I Was a Bartender at a Strip Club. Here’s What I Learned about the Men Who Went There
In 2002, I was 26, living in a new city, and losing my mind trying to find a job. It was a very quick trip down the ego Slip n’ Slide from looking for teaching jobs one day, down to hoping to fold t-shirts for a few hours a week at the Gap. It didn’t matter what I did, I couldn’t get hired anywhere.
Until I found Déssee.
Déssee (No, not the real name. Are you serious?) was the premier gentleman’s club in the city and based on the number of dancers that lined up to get on the roster, was an international fountain of cash. It was dark, expensive, and had lots of rules like not allowing lap dances and having only one girl on stage at a time. They were looking for a bartender and since I had plenty of experience, I applied.
To my delight, part of the Déssee manifesto was to always keep all eyes on the stage. That meant the rest of the staff wore the same uniform of black pants, black shoes, and a black short-sleeved blouse with a white collar. Basically, Nun Chic. No one was going to hit on Sister Bloody Mary when there was a goddess in a silver micro thong scissoring the stage lighting ten feet away. Even if someone did try to slide into my speed rack, all I had to do was glance over at one of the bank-vault-sized bouncers and the situation was handled.
It was the ideal working environment. I did my job without distraction, facilitated the success of my colleagues, and had the support of management.
This meant that I got to observe human behavior in a relatively controlled environment. All of those rules about who could sit where and for how long kept everything working smoothly and predictably. All the power dynamics were set in stone, locked there by stacks of dollar bills and tear-away couture. It was one of the most exciting places I’d ever been, yet it was exactly the same, night after night.
I can’t tell you how many men came in and out of Déssee during my tour of duty, but I can tell you that after a while, it didn’t matter anymore. Their behaviors were so similar that patterns started to emerge. After a while, I could almost predict what the guys would say and do, not only to the dancers but also to each other.
It was fascinating. It was entertaining. It was also a little bit sad. Here’s what I learned.
It doesn’t occur to some men to have real conversations with their wives. If they do, they don’t want anyone to know about it.
Almost none of the men who ever went to Déssee ever told their wives or girlfriends that they were there. I know this because it was a standard question that the dancers would ask when they were invited to join a guest at his table. The girls once explained that the answer, ranging from “no way” to “I don’t have a wife,” would dictate their course of action for extracting the maximum amount of money from the guy. The exact psychological strategies are beside the point, but I do know that in almost every case where the guy was partnered up, the answer was, “I could never tell her.”
Further questioning would reveal some woe-is-me boo hoo about how his wife didn’t have time for him, was distracted with the kids, or here’s a good one–was “too sweet” to be able to handle his desire for kink. Here’s the thing. If these guys were lying and actually did communicate with their wives and girlfriends, they were too chickenshit to admit it. If they were telling the truth, they were too chickenshit to hold up their end of the partnership deal by, ya know, talking. Either way, there is no limit to how disappointing this is.
I wonder how much more fun their night would be if they could relax knowing they told their wives about it. I wonder how many of the wives would want to come with them to the club next time. Let’s see how “sweet” the Mrs. is then.
Men truly believe in the Pretty Woman Effect and they are willing to pay for it.
The dancer who consistently made the most money on stage was a Jersey girl with curly red hair and a six-inch tattoo of a pin-up girl on her thigh. She regularly got called into the manager’s office for her signature move, which I will not describe except to say that it was an alternative method of accepting cash without the use of her hands.
Still, she did not make as much money as Paloma, the brunette with the straight bob and a flat chest who got invited to more tables than a salt shaker. What did she have that Miss Coinslots didn’t have? A perfectly constructed backstory that was equal parts wistful and promising.
Ready to make it rain? Here we go: Paloma told all the men that this was her first gig as a stripper and she was still a little nervous. She said that she knew she was supposed to act sexy, but it still felt awkward for her and she knew she was crossing the line by being too friendly with the guy. All she really wanted to do was make enough money to enroll in a veterinary assistant course because she loved animals so much. Did he know she had five dogs growing up?
Cha-ching.
