Holy crap, over the weekend I saw the worst implants I have ever seen on anyone. If her nipples were eyes, they’d be cross-eyed. One nipple to the sky, the other one at the bottom like it’s dying of shame. Surprises lurk underneath that sexy red bra. I’m assuming it’s a case of capsular contracture, where the scar tissue that forms around the implant tightens and distorts. It can happen at any time.
Anyway, I’m at a new club now. I was terrified of auditioning. I haven’t auditioned in Vegas in years. I knew I needed to change clubs when I was the girl who was crying in the locker room every night. She used to not be me and she used to make me chuckle. Crying people never say anything rational. I even used to make impressions of them. I love imitating people to make my friends laugh.
“Guess who I am?” I’d ask and I’d imitate a thick accent, a signature dance move, or a conspicuously nervous behavior. Things people say when they’re crying are hilarious. I’m laughing as I’m typing just thinking about it.
I’m a horrible person.
Then I became the butt of my own joke. I’d try to hang on to a little dignity and stick my head in the locker while trying to regroup. People would ask what’s wrong and I’d make up reasons. “Allergies” or “My contact lenses are killing me.” “Actually, somebody came in my eye,” I’d joke. I had simply been around too long. I had too many bad memories associated with that club. Coworkers, managers and regulars were too Goddamn familiar. They all knew my problems and worse, they knew my real name. I’d inevitably run into certain people or situations that would trigger uncontrollable waterworks.
I stuck around because I felt more comfortable being a big fish in a small pond. Being a hot girl in a not so hot club often made business easy. The problem with a mediocre club is that there are mediocre customers. I am ready for the big leagues now though. I think.
I ran into one of my stripper friends at the Hard Rock and she told me that business at her club was good and that I should come work with her. The club is an upscale palace staffed with Barbie dolls. Intimidating to say the least. I told her I needed time to hit the gym and she told me I was being ridiculous and to come to her club the following Friday to work with her.
It was about a week between the time I saw her at the Hard Rock and the night I came in for my audition. A week of trying to talk myself out of it but I couldn’t bear to spend another weekend at Old Club. I think I must have asked my friend ten times to put in a good word for me with the manager before I came in.
The word “audition” carries the connotation that there is some kind of prepared performance involved in the hiring process. That is almost never the case in strip club hiring. I can only think of one club in Vegas that makes potential hirees dance on stage during an audition and it’s corporate owned so maybe that has something to do with it? My recent audition required a two-piece stripper outfit and for the manager to see me in it.
I picked a red plaid school girly thing that is really flattering but kind of ugly. I bought it with a pile of other stuff. I don’t think I’ve even worn it long enough to sell a lap dance in it.
I waited in the hallway for the manager for several minutes. I fidgeted with the bottoms, pulling them up to show more cheek. I tried to maintain good posture. I retied my top. I tried to keep smiling.
A very large man in a suit approached me. With heels, I was eye level to his chest. He introduced himself as the manager. Looked at my front, then the rear, and then approved me. So I work there now.