Saturday - July 13, 2014
Last night my agent booked me for two parties. The first one at 7 P.M. and the second one at 9 P.M.
There was one problem though. The drive time between the two parties was two hours.
My entire performance tends to last about an hour. It takes me that long to cycle through a variety of activities and girls. The customers expect an hour due to the large amount of money they hand out, so anything less than that causes dissatisfaction.
Tardiness also causes dissatisfaction. There was no way I would make the second party by 9 P.M., even if were to speed down the interstate.
I called the second party to ask if I could bump the time to 10 P.M. The girl who answered said that the time had already been delayed to 9 P.M. She originally requested that I show up at 8. "We plan on hitting up the clubs once you leave and we don't wanna go out too late," she said.
Because the first party booked me a week in advance, I had to honor their 7 o'clock reservation. As a result, I had to cancel my second show.
I called my agent and told him.
"No problem," he said. "I'll just get another guy to do it."
The rest of my evening continued as planned.
The first party, a surprise 40th birthday party, was amazing. It was located in an upscale neighborhood that had a pristine golf course. The ladies showered me with money like they had too much of it. They eagerly participated in all my activities, and everyone seemed to have a great time, myself included. I left with over a hundred dollars in tips.
Once I got home, I made dinner and sat down to relax. I was tired, hungry, and wanted to relax in my living room for the rest of the evening.
Then at 9:48 P.M. the phone rang.
It was the customers from the second party, the one I had to cancel.
"Hey, we're trying to call your company and no one is answering," she said. "I figured that you may know someone we can talk to."
"What's wrong?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
"Well, your company told us that they got an Italian guy to show up. So we told the security at the front gate of our condo that an Italian guy would show up ... Well, a guy showed up, but he looks nothing like the picture. First of all, he's black. He definitely does not match the picture of the guy we picked. And he has some other guy with him, which is just weird. We gave security the description and name of an Italian guy. They won't let this guy and his friend in, and we don't really want them to come into our place."
"I'd like to help you," I offered. "But I probably won't be able to get a hold of my agent. He's pretty busy with the phones on Saturdays."
"Can you come strip for us?" she asked.
"I don't feel comfortable taking another guy's job from him," I said. "And it'd take me two hours to get ready and get out there."
"I see," she said. "Wait, I think your company is calling. Let me take this. I'll text you afterwards. Bye."
As soon as I got off the phone, my agent sent me this text message: "Call the Orange Beach party. They may take you."
I replied: "Yes. They wanted me to it. I think they turned the other guy away."
My phone rang again. This time it was my agent.
"These fuckin' racist bitches are really pissin' me off," he said in a tone mixed with anger and exasperation. "They don't want the guy who showed up because they think he's black. He's fuckin' LATINO! I told them that, but they still think he's black. They're demanding a white guy, even though this guy drove an hour and a half to their location. Anyway, if you want to still do this party, it's yours."
"The earliest I can get out there is midnight," I said. "And they've already been flaky twice tonight. The last thing I want to do is drive all the way out there just for them to give me attitude or turn me away."
"I hear ya," he said. "I mean, you offered to do they show at 10 P.M. earlier and they said it was too late. Now it's fuckin' 10 o'clock and these dumb bitches want you to drive out there. If they took the time you originally said, then we wouldn't even have this problem right now. I swear, sometimes I just want to reach my hand through the phone and choke the shit out of some of these bitches."
"Just curious. Do male customers who book female strippers ever give you these problems"
"Not very often. It's almost always the women. They complain about every fuckin' thing imaginable. Guys are easy. Just send them a hot girl with ass and titties and they're happy. Girls are a constant pain in my fuckin' asshole. They want some fantasy guy that they been dreaming about for the last 20 years to suddenly appear and strip for them, and if you don't send them someone that perfectly fits that bill, they raise hell. They bitch when the guy is 3 minutes late. They bitch about everything. Like I said, I'd like to just smack 'em a bunch of times."
