Most dancers seem to take pride in the fact that they can sell a fantasy without actually selling themselves and this is the defining line between a stripper and a prostitute. However, the line occasionally seems to blur itself.
Ignoring the somewhat common occasions when a private dance goes "too far," there has been only one specific occasion when I can honestly say I did not know whether or not the line was actually crossed.
Recently I had the fortune of working with a lactating stripper. Now, I have worked with several "new moms," and every one of them has kept their little breastfeeding machine out of sight. Except for one. I’ll call her "Heifer." Upon introducing herself to me, Heifer showed me something that looked like a Velcro lunchbox.
"Fine," Heifer responded, and she stuffed her little device into my booth.
"What the fuck is that thing, anyways?"
"It’s my breast-milking device," she said and with this, Heifer proceeded to show me how it worked.
After swallowing my lunch for the second time, I noticed that Heifer was stepping onstage. Restraining myself from making a comment on the mic was hard enough ("If you ain’t tippin’, she’ll start drippin’!"), my will power nearly ran out when I realized that since the album cover for songs pops up on my laptop when I play them, Aerosmith’s "Livin’ on the Edge" was a bad idea. Being the king of false assumptions, I was convinced that Heifer was under control and that the worst had already been witnessed. That was, of course, until the following Sunday when I learned from several other dancers that Heifer had been selling shots of her breast milk to customers. Maria (my favorite dancer/pitbull at the moment—side props to her for going a week without stabbing anyone), told me straight up:
"The bitch sold a shot of breast milk to a customer for thirteen bucks." Several other dancers backed up the story and all of them agreed on the specifics.
I couldn’t help but think about the price that Heifer was charging. Dancers tend to think in even, rounded-out numbers: twenty bucks, ten bucks, etc. But thirteen seems like a very strange number to pull out of one’s ass. What must have happened, then, is that the customer talked Heifer down from fifteen or twenty, or whatever her original offer was.
I would let the L.A. Lakers gangbang my grandmother (Dee, not Mary) to have the chance to go back in time and overhear the conversation in which a customer bargained for breast milk. I really don’t know who has more self-disrespect— the lady giving discounts of her child’s life source to a man in a Skynyrd shirt, or the guy risking disease, dignity and stomach fluid to obtain it. Sources have informed me that the gentleman in question had some kind of fetish, so he gets one point for not being a mook, but that’s it.
On a side note, my good friend Wombstretcha suggested that I take advantage of the market and steal breast milk from Heifer in efforts to sell it myself, and he makes a good point. It’s a win-win situation. If I successfully siphon milk from Heifer, I will have obtained a valuable product, ready for market resale. If I get caught in the act, I will be brought up on charges of "stealing breast milk," which would be great publicity for an upcoming musician/ jack-mag author.
Heifer has not returned to the club since leaving "No Pot Smoeking" (sic) signs in the dressing room and I understand that second hand marijuana smoke can be hazardous to nursing mothers, but if you’re selling your breast milk for cigarette money, I doubt that you’re going to increase the demand for "#1 Mom" shirts any time soon.
There is one person who is allowed to come into my current place of employment without tipping the dancers or ordering any drinks. In fact, he’s not allowed to order drinks because of his condition. Mondela is "special," in the you-can’t-tell-he’s-"special"-until-he-opens-his-mouth sort of way.
The first time I met Mondela, he approached me and asked if I had any Michael.
"Yeah, Michael. I want to hear old Michael before he lost his chocolate face. I’m not gay. I like girls. Do you know my name? I’m Mondela. Do you have any Michael?"
"‘You Rock My World’. By Michael. I’m Mondela, I like this place."
Before I pulled out any Jacko mp3s, I asked the bouncer if it was okay to play requests for...fuck. I forgot his name. Thank God it was written on his hat and his shirt.
"Can I play some songs for this Mondela fellow, even though he’s broke?"
The bouncer looked at me with a smile. "Sure, go ahead."
The second I hit Play on WinAmp, Mondela started dancing. Now, I’m not talking about head-nodding and all that; I’m talking about full-on Electric Boogaloo-type shit. This motherfucker could dance and he wasn’t afraid to sing along and clap, either. A full-fledged fucking riot, man. Picture one member of a choreographed boy band practicing his moves, alone, on a shit-ton of cocaine, with an awesome hat. Now place him between a speaker and a stage.
...an empty stage. At this point I realized that I had forgotten to announce the dancer and that a full house of customers was staring at Rick James’ autistic cousin while he busted fresh dance moves. To top things off, the dancer coming on stage was not only new, but it was her first set of the night.
Enter here the mandatory, "I’m not dancing to this shit if no one’s tipping" banter and you have the rest of that evening in a nutshell.
Fuck her DJ tipout. I continued playing for the crowd and the crowd was dancin’! Mondela heard everything from Bad to Thriller and to tell you the truth, he’s still the best dancer I’ve ever seen, stripper or otherwise.