Sweetlifeconfidential’s Weblog

It’s Monday, it’s quiet. Girls chatting away in the dressing room. Legs crossed supporting the weight of their heavy shoes, heavy souls. Telling stories to the house mom, texting absent lovers. I sit in silence just staring at them. 400 cc’s. Walking talking Barbie dolls.

The DJ calls my name. I scramble through the dark lounge to the staircase. Dance to some shitty techno. Fake interest. Fake a smile. When I reach the main stage, some overweight man starts lining up dollar bills along the stage. He’s the only one around so I crawl to him, on all fours. Green bait. Refusing to stuff the bills in my g-string he keeps putting the money in my hungry little fists.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he says drunkenly.

“You can buy me three.”

I scurry off the stage, denim daisy dukes clutched against my chest. I slump into the chair next to him as I try and order a cocktail while adjusting the pink ribbons adorning my costume.

“You’re really beautiful. Let’s go in the back.”

I suddenly perk up. Slurp down my cocktail in record speed and lead the fat fuck by the hand to the VIP. The VIP is a cavernous little room in the back corner of the champagne room. It’s comprised of 4 little black leather couches partitioned with red curtains. Dreadful gold and red wallpaper covering the walls. It reminds me of what hell might look like.

The VIP hostess came in and took our bottle order. Slipped me my $400, which I eagerly stuffed into my purse and verified my name so the DJ wouldn’t call me onto the stage.

“Order whatever you like.” He grumbled, while he creepily stroked the nape of my neck.

“Veuve.” The hostess turned to leave. I yelled after her,“Wait! No. Make it Ace of Spades.”  I was in a particularly pissed off mood. I think it’s PMS, so I felt like taking this prick for all he’s worth. Ace of Spades is the most expensive champagne the club carries, with a hefty price tag of $1,500. She returned minutes later with our champagne on ice. We toasted and just as I took my first sip. He opened his big dumb mouth.

“You’re really beautiful. I bet you wish you could fuck like me.”

Great. He’s a total freak show. I smiled and put my legs across his lap. Trying to maneuver the conversation in another way.

“So what do you do?” I said pouring myself another glass.

“You’re really beautiful. I bet you wish you could fuck like me.”

I did everything in my power not to laugh. So I just smiled and nodded. He was clearly drunk.

“Can I have some more money?” I asked bluntly.

He rifled through his pockets and pulled out a wad of twenties. I snatched them immediately.

“Oh, look at the time! Had a blast!” I exclaimed while running out. I darted up the stairs like the Artful Dodger. I felt like a naked Oliver Twist character.

The harsh fluorescent lights in the dressing room caused me to squint. It’s the mark of any girl who spends time in the VIP, the transition from the dim light to the club floor or the dressing room causes us to squint in pain.

I felt like a thief. But something about it was pleasurable. I can’t believe it was that easy. It really was like taking candy from a baby. A really big fat perverted baby.

Think it can’t get any better? Well, I will prove you wrong my little readers.

(Pause for a coffee break).

Thank you for holding. Where was I? Oh yes, I was going to tell you about how things couldn’t get any better on this night, but they did.

I waltzed down the stairs. Dear Dixie of the future, please don’t ever use ‘waltzed’ in describing the way you move. Ever. You clearly meant ‘stumbled’. Love, Dixie of the past.

I stumbled down the stairs. (I suspect too much of that Ace of Spades). And who did I spy with my little eye? The fat fuck of course!

So I waltzed over to him. (Oops, I did it again).

“Well, hello there.” I said very cheekily.

“Let’s go back there again.” He said glaring at me.

“Oookayyy.” I said feeling rather confused.

Once again we were back in our same spot and drinking the same kind of champagne. $400 more for me. Plus, a $100 tip for agreeing to devote yet another hour to him. And before I blinked he opened his mouth again.

“You’re really beautiful. I bet you wish you could fuck like me.”

I rolled my eyes and poured myself another glass of champagne. I turned to offer him his glass, but it seemed as if he was sleeping, passed out, or dead.

“Hmmmm.” I said aloud.

I lifted my leg and poked him with my spiked stainless steel heel (I prefer to not wear plastic platforms, as I already stand at 5 foot 8, and towering over men is not a turn on). He didn’t move. So I shoved my heel right into his fat cheek. He stirred, drooled a little, and made a slight grumble. It was right at this moment that I began laughing uncontrollably. I drank some more champagne and gathered myself. We had only been in there for 10 minutes, even though he paid for an hour, but I didn’t feel like staying. I leaned in close to his ear as if I was going to whisper.

“TIME’S UP!!!!!” I yelled right in his ear.

He immediately jumped, and flailed his arms in the air. He was gasping as if he had just run a marathon.

I put my hand out and smiled. “I need a tip.”

He handed me another hundred.

“I had fun. Tootles.” I waved and walked out.

Upstairs, the girls were all bitching about how they didn’t make any money. I put on my pink Juicy Couture sweat suit and slipped out the back door.

I felt victorious.