In the end, I decided against doing the party. My agent was more than understanding.
After I got off the phone, the girl from the second party sent me a text message asking me to come out to perform. She said I could show up around midnight.
I did not reply.
Showing posts with label bad parties. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad parties. Show all posts
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Sunday, July 28, 2013
The Customers From Hell
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...
______________________________
For more stories, check out Dion's book.
Buy the e-book here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MGRUEYM
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...
______________________________
For more stories, check out Dion's book.
Buy the e-book here: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MGRUEYM
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Tough Party 05/03/2013
These girls were actually locals, not tourists---a rarity. It was a bachelorette party comprised of black girls that took place in a nice suburb. I came with my typical cowboy costume.
These women weren't mean. They tipped well and treated me with a moderate amount of civility as one can give at a bachelorette party. The main problem was their shyness since most of them scurried away from my approach and wouldn't participate at all. If there's one ingredient that spoils a bachelorette party, it's shyness.
There were about a dozen girls in attendance, and out of all of them, only three participated with me, and by 'participate', I mean sitting still and not running from the male stripper. Even the bachelorette, who was too drunk to stand up, tried to escape my proximity against the wishes of her friends.
"Put it on her face," one of her friends told me. I tried, but the bachelorette ran and stumbled into a wooden chair and collapsed on the floor. I decided that chasing her further to deliver my package onto her face would result in some serious injuries.
After about fifteen minutes into the party, I tried to leave, but the girls wanted me to dance more. The problem was that there was no one to dance with. I lingered around about five more minutes and managed to dance with one tall girl who had on a pair of black shiny leggings.
The girls had a "no picture" rule, so after completing my dancing, I called an end to the party. The crowd thanked me kindly. Two girls gathered my tip money from the floor and gave it to me.
It was a tough, yet generous crowd. However, this was one of those parties where money was the sole motivating factor. I hope the show booked for tomorrow adds some joyful flavor to the mix.
These women weren't mean. They tipped well and treated me with a moderate amount of civility as one can give at a bachelorette party. The main problem was their shyness since most of them scurried away from my approach and wouldn't participate at all. If there's one ingredient that spoils a bachelorette party, it's shyness.
There were about a dozen girls in attendance, and out of all of them, only three participated with me, and by 'participate', I mean sitting still and not running from the male stripper. Even the bachelorette, who was too drunk to stand up, tried to escape my proximity against the wishes of her friends.
"Put it on her face," one of her friends told me. I tried, but the bachelorette ran and stumbled into a wooden chair and collapsed on the floor. I decided that chasing her further to deliver my package onto her face would result in some serious injuries.
After about fifteen minutes into the party, I tried to leave, but the girls wanted me to dance more. The problem was that there was no one to dance with. I lingered around about five more minutes and managed to dance with one tall girl who had on a pair of black shiny leggings.
The girls had a "no picture" rule, so after completing my dancing, I called an end to the party. The crowd thanked me kindly. Two girls gathered my tip money from the floor and gave it to me.
It was a tough, yet generous crowd. However, this was one of those parties where money was the sole motivating factor. I hope the show booked for tomorrow adds some joyful flavor to the mix.
Friday, April 12, 2013
The Most Disorganized Bachelorette Party Ever
Saturday - April 06, 2013
Gulf Shores, Alabama
Bachelorette Party
6 girls
------------
On Saturday of April 7, 2013, I had two shows scheduled for the evening---both polar opposites of each other in terms of the audience.
The first party took place in Gulf Shores, Alabama at a beach condo. It was supposed to happen on the previous night, but girls wanted to postpone until today. I arrived at the condo on time, while the sun was still hovering on the western horizon.
To my surprise, Heather, the girl who hired me wasn't even there. She was out shopping and getting money. The bachelorette and several other girls were hung over in the condo from going out the night before. Talk about unprepared. Hence, I had to skulk about the perimeter of the condo while waiting for Heather. I already had a feeling that this party wasn't going to go well if it even would go at all.
