Shamed by a Stripper Most Sadistic

Striptonomicon
Aug 24, 2017 · 8 min read
First draft of my whip cracking routine for Upstaged. The whip stings a little less than my disdain.

Here’s the thing. I’m really gay. I’ve dated lots of dudes and it was nice and everything but the older I get, the more I’m forced to accept that I’m predominantly attracted to androgynous to femme types. I’ve flirted with big burly beardy guys at work, suave, clean shaven charmers, silver foxes, tough guys, gym rats, hipsters, punks….every type of guy under the sun and nothing. I can appreciate you and acknowledge that you’re attractive but I’m just not into you. Not sorry. Work is not where I go to meet people in general and especially not guys.

I try to hide it but when girls sit down at my stage, it’s hard not to just focus on them {which is usually fine for all observers but still}. One time at upstaged, a gaggle of like 4 ethereal beauties sat down at my stage with some pleasant looking dude and I stopped by their table later and embarrassed their super shy friend who had previously been a strip club virgin and went backstage to freak out at my gorgeous co workers about the bevy of beauties I had had the pleasure of entertaining.

A few weeks later at Local 69, some guy sat down at my stage and asked if I was Andromeda {my stripper name for the purposes of this blog}. I said yes, indeed I was. He had been that guy with the beautiful girls at Upstaged but I had totally kind of forgotten there was even a guy there because I was so distracted. Anyways, apparently in the cat on the way to Local 69, he had been telling his companions {including different but still gorgeous ladies plus a few gents} about this charming stripper at Upstaged, Andromeda…without knowing I’d be on shift at Local 69 that night.

I was rather flattered and he was an absolute sweetheart, well-dressed, respectful, animated…and I accepted the napkin with his number on it with a smile but I couldn’t even tell you what I did with it. While again, looks and gender identity can be incongruous {fuck knows I understand this}, my attraction is to queerness on the femme side of things in general.

Anyways. This is all to say that there’s this gorgeous queer couple that shows up at Local 69 sometimes. One of their friends works there so they’ll swing by for a drink and some food. One half of the couple is somehow always dapper in casual button downs has gorgeous bone structure unobstructed by her tidy hair {buzzed on the sides, a bit longer on top} and the other is a willowy platinum blonde with an understated but chic style who smiles readily. Absolutely blush worthy.

My second time seeing them, I awkwardly caught their eye as I passed their table and stuttered something about them being gorgeous and me being socially inept. To my surprise, joy, and slight dread, they sat down at my stage during my next set. Luckily the red light hides my blush but I’m sure they could tell how shaky I was. Hopefully they found this endearing rather than a sign of my utter {perceived} ineptitude when it comes to femmes.

My set ended, I flashed them a smile, then gathered my money and underwear before heading off to redignify myself in the dressing room. Money neatly tucked away and lingerie back on, I exited once more and walked past their table again to grab some water.

“Thank you for joining me at my stage,” I said.

“Would you like a drink?” asked the blond {let’s call her Lana and her partner is now officially Alex}.

“Yeah, actually. Let me grab some water first and then I’ll come join you!” I flashed them a smile and then turned to the bar just behind their table to pour myself some water, trying very hard not to spill the pitcher or something equally humiliating. I made it the five feet back to the table without issue and settled in on the raised stool next to Alex, paying special mind to arch my back and stick my butt out*.

We chatted away and I thanked whatever demons and demigods watching over me that my small talk skills have gone from nonexistent to competent as our conversation meandered to the friend they visit at Local 69 {we’re going to call her Ivy and I’ll probably mention her a few times since I only have come to increasingly admire and respect her} to my dance background to the local underground rave scene. The way Local 69 is situated, when you walk in, the bar is in front of you and extends to the right, beyond which are some private dance rooms and slot machines. To the left are some raised tables {where we were seated}, then a row of lower tables, and then the stages with some other private dance rooms to the back. I don’t actually know that this is super relevant but when you write, apparently you want to give some sense of space. Or some shit.

Anyways. I was seated at one of the high tables with this lovely couple and thus the entrance was to my left and back a few feet, just in view enough to take note of a sizable group of guys {like 5–7 dudes, probably a bachelor party} walking in with their various shades of khaki shorts and polos and sportsball t-shirts. Nothing remarkable enough to shift my focus from my present company. To be fair, it would’ve taken like the sudden appearance of Cthulhu himself to distract me because I am Very Gay and like looking at pretty women {like literally everyone else in the strip club, I guess}.

