The stripper hated being there. That made two of us.
Years ago when I worked at a car factory, I had a black friend who was dying to go to the only strip club in town but did not want to go to an all white strip club without a white chaperone. You laugh, but this was a club that offered ‘Country and Western Night’ and I don’t think they were making a Blues Brothers reference.
The place was a dive in every sense of the word. I wasn’t writing stories then but my brain photographed the place because a place so sleazy needs to be remembered. The chairs were the same quality as a high school classroom. There was one stripper pole and it wobbled. The decor choice was abandoned warehouse.
My friend didn’t care. He was in the promised land of white strippers. He spent bucket loads of money on any girl who gave him a good smile. They loved him right back.
I barely remember that night except for one stripper. She was a brunette and quite frankly I can’t remember if she had a good body or not. All I remember is how she would barely dance and then when people offered her money, she would sigh, stop and get their money and returned to dancing with the same lackluster enthusiasm.
She was my favorite. She hated us. I knew enough about BDSM to know that she was not employing an act of haughty scorn. No, she really hated any sort of contact with us. Every single time money was offered, her shoulders would just sag. If this was a Lifetime movie, the narrator would be discussing how her soul was being crushed with every dollar.
So obviously, I couldn’t stop giving her money. It wasn’t out of empathy. I loved her annoyance. I enjoyed watching the flash of anger in her eyes as she took my money. Her hostility was damn sexy. After awhile she really started to dislike me. I discovered that the brighter my smile, the more pissed she would get. Towards the end of the night she would avoid my part of the stage when it was her time to perform.
Looking back, it’s easy to see why I liked pissing her off. I found the whole strip club experience to be surreal. The girls who were lavishing attention on my married friend who kept giving them money seemed so fake. The most popular stripper of the club was a fake blonde with fake tits. The enthusiasm of the really bad DJ was worse than a perky telemarketer.
I liked pissing off the annoyed girl because her irritation was so real. I don’t know why getting tipped for dancing was pissing her off but once I knew that button was there, I couldn’t stop pushing it. Whole every other dancer was telling me how much they would love to give me a lapdance, this woman’s reluctance to even be near me was something honest.