With nothing else better to do, I went to the beach to watch the waves and the sunset. Heather had thirty minutes. That was my allowance since I had to the next bachelorette party to worry about.
After about twenty minutes, Heather and her friend pulled into parking garage. When I met them to collect my payment, I was surprised at how drunk they already were. I could smell an overwhelming odor of the alcoholic drinks they imbibed throughout the day and probably the previous night, and their eyes had a red, glassy look. It was a miracle that they didn't get into a traffic crash or pulled over by the cops while they were out driving around.
They paid me the money and we rode the elevator to the top floor. I still had to change. Heather requested the police costume, but there was no way that was going to happen in broad daylight. Instead, she and her friends would get the cowboy outfit, consisting of a pleather vest, pleather pants, boots, and a cowboy hat.
There was one problem: private party male strippers don't get a dressing room---they make do with whatever is available. I couldn't use the condo because the bachelorette would see me beforehand. So, I was forced to change outside the room. Not a first for me, but not necessarily the most desired place to get naked.
Heather and her friend told me to enter the room whenever I was changed and ready, so they went into the room ahead of me.
First, I looked for the emergency stairwell since that was a location rarely used, but gave up after a brief search. Fortunately, the condos were just about empty, so I decided to change on the railed walkways on the top floor. No one came outside and saw me, but a passerby from the ground level could have peered upwards and become an involuntary witness to a nude show. Even after ten years, this job still provided me with awkward situations.
After changing, I knocked on the door and entered the condo just like Heather wanted. The hallway opened up into the kitchen and living room. Two girls, one of whom was Heather, were in the kitchen. Heather saw my outfit and looked me up and down, biting her lip with unconcealed desire. The other girl had brown hair and wore only a t-shirt with bikini bottoms, and teetered a bit on the heavyset side of the spectrum. She froze when she saw me and regarded me with a sour expression that made her appear more unattractive than she already was.
"Where's the bride?" I asked.
"You're looking at her," Heather said, pointing to the girl with the sour face.
At most parties, the bachelorettes would wear white veils or tiaras, sometimes with a shoulder ribbon with the word 'BACHELORETTE' emblazoned in silvery cursive. Most bachelorettes would not look like they had been lounging around the house all day. When I entered the living room, the scene became worse.
Four girls sat on the couches in an agonized, corpse-like state, showing symptoms of having too much alcohol on the previous night than was reasonably good for them. They appeared more preoccupied with nursing their hangovers than aware of the fact that a man was about to take off his clothes in front of them.
As if to further elaborate on the disorganized nature of this party, their disheveled appearances bore a stark contrast to the typical bachelorette party where girls cake on makeup, put on perfume, and wear nice clothes in an effort to look presentable upon my arrival. These girls looked like they barely got out of bed.
Despite their tortured status, they were quite happy to see me, although I could not say I felt the same for them.
The bachelorette was not pleased, however.
In fact, the bachelorette hated me. As soon as she saw me, she flat out told me that I wasn't her type and refused to dance with me. She reminded me of a sly and loathsome lizard, her green eyes narrowed as she sized me up in a calculating manner and concluded her opinion of me by curling her lip downward in exaggerated disgust.
With extreme reluctance, she participated with me in my routine only at the insistent pleading and cajoling from her friends. While I stripped for her, she made a few attempts at insulting me, such as telling me that I was ugly to which I gave her the best response appropriate for her kind attitude---ignored her. I went to find a girl who offered a warmer perception.
This task proved rather difficult since most of the girls were too hung over from their previous night of partying to even get up off of the couch. Several wanted to, but the pale look on their faces told me that the mere act of doing anything physical would have probably caused them to vomit, an act of which I along with everyone else wanted to avoid. Despite their pallid condition, some of them were still drinking beer, and other varieties of mixed alcoholic drinks. Their persistence impressed me.
