Guess who has two thumbs, a job, and only cried twice today?
That's right, I have a job again! Here's the breakdown of it all:
Short story: I went to Campus, auditioned, and now I'm a stripper again. Tits!
Long Story: Having grown tired of sitting around and moping in my apartment (and also having grown tired of that weird cigarette smell that never seems to go away) I decided to take the advice of some friends and go actually, you know, DO something before I wound up dead, or worse, emo. THE HORROR!
Anyway, I decided that if I was gonna have a hobby, I would need money. And if I was gonna have money, I would need a job. And if I was gonna have a job, I wanted it to involve as much nudity as humanly possible. It's kinda like an X-Rated version of "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie" if you think about it.
So I decided to go for a walk down to Campus, one of the three gay strip clubs still open in Montreal. I think my last place of occupation (I refuse to say it's stupid, asshole name) opened up as another strip club, but quite frankly, that place sucks and I hope it burns down in some form of stupidity/Gerbilling-related incident. But I digress. Point is, Campus = Good, Old Place = Stupid rat-infested shithole.
I walked upstairs, asked for the manager, and after sitting at the bar for a couple minutes, gave him my oh so sterling credentials ("I danced at Adonis, do porn, and I have a penis. Oh, and I'm a team player."), he told me I had an audition. In ten minutes. It was gonna take a LOT more than ten minutes to make me look pretty.
While I waited in the wings waiting to be called on, something funny happened. My legs turned to pillars of Jell-O, my stomach began flipping about like a Cirque de Soleil performer on speed, and I began to impulsively chew on my lip like it was made of bacon. I had the same anxiety that I had from before. Two thoughts raced simultaneously in my head:
"I'm going to fucking die out there", and "It feels so good to be back doing what I love".
Then it got even weirder. I noticed that while there were a few guys from my previous place currently working the floor, the other guys there were, to say the least, exponentially beefier. As in, I would serve as a nice light snack, or perhaps an after-dinner mint, for most of them should they become hungry enough. My anxiety didn't get any worse, but it became something...different. Something I couldn't put my finger on. I was feeling a new form of self-doubt that I hadn't encountered. Where the crap had this one come from?
Before I could accurately describe my mysterious malaise, I was called onstage. I walked into the light, and to my horror, realized that there was no pole onstage. Nothing. It was just me and my gradually increasing lack of clothing. There was absolutely no way I was going to support a three minute strip tease on that alone, especially when the guy coming up looked like an SUV made of muscle.
Thankfully, it was at this point that my raging-yet-surpressed id took over. My motor skills became reflexes, each step, each sway of the hip, and each teasing caress an act entirely independent of higher cognitive functions. As a customer reached up with a $10 bill, I felt everything I felt before slip away with my shirt, jeans and undies. I was an unstoppable force of nature, a weapon of mass dick-functions.
I was one sexy bitch.
By the time the song ended, I could power a city grid with the energy I had, and still have enough to light up a 60 watt bulb. I walked off the stage and met with the manager, who told me "Come back Friday at three". With those three words, I had a job again. I had money again. I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time, and it felt so fucking good.