Tales From The DJ Booth...ON DRUGS!

Published April 2008 in Exotic

Gather ’round, chilluns and let uncle Ray tell you a story. Hold on, Billy, don’t sit there...that’s Jessica’s spot. Okay, now—have any of your parents ever talked to you about drugs? Well, I’m about to tell you everything you need to know about life, drugs and the pursuit of happiness, so forget anything your parents ever told you. Kiddies, it’s time for a lesson.

Drugs are exciting. The letter "D" really has something going for it, because rugs are really boring. But add a "D," and for the same price, you have something totally awesome! Plus, this reminds us all to keep our drugs off of the floor, because that’s where rugs go. Since you can’t keep drugs on the floor, where else can you attempt to indulge in them? The booth and the dressing room, of course.

The dressing room in a strip club is an interesting place for no reason other than the completely fucked purpose that it serves. In any place other than a strip club, women get comfortably naked in a dressing room before clothing themselves and entering into the public eye. In strip clubs, naked women get dressed publicly before walking through a crowd to enter a dressing room where they angrily hide their naughty spots from any employee that enters the area. Therefore, I often refer to the dressing room as "that place where dancers do drugs."

Although I’m not exactly in favor of openly illegal activity in a place that’s responsible for providing me with rent money, I think that trying to completely rid a strip club of drugs is, well, a pipe dream. One particular club, however, took the Orwellian approach to security, running not only video but audio surveillance (the irony being that audiotaping is more illegal than drugs).

"The Bada Bing" is a typical small club. One time the letter "S" fell off of the marquee that said "Hot New Girls," and the management didn’t change it for a month, because it was still accurate. They hire anyone they can find due to desperation for warm bodies and when a dancer does take the gig, she ends up walking on eggshells, as her every move is monitored.

The only place in the "Bing" that isn’t visible from everywhere else is the dressing room. Venus was spending a lot of time in there by herself and boredom led to the manager and I going to the office to watch Venus on the Batcave-style security monitors. Sure enough, Venus was chopping up...something. Seemingly smart enough to find the "hidden" camera, she put her basil or lettuce or whatever under the lens, making it invisible to any bored employees violating her privacy.

After her pile of mystery substance was finished being diced, Venus leaned forward with a straw, most likely to drink the powdered beverage that she had just mixed up...

...but then she glanced directly into the camera and set the straw down. It was as if she didn’t actually notice the camera in the first place and just happened to cut up her shit in a lucky spot.

As her arms extended toward us through the television screen, both manager and myself were in utter awe of chickie’s stupidity. Venus reached out, moved the camera to the right so it pointed at a wall and then proceeded to take an audible four-second whiff of stanky dressing-room air.

Or was it air?

We didn’t want to accuse Venus of using drugs in the club without proof. After all, she might have just been enjoying her wheatgrass in private. Sadly, our impression of Venus as a health nut was quickly ruined. As she grasped the camera lens once again, adjusting it to its previous position, Venus wiped a cocaine mustache from her upper lip and mouthed to herself, "Fuck, that’s some good shit."

Needless to say, she was fired and rehired within a month.

It’s pretty obvious to everyone that my drug of choice is weed. Since I haven’t found a way to snort weed, I can’t get high at work. I think I’ve "quit drinking" fifty or so times this year alone. And because I’m Irish, I’m not an alcoholic—I’m "culturally appreciative."

A year ago, when a customer bought a pint of PBR and tried to give it to a minor, I quickly confiscated the beer and disposed of it in the trashcan that is my stomach. Before I could thank the customer, he was on his way out the door in a hurry.

My next memory was waking up in my ex-girlfriend’s bed. Every time I’m put in their shoes (figuratively speaking, as I have yet to find a pair of heels that fit), I earn more and more respect for dancers. Being roofied is actually quite frightening. I’m not about to go into some preachy rant about how date rape is no laughing matter. In fact, I don’t even want to call it "date" rape, as the politically correct term "surprise" intercourse is more appropriate.

What I will attest to is that when us DJs get on the mic and harass you about tipping the girls, it’s not because Kyra can time her ass to shake with a beat or because Indago and Taylor are recreating the only good scene in Bound for less than the price of a gordita. It’s the simple fact that these women are making themselves physically vulnerable in every aspect, on and off the stage.

Having been drugged against my knowledge and having made it out with an un-violated poop chute, I have a great deal more respect for the dancers that risk their sobriety, anal virginity and God knows what else so my friends and I can wad up bills and play asshole basketball while Sapphire flips the DJ off for playing Slayer.

(click here for more Tales From The DJ Booth)