Heather, the girl who hired me, was the only one in condition to dance. She gyrated her hips against me and thoroughly enjoyed my presence so much that it seemed as though she hired me for her own pleasure rather than the bachelorette's.
When I announced that it was time for body shots, the girls pointed to the bachelorette, whom I wanted to avoid. She shook her head violently in response to the finger pointing, making it clear that she wanted little to do with me as possible. Her friends pleaded with her to participate again, and she finally relented. However, her idea of a body shot was taking a shot glass from Heather's midsection, which met with awkward and unsuccessful results.
I interjected by pouring some champagne onto Heather's midsection and taking a shot from her, causing her to smile and thrust her hips towards me. The salty smell of sweat and body odor assaulted me, and I immediately withdrew. The other girls demanded more, but in an effort to breathe fresh air, I asked for volunteers to take a body shot off of me instead.
Before anyone could respond, the Bachelorette looked at my abs and wrinkled her nose and frowned as though she tasted something nasty and wanted to spit it out. "Uh, no. Not off you at least. That'd be disgusting." Then, the bachelorette expressed incredulity at how someone of low quality such as me could get a job as a male stripper.
I couldn't help but smile. In my line of work, it is common to run into girls who assume male strippers to be full of pride and ego, and reasonable for them to think so, since getting paid to strip for women on a regular basis tends to uplift one's ego and self-esteem. Most girls with such an assumption drop their stereotypes if I treat them with politeness and modesty. A few unruly girls, such as this bachelorette, resort to unwarranted insults. Again, I ignored the bachelorette and resumed dancing with Heather since she was the only one besides the bachelorette who was able enough to move around without getting sick.
However, I was not the only target for the bachelorette.
While dancing with me, Heather flirted more with me and asked many questions to further know me. In the midst of Heather's fun, the bachelorette approached us and said aloud, "Hey, did you know that Heather was engaged seven times?"
Heather gazed at her friend with open-mouthed shock. "D-don't tell him stuff like that!" Heather said.
The bachelorette continued, "Why not? It's true. She really loved her last fiance though, but too bad things didn't work out."
Once again, Heather begged her friend to stop, saying that she didn't air out her 'dirty laundry', especially concerning the bachelorette's fiance.
The bachelorette shrugged and said that she was going off to a future event without her soon-to-husband knowning, hinting at engaging in activities that he would highly disapprove of had he found out.
Many things do not affect my often callous nature in this job anymore, but I had enough of the bachelorette. She disgusted me. I walked away to gather my clothes, not wanting to get between two friends and their complicated business.
Looking back, I wish I told the bachelorette off, because as I was telling everyone my goodbyes, I saw the wild and crazy Heather diminished to a subdued and sad state. She appeared on the verge of tears from the humiliation of the bachelorette's recent comments. I thanked her for hiring me and she meekly nodded and smiled. All of the other girls hugged me, several apologizing for not participating, but asking me to stay and party with them, nonetheless. I told them I had another party to go to, and they told me to come back after I was done. Every girl thanked me for coming, except the Bachelorette who stared at me like she was ready to say another insult. I ignored her and left.
As I drove to the next party, I began to get angry about that incident. The bachelorette's treatment of her generous friend upset me more than her petty insults directed at me. Heather paid me 250 dollars so her friend could have a lively bachelorette party. Then as a token of appreciation for the effort, her so-called friend decided to lash her with soul-cutting insult while she was flirting with me---an act of disrespect that caused a profound embarrassment that no person of integrity would wish on a true friend.
It was not my problem, but I should have stood up for Heather. That bachelorette did not deserve an ounce of the hospitality that her friends provided her.
I drove to the next party in a foul mood, stewing over the incident in my mind and wishing that bachelorette a life of misfortune.
I only hoped that the next party fared better, because this night was turning out poorly.