This story is chock full of the precise combination of details that make men believe the one enduring fairytale about gentlemen’s clubs that no one wants to debunk: they might find the love of their life there. With just the right amount of encouragement and a little bit of money, she might be teaching him how to drive a Lotus and singing Prince in his bathtub.
Look, there’s no doubt in my mind that Paloma was brilliant. But, was she looking to get off the pole for the right man? Never. Try again, bub.
Some men don’t like strip clubs, but they won’t tell their friends that.
A man’s reasons for not wanting to be in a gentleman’s club can vary. In some cases, they might have a legitimate reason to hate the experience. Maybe they find the music too loud, they don’t want to be out late, or don’t like women. Fine. But, in most cases, dudes who don’t want to be there were just seething with judgment and getting wrapped around their own morality axel. (In which case, lighten up, seriously. It’s a booby bar, not the Hague.) They would sit at the table with arms folded in silent protest. They might have even have ordered soda water or started rolling their eyes all over the place. However, it would never occur to them that they should be honest with the guys that dragged them there.
I get that some guys came in because they were part of a bachelor party or because they were work colleagues and the boss invited them. I get that it’s awkward to tell your manager that no, you don’t want to see Krystelle tie a maraschino cherry stem with her frenulum. However, it’s kind of weird to see that no matter how uncomfortable it gets, men aren’t likely to speak up when the groom’s brother is so drunk he won’t stop trying to motorboat the coat rack.
If you don’t like it, grow a pair and tell your pals you want to leave. What are they gonna do? Leave you out of the next golf foursome? I think you can handle it. Until then, be a sport and tip the dancers, will ya?
Let’s recap, shall we? According to my masterful powers of observation, men who go to strip clubs probably don’t open up to their partners, might not be thinking realistically about their interactions with the dancers, and don’t likely have open communication with their peers. So, that’s cool.
I mean, I’m sure that’s a gross generalization.
I’m sure that plenty of open communicators will swing on into the clubs after having a satisfying talk with their boys about the limitations of their tolerance for vulgarity. I’m sure that plenty of men go home to debrief their wives about the constructive conversation they enjoyed with Hennesy about her aspirations to design macrame plant hangers. And I am absolutely positive that there are plenty of men who will be aware of the fact that the evening will consist of several transactions resulting in both a lighter wallet and glitter on their pants, but it will all be in the name of fun.
In 2002, I was 26, living in a new city, and losing my mind trying to find a job. It was a very quick trip down the ego Slip n’ Slide from looking for teaching jobs one day, down to hoping to fold t-shirts for a few hours a week at the Gap. It didn’t matter what I did, I couldn’t get hired anywhere.
Until I found Déssee.
Déssee (No, not the real name. Are you serious?) was the premier gentleman’s club in the city and based on the number of dancers that lined up to get on the roster, was an international fountain of cash. It was dark, expensive, and had lots of rules like not allowing lap dances and having only one girl on stage at a time. They were looking for a bartender and since I had plenty of experience, I applied.
To my delight, part of the Déssee manifesto was to always keep all eyes on the stage. That meant the rest of the staff wore the same uniform of black pants, black shoes, and a black short-sleeved blouse with a white collar. Basically, Nun Chic. No one was going to hit on Sister Bloody Mary when there was a goddess in a silver micro thong scissoring the stage lighting ten feet away. Even if someone did try to slide into my speed rack, all I had to do was glance over at one of the bank-vault-sized bouncers and the situation was handled.
It was the ideal working environment. I did my job without distraction, facilitated the success of my colleagues, and had the support of management.
This meant that I got to observe human behavior in a relatively controlled environment. All of those rules about who could sit where and for how long kept everything working smoothly and predictably. All the power dynamics were set in stone, locked there by stacks of dollar bills and tear-away couture. It was one of the most exciting places I’d ever been, yet it was exactly the same, night after night.
I can’t tell you how many men came in and out of Déssee during my tour of duty, but I can tell you that after a while, it didn’t matter anymore. Their behaviors were so similar that patterns started to emerge. After a while, I could almost predict what the guys would say and do, not only to the dancers but also to each other.
It was fascinating. It was entertaining. It was also a little bit sad. Here’s what I learned.
It doesn’t occur to some men to have real conversations with their wives. If they do, they don’t want anyone to know about it.
