After ten years of stripping, I never experienced a group of girls so disrespectful, rude, and trashy until now. In fact, tonight was the first time I ever told off a group of customers.
This party took place at a condo in Gulf Shores, Alabama, and it was a crowd consisting half of white girls and half of black girls. They called in at the last minute to book me. I had prior bachelorette party in Destin, Florida, so I took this gig since I was out and about.
The crowd from the first party treated me with adoration, and I drove to the second gig in an extremely good mood. Had I been a seer who could predict the future, then I would have called it a night and cancelled.
The customer's name was Wendy, and she booked me around 8 p.m. and wanted me there as soon as possible. Instead, my agent scheduled her party at 11:30 p.m. to midnight because my first party was at least a two-hour drive away.
Problems arose before I even got there. Wendy repeatedly called me demanding to know where I was at. She wanted to reschedule the party for 10:30 p.m., but I told her that was impossible since I was just leaving Destin. I told her that I would arrive around midnight. As I neared her location, she called me several more times, gradually becoming drunker and more impatient each time. She screamed, "People are starting to fall asleep here!"
Book a stripper in advance next time, I thought. Her hostility unsettled me, but I remained hopeful that the other girls were more friendly.
Had Wendy booked a male stripper earlier instead of later, then the agency could have provided a male stripper at her convenience. Male strippers are not like taxi cabs, ready to deploy at a moment's notice. That was the first mishap.
The second mishap was entirely my fault. I arrived, met the customer outside, and collected the money. In my haste to get my police uniform ready and perform, I forgot my music player in the car. The girls had no music. So after I pulled the typical noise complaint routine, I realized there was no music had to pause the show to retrieve my music player out of my car. I apologized to everyone for my mistake. They said they wanted an extra twenty minutes for waiting.
"No problem," I said.
The bachelorette's overly drunken state caused the third mishap. I could not interact or perform for her. She slumped in her chair, eyes half shut. I felt like I was dancing for a corpse. She lethargically pointed to several of her friends and wanted me to dance for them instead.
Most of the crowd caused the fourth mishap. They did not want participate, which is crucial to a fun party. Instead, they pointed back at the bachelorette and told me to dance with her. It was like a game of Pong. They just bounced me back and forth, neither girl wanting me on their side.
The worst mishap came from an obese black lady dressed in purple; I will refer to her as the "Plum Girl." She resembled a gelatinous slug that oozed fat rolls over the chair she sat on. She weighed around 400 pounds and perpetually scowled at everything around her. Her personality was even uglier than her.
She insulted me by telling me that "I wasn't shit," and "I was boring," and "I need to get some betta music."
I ignored her, but her friends did not. Her loud voice spread like an infection across the room, and soon, several other girls started echoing her opinions, yet none of these critics dared to participate. A voice in the back of my mind told me to leave.
No matter how I danced or what I did, the crowd disapproved, then demanded some more dancing and some more action. They disapproved again when I did that. Exasperated, I asked them what they wanted me to do.
"Whaddaya mean what we want you to do?" Plum yelled. "You the male strippa, you supposed to be runnin' the show!"
Back to more dancing and disapproval. I knew this would not end well.
Finally I found three girls willing to participate. We danced, and I took body shots from two of them. We had a good vibe going between us. Had I had the ability to remove these three girls from this room and relocate them to a different place, then we would have had a great time.
While I was on the third girl, Plum Girl interrupted. "Why you all over her?! You need to be on the bride! See? She's goin' outside now! What the fuck!?"
The third girl cast me a sidelong apologetic look and scurried away, obvious in fear of Plum Girl's wrath.
By now, most of the girls were outside on the balcony, including the bachelorette. They were trash talking me. When I approached the bachelorette in one last attempt to salvage her party, she looked at me with glassy eyes and slurred, "I don't wanna dance wit ya."
Plum Girl chimed in, "See? She don't wanna dance wit you no more. You done fucked it all up. We callin' yo boss and gettin' a refund. We shouldn't have to pay for this shit! You did nuthin' n took our money!"
"Okay," I said. "That's it."
Wendy, the customer who paid me, picked up her cell phone said, "Yeah, I'm gonna call your boss and tell him that you fuckin' sucked so I can get a refund."
I did not stay around to listen. I gathered my belongings and walked out the front door, leaving several of the one-dollar bills on the floor. I could have collected them, but the thought of staying around these girls a moment longer sickened me.
As I exited the condo, the Plum Girl shouted, "Make sure that front door is locked so he can't come back in!"
