Juicebox & Rent Money

Published October 2007 in Exotic


Back when I worked at a smaller club in SW Portland, I would arrive at least fifteen minutes late with minimal repercussions. Normally this was not an issue, as there are typically more dancers than customers at said club. However, on this particularly unlucky evening, I arrive five minutes early. Why? I don’t know. But to make things more bizarre, I am hastily greeted by a pissed-off bartender.

"Ray, what the fuck? Why are you so late?"

"I’m not late. I’m actually kind of..."

"I don’t give a flying fuck! Get that bitch out of here!!!"

"What bitch? What’s going on?"

The bartender informs me at this point that a new dancer, whom I will refer to as Juicebox, needs to "get the fuck out of the club and never come back." All my questions are answered with the same four sentences: "Get. Her. Out. NOW!"

So, I stroll into the dressing room and there’s only one girl in there. Pretty face...quiet...seems normal enough.

"Hey, I’m the DJ and I don’t know you, but the bartender wants you gone, so..."

"I know," Juicebox says with a shrug. "I gotta go."

"Yeah, look...I have no beef with you. If I see you at another club, we’re fine. I don’t even wanna know what happened here."

As I’m walking Juicebox out to her car, I heard something that even a shroomed-out Dr. Seuss couldn’t make up.

"The club’s racist. I know you ain’t got anything but white bitches up in here and I understand. But, I mean, all I did was piss in the trashcan and your bartender—"

"—You pissed in our fucking trashcan?"

"My pants were tight and I couldn’t make it into the bathroom."

A little background: the club’s dressing room is met by an incline entryway, leading directly to a bathroom with no lock. The trashcan in the dressing room is four feet tall. The physics behind removing tight jeans, crawling on top of the trashcan and pissing with total accuracy are simply...let’s just say I think it would be easier to pop a squat on the ivory throne. But, what do I know?

So, I continued talking with Juicebox, explaining to her that girls of all ethnicities and creeds are prohibited from pissing on things that aren’t meant to be pissed on, customers excluded. Then again, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Martin Luther King, Jr., envisioned a world where white strippers and black strippers could piss in trashcans together, peacefully and without discrimination.

After Juicebox pulled out of the parking lot— without signaling, and into the wrong lane—I politely waved goodbye and made my way back into the dressing room. In the trashcan was a wadded-up pair of jeans that smelled like Goodwill and half of a light bulb that had been burned on one end. I’m guessing that Juicebox was replacing a broken light fixture when her bladder burst. Either that, or she was smoking crack just before she pissed herself...but, I don’t want to assume anything. And, maybe Juicebox was right. The club could be racist—they had an entire three white girls who worked there and only two black chicks. Time for the club to Photoshop some Asians and Latinas into their next Exotic ad, eh?

Rent Money

There are few times that I would actually mention a dancer’s name in this publication, but this is a well-deserved exception. Autumn was quite possibly the hottest woman I’ve seen since my left testicle dropped. She was Viagra personified. You all know the type of chick—one that could make Elton John start singing about eating pussy. And I was DJing on her last night in Portland.

"Hey, Ray, could you do me a favor?"

All I could think was, "Name your hole and my tongue will do the rest," but instead, I answered with a hiccup and a barely audible "Yes."

"Here," Autumn said as she handed me a double-disc CD. "That should be enough for all of my sets. Start with track one and go to the end." Then she tossed me a twenty.

On her first set of the night, I announce that Autumn will be moving away from Portland. Autumn takes stage and suddenly there are more customers at her rack than there are broken-down cars in Oregon City. I blindly hit "play" on the mixer and...we’ve got RENT! Not as in money-you-pay-to-reside-somewhere, but as in AIDS-inspired Broadway musical. And Autumn is not only dancing, but singing as well. Every. Fucking. Word.

If you look up "mindfuck" in the dictionary, you’re not gonna find much, but in a perfect world you’d see the faces behind the John Deere caps watching the hottest woman alive dance naked while singing tragic songs about a deadly disease.

I thought it was hot.

However, most of the regulars didn’t seem to like it. By about midnight, one guy walks up and asks me if Autumn will dance to anything else. I explain to him that she already paid me out and I can’t back out on the deal. He walks away, visibly pissed.

At one-thirty, the same dude comes staggering up to my booth, pulls out one of those little fishing knives that you get for free at gun shows and with a shaking hand, he holds the knife to my neck.

"Cut the Rent, motherfucker, or I’ll cut you!!!"

His buddy notices what’s going on, runs over to the booth and clotheslines Count Stabula onto the floor. I was laughing so hard I almost pissed in a trashcan and virtually no one else in the club noticed (seriously, Autumn’s tits are like hypnotic train wrecks...you cannot look away).

The next day, Autumn is on a plane and Stabby McStabsalot comes back into the club. He buys me a beer and asks, "Was I in here last night?"

"No," I respond.

"Yeah, so I didn’t try to stab you?"

"Nope. And even if you did, I’d never tell a soul."

(click here for more Tales From The DJ Booth)