Almost none of the men who ever went to Déssee ever told their wives or girlfriends that they were there. I know this because it was a standard question that the dancers would ask when they were invited to join a guest at his table. The girls once explained that the answer, ranging from “no way” to “I don’t have a wife,” would dictate their course of action for extracting the maximum amount of money from the guy. The exact psychological strategies are beside the point, but I do know that in almost every case where the guy was partnered up, the answer was, “I could never tell her.”
Further questioning would reveal some woe-is-me boo hoo about how his wife didn’t have time for him, was distracted with the kids, or here’s a good one–was “too sweet” to be able to handle his desire for kink. Here’s the thing. If these guys were lying and actually did communicate with their wives and girlfriends, they were too chickenshit to admit it. If they were telling the truth, they were too chickenshit to hold up their end of the partnership deal by, ya know, talking. Either way, there is no limit to how disappointing this is.
I wonder how much more fun their night would be if they could relax knowing they told their wives about it. I wonder how many of the wives would want to come with them to the club next time. Let’s see how “sweet” the Mrs. is then.
Men truly believe in the Pretty Woman Effect and they are willing to pay for it.
The dancer who consistently made the most money on stage was a Jersey girl with curly red hair and a six-inch tattoo of a pin-up girl on her thigh. She regularly got called into the manager’s office for her signature move, which I will not describe except to say that it was an alternative method of accepting cash without the use of her hands.
Still, she did not make as much money as Paloma, the brunette with the straight bob and a flat chest who got invited to more tables than a salt shaker. What did she have that Miss Coinslots didn’t have? A perfectly constructed backstory that was equal parts wistful and promising.
Ready to make it rain? Here we go: Paloma told all the men that this was her first gig as a stripper and she was still a little nervous. She said that she knew she was supposed to act sexy, but it still felt awkward for her and she knew she was crossing the line by being too friendly with the guy. All she really wanted to do was make enough money to enroll in a veterinary assistant course because she loved animals so much. Did he know she had five dogs growing up?
Cha-ching.
This story is chock full of the precise combination of details that make men believe the one enduring fairytale about gentlemen’s clubs that no one wants to debunk: they might find the love of their life there. With just the right amount of encouragement and a little bit of money, she might be teaching him how to drive a Lotus and singing Prince in his bathtub.
Look, there’s no doubt in my mind that Paloma was brilliant. But, was she looking to get off the pole for the right man? Never. Try again, bub.
Some men don’t like strip clubs, but they won’t tell their friends that.
A man’s reasons for not wanting to be in a gentleman’s club can vary. In some cases, they might have a legitimate reason to hate the experience. Maybe they find the music too loud, they don’t want to be out late, or don’t like women. Fine. But, in most cases, dudes who don’t want to be there were just seething with judgment and getting wrapped around their own morality axel. (In which case, lighten up, seriously. It’s a booby bar, not the Hague.) They would sit at the table with arms folded in silent protest. They might have even have ordered soda water or started rolling their eyes all over the place. However, it would never occur to them that they should be honest with the guys that dragged them there.
I get that some guys came in because they were part of a bachelor party or because they were work colleagues and the boss invited them. I get that it’s awkward to tell your manager that no, you don’t want to see Krystelle tie a maraschino cherry stem with her frenulum. However, it’s kind of weird to see that no matter how uncomfortable it gets, men aren’t likely to speak up when the groom’s brother is so drunk he won’t stop trying to motorboat the coat rack.
If you don’t like it, grow a pair and tell your pals you want to leave. What are they gonna do? Leave you out of the next golf foursome? I think you can handle it. Until then, be a sport and tip the dancers, will ya?
Let’s recap, shall we? According to my masterful powers of observation, men who go to strip clubs probably don’t open up to their partners, might not be thinking realistically about their interactions with the dancers, and don’t likely have open communication with their peers. So, that’s cool.
I mean, I’m sure that’s a gross generalization.
I’m sure that plenty of open communicators will swing on into the clubs after having a satisfying talk with their boys about the limitations of their tolerance for vulgarity. I’m sure that plenty of men go home to debrief their wives about the constructive conversation they enjoyed with Hennesy about her aspirations to design macrame plant hangers. And I am absolutely positive that there are plenty of men who will be aware of the fact that the evening will consist of several transactions resulting in both a lighter wallet and glitter on their pants, but it will all be in the name of fun.