(to be continued)
Gulf Shores, Alabama
Bachelorette Party
6 girls
------------
On Saturday of April 7, 2013, I had two shows scheduled for the evening---both polar opposites of each other in terms of the audience.
The first party took place in Gulf Shores, Alabama at a beach condo. It was supposed to happen on the previous night, but girls wanted to postpone until today. I arrived at the condo on time, while the sun was still hovering on the western horizon.
 |
| Alabama has some nice beaches. |
With nothing else better to do, I went to the beach to watch the waves and the sunset. Heather had thirty minutes. That was my allowance since I had to the next bachelorette party to worry about.
After about twenty minutes, Heather and her friend pulled into parking garage. When I met them to collect my payment, I was surprised at how drunk they already were. I could smell an overwhelming odor of the alcoholic drinks they imbibed throughout the day and probably the previous night, and their eyes had a red, glassy look. It was a miracle that they didn't get into a traffic crash or pulled over by the cops while they were out driving around.
They paid me the money and we rode the elevator to the top floor. I still had to change. Heather requested the police costume, but there was no way that was going to happen in broad daylight. Instead, she and her friends would get the cowboy outfit, consisting of a pleather vest, pleather pants, boots, and a cowboy hat.
 |
| I changed clothes outside on the top floor. |
Heather and her friend told me to enter the room whenever I was changed and ready, so they went into the room ahead of me.
First, I looked for the emergency stairwell since that was a location rarely used, but gave up after a brief search. Fortunately, the condos were just about empty, so I decided to change on the railed walkways on the top floor. No one came outside and saw me, but a passerby from the ground level could have peered upwards and become an involuntary witness to a nude show. Even after ten years, this job still provided me with awkward situations.
After changing, I knocked on the door and entered the condo just like Heather wanted. The hallway opened up into the kitchen and living room. Two girls, one of whom was Heather, were in the kitchen. Heather saw my outfit and looked me up and down, biting her lip with unconcealed desire. The other girl had brown hair and wore only a t-shirt with bikini bottoms, and teetered a bit on the heavyset side of the spectrum. She froze when she saw me and regarded me with a sour expression that made her appear more unattractive than she already was.
"Where's the bride?" I asked.
"You're looking at her," Heather said, pointing to the girl with the sour face.
At most parties, the bachelorettes would wear white veils or tiaras, sometimes with a shoulder ribbon with the word 'BACHELORETTE' emblazoned in silvery cursive. Most bachelorettes would not look like they had been lounging around the house all day. When I entered the living room, the scene became worse.
Four girls sat on the couches in an agonized, corpse-like state, showing symptoms of having too much alcohol on the previous night than was reasonably good for them. They appeared more preoccupied with nursing their hangovers than aware of the fact that a man was about to take off his clothes in front of them.
As if to further elaborate on the disorganized nature of this party, their disheveled appearances bore a stark contrast to the typical bachelorette party where girls cake on makeup, put on perfume, and wear nice clothes in an effort to look presentable upon my arrival. These girls looked like they barely got out of bed.
Despite their tortured status, they were quite happy to see me, although I could not say I felt the same for them.
The bachelorette was not pleased, however.
In fact, the bachelorette hated me. As soon as she saw me, she flat out told me that I wasn't her type and refused to dance with me. She reminded me of a sly and loathsome lizard, her green eyes narrowed as she sized me up in a calculating manner and concluded her opinion of me by curling her lip downward in exaggerated disgust.
With extreme reluctance, she participated with me in my routine only at the insistent pleading and cajoling from her friends. While I stripped for her, she made a few attempts at insulting me, such as telling me that I was ugly to which I gave her the best response appropriate for her kind attitude---ignored her. I went to find a girl who offered a warmer perception.
This task proved rather difficult since most of the girls were too hung over from their previous night of partying to even get up off of the couch. Several wanted to, but the pale look on their faces told me that the mere act of doing anything physical would have probably caused them to vomit, an act of which I along with everyone else wanted to avoid. Despite their pallid condition, some of them were still drinking beer, and other varieties of mixed alcoholic drinks. Their persistence impressed me.
