I brought him to the third floor. This was where the real money was spent. It was there that I was in the midst of hookers/prostitutes/whores, girls that gave a little more bang for your buck/holla for your dollar. With an exchange, due to the third floor manager, girls would take it as far as they wanted, as long as they paid off “Play.” Play was easy going, his eyes were never right, he was always high, always drunk, but somehow still able to track transactions like a CPA. Play was sweet, always complementing the girls, using sugary nicknames, and anything but confrontational. He never expected more than what we were up for. He let the dancers create their own boundaries.
The elevator door opened, I found an empty bed in the dimly lit room. We stepped over a used condom that had been carelessly dropped on the floor, and closed the curtain. This customer was past the limit, he should have been thrown out. He was an easy target. An early 30s, white, well dressed but disheveled, married man. His name was probably something like Jim or Steve. He had a great job, a wife, young children, and that pretty little white picket fence everyone wants. In fact, his last name was most likely Jones, he is the one we are supposed to keep up with!
Mr. Jones got comfortable on the bed while I slipped off my top one shoulder at a time, and began my routine. Mr. Jones was quite obnoxious. With an alcohol level that was off the charts, he couldn’t hold still or keep his mouth shut. When getting a “clean” dance, this behavior is unacceptable. Mr. Jones kept moving and moaning.
The most disrespectful thing about a strip club is not degrading the dancers, we were treated like goddesses and pampered most of the time. What killed me was every night when we closed, there would be some clown looking for the wedding ring that he lost that night. Our ATM withdrew money from accounts under the name of “DJ’s of America” to protect men from their significant other. Men with good women at home made them feel as if they were physically not enough. Infidelity dripped from their wallets.
As Mr. Jones enjoyed his dance, I noticed the content of his pockets beginning to fall on the mattress. I helped destiny move along, wriggling out the rest of his loot. Those who misbehave, get punished. The third song ended, I put my top back on, giggled as I gave him his keys and license, repremanding his carelessness, and warning him not to drive tonight. I gave him back enough money for him to tip me, which he did. I brought him back to his friends, and hugged him good night.
I happily counted the score. I didn’t consider it stealing, I considered it compensation for bad behavior, and a lesson for Mr. Jones. I would tip the valet boys extra that night. I was a modern Robin Hood, later I would discover more profitable strategies to carry out justice.