Everything seemed to be going swimmingly and I was on cloud nine when I clocked some movement near my flank. One of the newcomers was swiftly approaching me but still, not enough for me to so much as turn my head.

And then it happened.

I felt a flick against the exposed skin of my butt. Despite being seated. Despite obviously talking to people. If you have never experienced a credit card being flicked against you, I’d advise you to grab any old card from your wallet, hold it firmly at the bottom in one hand, use the other hand to bend the top of the card towards you, and then release it against your skin. It doesn’t hurt as such but as you can imagine, it’s a bit of an obnoxious sensation to have against the bare skin of your butt while you’re working.

The fucker didn’t say anything, just….turned away, looking at his buddies to see their reaction.

“What the hell,” I said loudly to my companions, who looked confused as to what had happened. “That dude just flicked his credit card against my butt…”

Alex and Lana’s expressions went from confusion to growing incredulity and outrage. I was just not going to let this stand.

“Hey, excuse me,” I said, voice raised, turning on the stool to face the perpetrator. He turned around and his buddies looked towards me.

“What the hell was that? What did you hope to gain by flicking a credit card against me and then walking away? Are you so insecure that you have to make unwanted physical contact? Is this elementary school where boys hit girls because they like them? Grow the fuck up. Seriously, that is not cool.”

His eyes shifted all around, looking everywhere but me. His friends looked slightly embarrassed and some were even shaking their heads slightly. But I wasn’t done.

“This isn’t fun for me. You do not get to make contact with us unless we explicitly give you verbal permission to do so. Seriously, touch any of us again and you’ll have to deal with the bouncer,” I continued, tone rising but still measured, steady, sharp, eyes steely, neck held high, voice dripping with disdain and venom as he sputtered and mumbled something I’m sure was a pathetic apology. Assured that he was properly cowed, I turned back to Alex and Lana, still loudly lamenting the nerve of some assholes who think picking on us makes them somehow less of a poor excuse for a man**. They commiserated, as shocked as I was and I was grateful in that moment for the solidarity. For the innate understanding of what it is to be a femme in this society, for the compassion and kindness. Once the hubbub had died down, I quietly said what we were all thinking:

“This wouldn’t have happened if a guy was at this table.”

Because it’s true. A strip club is still a straight man’s domain, catered towards his tastes and interests. There is ever increasing space for queers but that’s new and especially in a place like Local 69, where the patrons are almost exclusively heterosexual men, toxic masculinity is allowed to flourish. Men will respect a woman if she is the company of a man- she is “claimed”, so to speak, even if in a very informal way. But in the presence of two women, especially two queer women, I am still seen as vulnerable, as “unclaimed”, as a target because women are far less likely to start a fight to protect me.

But that guy made a grave miscalculation in thinking he could get away with intruding. That guy assumed only a man would stick up for me. I don’t think Alex and Lana would’ve necessarily sat by but I just happened to be quick to the draw and don’t take shit from anyone. That asshole made a mistake in thinking I wouldn’t stand up for myself and loudly, publicly call him out for being a prick in front of his friends, the other patrons, and any staff nearby, which is exactly what I did. I can only imagine that to him, getting chastised by someone there expressly for his entertainment and objectification was a blow to his ego. My kinder sides hope he learned something. My more sadistic sides, however, relished in his squirming.


*In a strip club, I feel compelled to add sex appeal to everything. I sit with my back arched out at an unnatural angle because it shows my butt off. I make sure to stand up from the lower down chairs leading with my butt. I eat lollipops on stage. Fuck, I shove lollipops as far down my throat as possible without actually dropping the stick on stage. These habits have become so engrained in me that I have {TMI time} found myself getting up from the toilet leading with my butt, bending forward more than necessary to charm the onlooking…sink, I guess.

**For the record, I think the only thing that defines someone as a man is their desire to be defined as such. However, a lot of men are really attached to this concept of masculinity and having to prove themselves strong and dominant and I am not above making a point that being a man has absolutely nothing to do with taking advantage of strippers and by all counts weakens the definition.

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