Heather, the girl who hired me, was the only one in condition to dance. She gyrated her hips against me and thoroughly enjoyed my presence so much that it seemed as though she hired me for her own pleasure rather than the bachelorette's.
When I announced that it was time for body shots, the girls pointed to the bachelorette, whom I wanted to avoid. She shook her head violently in response to the finger pointing, making it clear that she wanted little to do with me as possible. Her friends pleaded with her to participate again, and she finally relented. However, her idea of a body shot was taking a shot glass from Heather's midsection, which met with awkward and unsuccessful results.
I interjected by pouring some champagne onto Heather's midsection and taking a shot from her, causing her to smile and thrust her hips towards me. The salty smell of sweat and body odor assaulted me, and I immediately withdrew. The other girls demanded more, but in an effort to breathe fresh air, I asked for volunteers to take a body shot off of me instead.
Before anyone could respond, the Bachelorette looked at my abs and wrinkled her nose and frowned as though she tasted something nasty and wanted to spit it out. "Uh, no. Not off you at least. That'd be disgusting." Then, the bachelorette expressed incredulity at how someone of low quality such as me could get a job as a male stripper.
I couldn't help but smile. In my line of work, it is common to run into girls who assume male strippers to be full of pride and ego, and reasonable for them to think so, since getting paid to strip for women on a regular basis tends to uplift one's ego and self-esteem. Most girls with such an assumption drop their stereotypes if I treat them with politeness and modesty. A few unruly girls, such as this bachelorette, resort to unwarranted insults. Again, I ignored the bachelorette and resumed dancing with Heather since she was the only one besides the bachelorette who was able enough to move around without getting sick.
However, I was not the only target for the bachelorette.
While dancing with me, Heather flirted more with me and asked many questions to further know me. In the midst of Heather's fun, the bachelorette approached us and said aloud, "Hey, did you know that Heather was engaged seven times?"
Heather gazed at her friend with open-mouthed shock. "D-don't tell him stuff like that!" Heather said.
The bachelorette continued, "Why not? It's true. She really loved her last fiance though, but too bad things didn't work out."
Once again, Heather begged her friend to stop, saying that she didn't air out her 'dirty laundry', especially concerning the bachelorette's fiance.
The bachelorette shrugged and said that she was going off to a future event without her soon-to-husband knowning, hinting at engaging in activities that he would highly disapprove of had he found out.
Many things do not affect my often callous nature in this job anymore, but I had enough of the bachelorette. She disgusted me. I walked away to gather my clothes, not wanting to get between two friends and their complicated business.
Looking back, I wish I told the bachelorette off, because as I was telling everyone my goodbyes, I saw the wild and crazy Heather diminished to a subdued and sad state. She appeared on the verge of tears from the humiliation of the bachelorette's recent comments. I thanked her for hiring me and she meekly nodded and smiled. All of the other girls hugged me, several apologizing for not participating, but asking me to stay and party with them, nonetheless. I told them I had another party to go to, and they told me to come back after I was done. Every girl thanked me for coming, except the Bachelorette who stared at me like she was ready to say another insult. I ignored her and left.
As I drove to the next party, I began to get angry about that incident. The bachelorette's treatment of her generous friend upset me more than her petty insults directed at me. Heather paid me 250 dollars so her friend could have a lively bachelorette party. Then as a token of appreciation for the effort, her so-called friend decided to lash her with soul-cutting insult while she was flirting with me---an act of disrespect that caused a profound embarrassment that no person of integrity would wish on a true friend.
It was not my problem, but I should have stood up for Heather. That bachelorette did not deserve an ounce of the hospitality that her friends provided her.
I drove to the next party in a foul mood, stewing over the incident in my mind and wishing that bachelorette a life of misfortune.
I only hoped that the next party fared better, because this night was turning out poorly.
(to be continued)
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