What a waste of a shift. This young dude was pulling my dick forever and then announced that he’d be back Thursday night. I’ll be waiting with baited breath, honey. I know I’m a broken record, but I hate that I have to coerce them into spending money. It wasn’t like that back in the day. I would walk up, say hello, put my body against theirs and ask if they wanted a dance. Nine times out of ten they said yes (or if they said later, they meant it). Boom. Easy. Everyone had fun. Now they want us sit and talk. The lap dances and shows are what men used to come in for. Now it’s the company. Which is fine, but then pay me for my time. And a few do, but mostly they don’t. I think people are aware at this point that strippers don’t get paid a salary or an hourly wage. They know that our money is coming from them and them alone. I’d rather stare at the wall than talk and flirt if there’s no gold at the end. These men are dangling carrots. Fake, flaccid carrots. I get that people are hurting financially, but then don’t come to the fucking club! It’s beyond exhausting. You want me? Get me. Here I am. Nothing’s hidden. It’s all on display. And I’m much more fun when I’m half-naked on your lap in a private chair as opposed to sitting next to you on the floor with my jokes and my sales gab. My theory (I’m full of theory’s tonight) is that a real man will go for what he wants. I don’t like it when one skirts around or hems and haws. You won’t get turned down, buddy, and you won’t be disappointed. You like it you buy it. It’s that simple. It’s not a house with a fifteen year adjustable. It’s a lap dance. Ugh. I just want to shower off this skanky vanilla and eat a salad.