It’s busy season. Strippers everywhere are either drunk, hungover, or both - but let me tell you we are money-minded and if you’re friends with us but have some semblance of a regular job, you won’t be seeing any of us until February.
It’s November. I’ve got six weeks to make enough to last me through my tropical repose that should extend through January. It’s crunch time.
Lonely men are looking to cosy up in my divine presence… and I will be there to listen to their woes, giggle while holding a straw close to my lips, and tell them how powerful, funny and handsome they are.
November is also the month I vowed to steer clear of alcohol. Because why not. Because alcohol is bad for you but really because I’m vain and want to look good for a good while without needing a liver transplant.
Is it weird that I masturbate to my own self-awareness?
There are always loopholes in the sexy dancer business when we’re talking about the consumption of alcohol. Like, you have NO IDEA how many bottles of Dom Perignon I have dumped behind couches, chairs, onto the 80’s carpeted floor or back into the ice bucket. It’s wasteful and fucked up and tragic but it’s what we do. Because we want him to buy another bottle. Because he will. Because in the eyes of Mr. Money Bags, the drunker we get (or appear to get), the more our strict moral code unravels.
Because this is true, but it’s also total bullshit.
When I get wasted I get pretty loose-lipped and entertaining. Just like you, I’m a really fun drunk girl. But I’m a business woman first, stripper second, and drunk girl third. So no matter how slutty I seem, I am not going to get herpes from you. But you can keep spending in hopes that I will!
So the trick is to act drunk.
But sometimes the waitress forgets that you ordered the mocktail, and you can’t really, truly not drink an entire bottle of champagne that some dude bought for you, because he doesn’t like champagne but wants to make you happy.
Basically I’m drunk all the time, sometimes for real and sometimes merely acting like I’m about to fall over and need to grip the soft biceps of yet another finance guy for stability. Yet somehow in the deep recesses of my psyche I know that I’m not an alcoholic, because I’ve dated a few of those and they always piss the bed. I haven’t pissed the bed in at least ten years. (high five, me!)
So I’m in some sort of twilight zone where I’m perpetually drunk, yet I can’t tell if it’s sincere inebriation or an act. Where does my stripper self end and my real girl self begin? Is this an existential crisis and am I supposed to care when really I’m getting lady boners every time someone slips me a crisp new Benjamin?
Let me raise my glass to all my fellow strippers out there who are hustling hard, and I’ll see all you bitches in Tulum in a month or so.