gambling

No Rest for the Wicked

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

I like to think I’m a good person. I’m the kind of person you can go to when you’re having a bad day. Like a really bad day. Just got dumped? Let’s go out, drinks on me. Having a random panic attack? I’ll hold your hand and help you breathe until it passes. Having a flashback and running down the street, away from invisible threats? I’ll chase you down, grab you, and talk you through it. I’ve talked several people out of suicide without a second thought. I’m the kind of person who’s there when it counts.

I’m not a nice person, though. I’m not agreeable. My bullshit tolerance is zero. If you piss me off I will cut you to pieces and not think twice about it. I love helping people, but when it comes down to day to day life I actually fucking hate them. People suck. They really do. They’re petty. They’re selfish. They’re unforgiving.

What gets me the most is that oftentimes the people I’ve been there for, truly there for, are the ones who abandon me in my hour of need. Like I said, people are selfish. They take and don’t return.

I may be blaming them for my bitterness, but so be it. As I said, I’m not a nice person. I’ve been used too many times to still be naive enough to expect anything back from the people I give to. When you’re working, taking off your clothes and dancing and giving your body, your self, to other people, they certainly don’t give anything in return. Not the people I worked for. They want more, more, more. They want to see how much they can get for as little money as possible.

I didn’t work at the clubs where rappers showed up and made it rain. I worked for a gambling ring of greedy businessmen who stole the girls’ money. That was their game, and they played it often. They hand you your money after a few dances, and as you’re counting it and putting your clothes on they slyly grab your clutch and slink off into the darkness. And by the time you look up to tell them they shorted you $20 (also an often occurrence), they’re long gone. Out the door, in a cab, on the way home.

Talk to management about it? Hahaha. They didn’t give a fuck. And you better work hard to earn back enough to pay the house fee, or you’re out for good.

Wickedness breeds wickedness. Evil breeds evil. Once upon a time I thought I could remain kind and sweet and unfazed by all the evil around me. That’s why I have a lotus flower tattoo. They blossom in dirty swampy water. I wanted to be that beautiful flower in that dirty disgusting world around me. How naive. What a silly little girl I was.

I watched Sin City a little while ago with my boyfriend. It reminded me of New York, just a little. They say if you can make it here you can make it anywhere. It’s true. People will take you for all you’ve got, kick you to the curb, and leave you to pull yourself together and try again, if you’re crazy enough to think you can still survive here. Nobody here is nice. Nobody cares about you. You can’t trust anyone.

Everyone I know is on antidepressants. Nobody I know gets enough sleep. We’re all wicked. We use each other, we hurt each other, we take each other for all we’re worth.

I used to be a nice person. Sometimes I still am. I used to be a good person. I like to think I still am. I am far from innocent. I am not someone you should try to pull something on. I do not tolerate bullshit from people. I will easily walk away and not look back.

We’ve all heard that song. Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked, by Cage the Elephant. I can’t stop listening to it. It rings true with me. There’s no rest for the wicked here. Money doesn’t grow on trees. We all have bills to pay. We all have to eat. We get by any way we can, even if it’s at the expense of others. Sometimes I think it’s especially at the expense of others. In this city you can’t slow down, or you risk getting trampled. There ain’t no rest for the wicked, and if I am wicked, then so be it.

 

The Molly Dude (name omitted due to lack of memory)

Posted on by icouldtellyoubutiwouldhavetokillyou

I realized that I’ve posted so much about my life and made this essentially my diary at times (see name). But there’s a second part to this. The former stripper part. And I’ve been ignoring that part.

So here’s a story from my working days. Not totally horrible, but it definitely made me stop and think about what I was doing when I was working.

I worked private events for a gambling ring. I wasn’t at a strip club. It was strip events. So the members were rich guys in suits. And a lot of times they brought their friends or colleagues along for a nice after-work bonding experience or whatever.

The events started early. For the life of me I could never understand why, because people never showed up for the first 2-3 hours. But early in the night one member did. And since it was early he stood around talking to the girls, as most of them do before around 10. We had a nice conversation for a while, and he told me he had a bunch of friends coming and when they got here I should come join them at their table. Of course I was down for that. Why wouldn’t I be?

So around 10, when more people started showing up and I was chatting up other members, someone grabbed me and said some guy in the back was asking for me. So I went back and it was him. It was just him and a couple guys at the table at that point. He wanted me to sit on his lap and talk for a while.

So we talked. He was into more than just dances apparently. He’s was playing the big game. Get a few dances, see if I’m good enough, then move in to solicit more. He had a young girlfriend that he wanted me to come over and party with. I told him sure, with no intention of ever actually doing so. He had a table. He had a bottle. It was his table and he was treating his friends. I assumed he was a high roller. I was going to tell him whatever he wanted to hear if it meant I was getting a nice wad of cash at the end. While he obviously wanted more, he was polite about it. I figured his was a nice, rich gentleman looking for a good time.

He was not. When the bottle girl came by I found out he knew her. Pretty well. She smiled and joked around and told me to be careful with this one. He wanted us to make out. She said that would cost him extra. He insisted she should do it for free because they were so tight. She smiled and walked away, shaking her hips like the confident, hot woman that she was.

It set off my radar. Asking someone to do something for free. Pushing for it. Not a good sign. Not at all.

I reminded him that my time wasn’t free. He said he knew and the money was coming. I was still suspicious.

And then the drugs came out. There was a strict no drugs policy there, but it wasn’t really enforced for the high rollers who weren’t blatantly doing it in front of everyone. So he pulled out the powders.

I’m not sure if there was coke (my go-to at work if it was there, since I have a low alcohol tolerance and was generally expected to have a drink with each client). I know there was molly though. He insisted I do some with him. I politely declined. He insisted. I took a baby hit to appease him. I realized too late that he was giving it to me to try to get me turned on. Because he did a TON and then started going on and on about how turned on he was from the molly. He was super into me and wanted to have me. I told him that’s not allowed here. There are rules. He pulled a HUGE wad of cash out of his pocket and told me it was all mine if I would go down to the bathroom and have sex with him right there right now. I told him I’d need to ask my boss for permission for such a thing.

I searched desperately for my boss to tell him no. I knew a member spending that much money wasn’t going to be kicked out. He still hadn’t paid me. I knew I could keep stringing him along after my boss told him no and make him think I’d go fuck him and his girlfriend another night. But I could not for the life of me find my boss. Nowhere. He was gone.

So I went back and told him so. So he went in search of my boss. He was also unsuccessful. So he gave up. He didn’t want any trouble and definitely didn’t want to get me fired. So he handed me like $60 and I went on my way. I’d been on his lap for 45 minutes at the least. It’s 20 a song. You can push that number around a bit if you’re just sitting on his lap talking, but I mean like getting 10 for two songs for that. Sixty bucks doesn’t cover the time I spent with him. But what could I do?

I decided not to tell my boss at work that night. It was over, I didn’t want any trouble, I just wanted my money. In an industry like that the messenger, the working girl, will definitely get shot. So I went about my night and had to deal with him trying to wave me over and staring intensely at me every time I gave someone else a dance. I was so relieved when he left.

But of course when I texted my boss the next day he was unapologetic. He told me to find security if I couldn’t find him. I was not aware we had security. I’m pretty sure we didn’t.

So I got harassed, denied money for my time, was bullied into snorting a drug I detest, and just generally treated like a hooker instead of the dancer for an upscale event that I’d been telling myself I was.

That was lesson one in the harsh reality of a job where you are selling your body. When you are selling your body you are literally selling your own body to anyone willing to pay for it. And to many people that means your body is for sale in any way they wish to purchase it.