In 2002, I was 26, living in a new city, and losing my mind trying to find a job. It was a very quick trip down the ego Slip n’ Slide from looking for teaching jobs one day, down to hoping to fold t-shirts for a few hours a week at the Gap. It didn’t matter what I did, I couldn’t get hired anywhere.
Until I found Déssee.
Déssee (No, not the real name. Are you serious?) was the premier gentleman’s club in the city and based on the number of dancers that lined up to get on the roster, was an international fountain of cash. It was dark, expensive, and had lots of rules like not allowing lap dances and having only one girl on stage at a time. They were looking for a bartender and since I had plenty of experience, I applied.
To my delight, part of the Déssee manifesto was to always keep all eyes on the stage. That meant the rest of the staff wore the same uniform of black pants, black shoes, and a black short-sleeved blouse with a white collar. Basically, Nun Chic. No one was going to hit on Sister Bloody Mary when there was a goddess in a silver micro thong scissoring the stage lighting ten feet away. Even if someone did try to slide into my speed rack, all I had to do was glance over at one of the bank-vault-sized bouncers and the situation was handled.
It was the ideal working environment. I did my job without distraction, facilitated the success of my colleagues, and had the support of management.
This meant that I got to observe human behavior in a relatively controlled environment. All of those rules about who could sit where and for how long kept everything working smoothly and predictably. All the power dynamics were set in stone, locked there by stacks of dollar bills and tear-away couture. It was one of the most exciting places I’d ever been, yet it was exactly the same, night after night.
I can’t tell you how many men came in and out of Déssee during my tour of duty, but I can tell you that after a while, it didn’t matter anymore. Their behaviors were so similar that patterns started to emerge. After a while, I could almost predict what the guys would say and do, not only to the dancers but also to each other.
It was fascinating. It was entertaining. It was also a little bit sad. Here’s what I learned.
It doesn’t occur to some men to have real conversations with their wives. If they do, they don’t want anyone to know about it.
Almost none of the men who ever went to Déssee ever told their wives or girlfriends that they were there. I know this because it was a standard question that the dancers would ask when they were invited to join a guest at his table. The girls once explained that the answer, ranging from “no way” to “I don’t have a wife,” would dictate their course of action for extracting the maximum amount of money from the guy. The exact psychological strategies are beside the point, but I do know that in almost every case where the guy was partnered up, the answer was, “I could never tell her.”
Further questioning would reveal some woe-is-me boo hoo about how his wife didn’t have time for him, was distracted with the kids, or here’s a good one–was “too sweet” to be able to handle his desire for kink. Here’s the thing. If these guys were lying and actually did communicate with their wives and girlfriends, they were too chickenshit to admit it. If they were telling the truth, they were too chickenshit to hold up their end of the partnership deal by, ya know, talking. Either way, there is no limit to how disappointing this is.
I wonder how much more fun their night would be if they could relax knowing they told their wives about it. I wonder how many of the wives would want to come with them to the club next time. Let’s see how “sweet” the Mrs. is then.
Men truly believe in the Pretty Woman Effect and they are willing to pay for it.
The dancer who consistently made the most money on stage was a Jersey girl with curly red hair and a six-inch tattoo of a pin-up girl on her thigh. She regularly got called into the manager’s office for her signature move, which I will not describe except to say that it was an alternative method of accepting cash without the use of her hands.
Still, she did not make as much money as Paloma, the brunette with the straight bob and a flat chest who got invited to more tables than a salt shaker. What did she have that Miss Coinslots didn’t have? A perfectly constructed backstory that was equal parts wistful and promising.
Ready to make it rain? Here we go: Paloma told all the men that this was her first gig as a stripper and she was still a little nervous. She said that she knew she was supposed to act sexy, but it still felt awkward for her and she knew she was crossing the line by being too friendly with the guy. All she really wanted to do was make enough money to enroll in a veterinary assistant course because she loved animals so much. Did he know she had five dogs growing up?
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