I auditioned at a new club. Actually, I got gussied up, wore my best whore-y outfit and drove to Carson to try to get hired at a club a friend had told me about. I got lost and showed up about fifty minutes later than I had planned, which was no matter, because they weren’t expecting me.
At the club...
I took a deep breath and walked in the club. Which, like most strip clubs, is in the middle of fuckin nowhere. The door dude tells me to talk to the bartender (who was outside smoking when I walked up). She enters the club and walks me to the bar. The club is small but nice. It has just one main stage in the center of the room. No pole. A first I think. This works for me in the I-don’t-do-pole-tricks department, but not with my I-need-something-to-hang-on-to. I’ll just crawl around and play with myself like I am apt to do.
My audition appointment now “set” (he didn’t write it down), he shooed me away. I’m not sure why I couldn’t just go on stage right then, perhaps it’s a test of sorts. To see if I’m responsible. Or how willing I am to take abuse and humiliation. Fine. Fuckin strip clubs, so much hoop jumping, you’d think they were the CIA.
Ten minutes after I drove away I wish I had said Saturday. Oh well. The Body Shop has been fucking nuts. So much drama and I guess they’ve started filming for a reality show, and unless you are willing to be in it, you are shit out of luck. My friend had to leave last night. They didn’t even try to get releases from anyone! They told her not to worry, that they’d blur her out. She laughed and said, “Right, what about my boobs and my puss?” Fuck that. Like her, I wouldn’t trust my privacy to some reality hacks. The lighting in the dressing room isn’t remotely flattering, all bright and florescent, I really don’t need cameras catching me bending over half-naked shifting through my bag. If the film crew is there when I go in tonight, I’m turning on my heel. Words are one thing. High definition video is another. I’m the only one authorized to document my job.