve calmed down enough to work. He gives me the $30 for the dance I already did. I go back out on the floor, sell a few more dances, and pay the manger directly for the $10 on each dance that the house collects.
It’s 1:00am and I’m getting dressed for my final show for the week. My Sister is in the bar and she wants to see the pirate show, so she will. I pull on the black PVC leggings and red and gold sequined bra and fiddle with mesh of my pirate shirt. The DJ comes into the dressing room and announces, “Hey Fuck Face give me your songs.”
My blood boils, my teeth clench and my pupils constrict as I stare at my CD case trying not to hit him. I don’t say a word. I don’t move an inch. After a minute he walks out, frustrated. The other dancer stares at me in disbelief. I’m raging.
Asshole DJ returns as I’m lacing up my red brocade skirt and demands my song numbers again. I glare at him “Oh I’m sorry were you talking to me? Because I’m pretty sure you don’t need to talk to me like that.”
“You stupid cunt! Everything had been fine all week then you have to get a fucking attitude and be a spoiled bitch! This is how things are!! Now give me your fucking songs or get the fuck out!”
“I’ve worked in a hell of a lot more strip clubs than you have, so I’m pretty sure I know how things are.”
“Listen you stupid bitch how about you give me your fucking songs.”
“Fuck you! Get out! Just get the hell out of my face.”
“You’re done! Forget it. I don’t need your shit. Your show is cancelled.”
“You are NOT canceling my last goddamn show.”
“Well when a cunt like you has to cause so many problems. Why should I put you on?” He smirks at me, mocking my anger.
My knuckles are white. My fists are clenched. Somehow I breathe long enough to give him the song numbers before he wrenches the CD out of my hand and slams the door behind him. My hands are shaking. I’m too angry to cry. I have to be on stage in two minutes and I want to fucking kill that self-righteous little prick. I want to scream. I glare at the door through which he disappeared and scream.
“SLAM!!” my stiletto punctures through the drywall from the force of the kick, leaving a full footprint hole in the wall. I look at the damage and glance over at the other dancer. She’s dumbfounded by the entire scene she just witnessed.
I take a deep breath; pull a poster off the wall and cover the hole I’ve just made. I watch my hands shake with rage. I have to be on stage, now! I take another deep breath, put the red brocade pirate hat on my head, adjust the feather, add another layer of red lip gloss and beeline it for the stage.
Somehow I survive my show. I just dance. Fuck him. I just dance, and dance and try to expel the excess energy. It doesn’t work, but it helps. On stage I’m safe. I still want to implant my stiletto in his throat, but I don’t. I hate him.
I pack my things, collect my pay, say goodbye to the other two dancers and get the hell out of the bar. I’m so done. Fuck him!!
Labels: shit
posted by Ryann @ 02:44
5 Comments:
At 6:39 PM,
Tyler Ingram said…
Holy shit that was rough!
At 10:11 PM,
Cheeks Filibuster said…
jeezus christ. I'm hoping that through sex work activism, one day problems like psych-ward djs will be a thing of the past. I've heard horror stories, and seen some things too. I'm really sorry you had to experience that, and I hope it comes to some kind of a "constructive" conclusion for ya. Or, that dj crosses the wrong person and gets shown a lesson some day soon! I pity him! -Cheeks
At 5:35 PM,
Anonymous said…
Ryann that was one hell of a lot of self control ya showed. He'll get his. And it'll hurt worse than a stillito in the throat. He don't sound like no DJ to me {{me knows nothing about dancing except that ya put up with alot of shit}} he sound like a slime ball pimp. Who the fuck he think he is calling you a spoiled bitch??? ROAAAAAAAR {HUGGGGGGGGGS HUGGGGGGGS}
At 9:14 PM,
Johnny Wadd said…
Certianly a bad situation there. You have every right to stipulate the terms of your dance, if you both couldn't agree on it then fine it should have ended there and he could have found other girls. No need for him to help you out and defiantly no need for him to get personal about it. From my experience DJs like this will usually end up on the wrong end of someone's fist after pulling that shit on the wrong girl...who just might have a very large biker boyfriend.
At 9:12 PM,
Anonymous said…
I always paid air dances after, maybe the goils trusted me more, but I never got asked this, I even paid for a service I didn't want Michelle Leighs trick me to the lap dance thing; well, yeah you'll delete this, but likely drake policy, do they still check (steal) property like umbrella's at customer's cost? That caused me to leave and complain (web and authorities). But a DJ or any employee asking for a dance isn't right, as it is I think DJ's can be pretty replaced with prerecordings maybe easier to understand, with CD changers and dancer's personal mix tapes. None the less it isn't right and your right not to trust a club employee, especially someone who uses the C word so easily, it usually takes a good context, joke, or a woman so horrid, or even guy; that no other word can explain it.
Best,
Gölök (B.J.) Buday
"The first destroyer of the liberties of a people is he who first gave them bounties and largess." -- Plutarch (c.45-125 A.D.) Priest of the Delphic Oracle
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