The door slammed once I reached the elevator, and I heard the sound of a lock clicking in place.
On my way to my car, I pulled out my phone to text my agent what happened.
Me (1:09 a.m.): Just a heads up. Those customers from second party want to complain and get a refund. I got the money though.
Agent (1:12 a.m.): I just got off the phone with them. they are a bunch of fucking cunts. get the hell out of there.
Agent (1:13 a.m.): perfect example why one should always collect the money up front. women like this.
I had left the parking lot by the time I got his warning.
About twenty minutes later, Wendy called me. I sent the call to voice mail. She called again. I sent it to voice mail again.
When she called a third time, I answered the call with the readiness to hang up on her. In a calm voice, she told me that my "manager" had told her to "go fuck yourself" and hung up on her. She asked if I could give her the number to his boss or supervisor so she could get a refund.
I told her that he was the boss and supervisor.
"Who do I go to get a refund then?" she asked.
I found it amusing that she wanted my help now even though she told me that I "fuckin' sucked" earlier. Still, I decided to help point her in the right direction.
"You call the guy who told you to "go fuck yourself" and ask him for the refund," I said.
That was not the answer she wanted, but before I could listen to anything else, I drove through a very rural part of Alabama and my phone reception died. It came back shortly, but I was not going to call Wendy back. I didn't need anything from her. She apparently needed something from me.
She called me five minutes later. I answered the phone out of morbid curiosity.
She suggested that I refund her $125, which was half of the cash amount she gave me. I had no desire to do this, however, because I owed my agent that exact amount for his commission. That meant I would have given all of my earnings from the show, not to mention the gas money I spent to drive there.
I politely explained this to Wendy, even though deep down I knew that reasoning with her was futile.
Unsurprisingly, Wendy disregarded everything I said and asked for the $125 again. She begged for it, even sounding nice for a minute, but I had not forgotten the rude comments that she and her friends made about me while I was at the party. Furthermore, they locked me out of the condo and shunned me like a leper, and now they wanted me to do them a favor by driving back so I could give them some money. Fuck that.
When I told Wendy that I would not drive back to her location to give her a refund, she changed her tone and outlined all of the mistakes I did. She said that I was late, then I forgot my music, and I didn't put on a good show and only danced for twelve minutes.
"You wanted me out of place after twelve minutes, remember? Now you're complaining I left early?"
Once again, she asked for the refund. I told her that she needed to talk to my agent. Unfortunately for her, she pissed off my agent to the point of no return, so she knew that I was her only chance left at getting a refund.
She decided to try a different tactic.
"Listen, my four-year-old can put on a better show than you can," she said. "So you need to give me a fucking refund or I'm going to go online and write a lot of bad reviews on you and your company to where no one will hire you anymore. So you need to come back and give me that refund."
Her sense of entitlement fascinated me. Only a tyrannical dictator can rival such rancid diplomacy by resorting to threats, insults, and demands to get something.
If Wendy and her friends had been kind and polite to me the entire time, then I would been more inclined to help them out. Yet, Wendy continued to insult me and explained how much I sucked as a male stripper. She was on speaker phone, allowing me to hear her friends voice their insults in the background.
Losing patience, I fired back to her that I had a party earlier that night where the girls loved me and had a great time. I also told her that I had done hundreds upon hundreds of parties that end well, some customers even hiring me again. Then, I told her that her group was the worst crowd I ever had out of ten years of experience.
"So why couldn't you give us that kind of show?" Wendy demanded.
"Because you didn't want that kind of show," I said. "I can't give you a good show when you and your friends want to nitpick and complain. Y'all were negative from the beginning. Your attitude is what makes a show good-"
"So you're not going to give me my refund, even though you only worked for twelve minutes?" she asked.
"No," I said.
"That's fucked up!" she yelled. "You're a piece of shit! My four-year old son can entertain better than you can-"
I decided I had enough of her abuse.
"Go fuck yourself!" I snarled and hung up the phone. Even though it was immature, I felt a bit of satisfaction giving her the same treatment that my agent gave her.
She did not call back.
I sent my agent another text message.
Me (1:37 a.m.): Another heads up. The women are trying to get ahold of the management.
Agent: (1:41 a.m.): I know. I am ignoring there phone calls. no point in talking to them. drunk and angry women. not a good combo.
Ten years of stripping at hundreds of parties, and this was my first and only time that I had ever yelled at, even cursed at, a customer. Well, you can't please everyone...
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