So it’s been pretty slow over the holiday season.  I went in early yesterday to hang out with Joel.  He lives in Texas, but is visiting his mom for the holidays.  After an early round of golf, he didn’t have much else to do at his mom’s house.  Joel is one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met in a strip club.  Like Diego, Blaze, Kelly-n-Bill, Doug, RetroCellPhoneGuy, these types are few and far between.

Unfortunately, because they are soooo nice and normal,  they don’t give me any juicy strip club I-couldn’t-make-it-up-if-I-tried stories to tell.

So flashback to early 2002.  I was 26 and working at The Larry Flynt Huster Club in San Francisco.  Despite the leave nothing to your imagination mantra of the magazine, this club wasn’t even topless.  We had to glue cloth pasties on our nipples and cover the entire areola.  This was back when I drank copious amounts of vanilla vodka and Jaegermeister with DJ John.  I had to be tipsy to dull the pain of ripping those things off my nipples at the end of the night.

San Francisco has a different strip club scene than other cities I have lived in.  It is a very liberal town.  People are very open with their sexuality there.  Mitchell Brother’s O’Farrell Theater is reknown for its live sex shows.  Many people mistakenly classify it as a strip club.  It’s not.  It is licensed as a “sex theater”  and every night there are live sex shows performed onstage.  How do they get away with contact like that?   The establishment does not serve alcohol  The four topless clubs in town: Gold Club, Boys Toys (now Broadway Showgirls), Hustler, and Hungry I served alcohol and therefore by law were supposed to refrain from the contact levels that were available at Mitchell Brothers.  The swingers clubs were open four nights a week.  It boggled my mind how there were enough sexually open people to pack The Power Exchange Wednesday thru Saturday, every week!

“Hello, you are very pretty.  My name is Habib.  Will you come make a deal with me?”  Habib said to me in a thick Indian accent as I walked past the mini-hallway that lead to the restrooms.

“Um, sure.  Would you like a $20 dance here or would you like to go to VIP?”  I wasn’t quite as polished those days before Naked Assets.

“I don’t want a dance.  I want to drink you.  I will pay to drink you.” Habib said, not budging from the door to the restroom.

“Huh?  Drink me?  I can’t get you a drink from the bar.  What do you mean?”  I was clueless.  Little did I know the fetish education I was about to receive.

“Pee for me.  I will pay you.”  Habib explained.  “I have a lot of money.  You name the price.”

“Oooookaaay…my urine is very expensive,” I had no idea what the going rate for pee was so I just threw a number out there, “500 dollars.”

“Not a problem,” Habib said in his thick Indian accent. He sounded like the guy on The Simpsons.   ”I will pay you when you deliver.”

“No.  No, for special orders like this, I require half up front.” I was not going to set myself up for a loss on this deal.

“Fine, fine.”  he says handing me two hundreds and a fifty.  I grabbed his beer bottle and started walking toward the dressing room.

“Wait..the bathroom is right here!”  he insisted.

“Oh.  I want to use the one in the back.  It’s more private.” I said.

For those of you who have never been to Hustler in San Francisco, the locker room is behind the VIP room and DJ Booth.  I had so many thoughts running through my head.  How the heck am I going to pee into a beer bottle and not get it all over my hand?  Ewwwww….this is so gross, I can’t believe I’m doing this.  But then again, I’ve had to pee in a cup at the doctor’s office and pay someone to run tests on it.  OK, don’t be a wuss, just do this.  It’s an easy $500.  I had to babysit 36 5th graders for a week to make $500 when I was teaching school.

As soon as I entered the Blue VIP Room the lightbulb went off.  Of course!  I go straight to the DJ booth.  I don’t know if DJ John remembers this, it was back during the DotComBust days when we would do numerous shots of  Jaegermeister waiting for customers to walk in the door.  “John, here’s 50 bucks…go piss in this beer bottle for me.”

John looked at me.  Shrugged his shoulders and pocketed the $50.  “OK”   A few minutes later he returns hands me a very warm Budweiser Bottle.

“EWWWW!  It’s all warm!”  I squeal.

“What did you expect?”  he laughed.  “Even though I already know….I don’t want to know what you are going to do with that.”  Without missing a beat of the music, he turns to the microphone and resumes his ball-busting job of professional cat herding. (Disclaimer, the viewpoint represented in this link is not that of Avalon)

I walked out and handed the bottle to Habib.  He handed me the other 250 bucks and took a looooong drink of DJ John’s pee.

“What the hell is this?”  he snarled “this doesn’t taste like anything!”  he started getting a bit irate.  “You just put hot water in this.  This is not pee!”

“Nope…it’s definately pee.”  I said matter of factly. His breath was absolutely rancid. My stomach started clenching up and I felt the back of my throat close in a dry heave.  “Look.  I gotta go, your breath smells like urine.  It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

So if in eight years of dancing, I can chuckle over the weirdest thing that ever happened to me…I’ve got it pretty good in this life.  Hmmm…what is the going rate for pee these days?

PS check out the later entry The Second Weirdest Thing that ever Happened to Me in a Strip Club

Last night was just another blatant example of how the universe makes sure that you get back what you give.

There is a convention in town of Meat Packers.  The Porky’s Pork company decided to conclude it’s annual meeting at Christies Cabaret.  There were about 6 of the top guys in the club, sitting at two separate tables.  The first table of four, good-looking guys in their early to mid thirties went upstairs first.  Dang it!  I knew I should have stayed and talked to that one guy a little longer.  Oh well, can’t win ‘em all….and he was giving me the “What do I get upstairs” line.  I hate that line, it’s so tacky.  You get a lapdance in a plush recliner away from “Hose-A” and “Hose-B” sitting behind you leering.

So I was walking through “the cave” (an alcove of the club to the left of main stage) and an older gentleman waved me over.  I sat down, we chatted a bit.  He was a spritely man in his mid-late fifties.  He was sitting with a younger mid-thirties guy from CA.  Outta nowhere the head guy from the VIP table came over,”Hey Mark, we got a VIP room, girls, and a coupla bottles of champagne, find a girl and bring her up, it’s on me.”  I love those words.  It’s music to my ears!

Only problem was that Mark’s companion, also named Mark didn’t have a girl.  In some cases, guys don’t care who they sit with and trust me to find a “good one” for them.  However, Mark II wanted Trixie.  Who?  I never heard of Trixie before.  So I went over to Matt Damon (the bouncer who looks like….Matt Damon) and told him to get Trixie.  He didn’t know her either….but a few minutes later he showed up with Jaden.  Typical strip club switcheroo….when in doubt bring the girl who tips YOU out the most.  Mark I slipped me a Franklin and said “thanks for being patient with us, I know you’re time is precious.”

So we walk Mark I and Mark II upstairs and join the rest of the Porky’s Pork party.  We sit down the the plush leather wingback and Mark I says to me, “Its so nice to finally get a smart one!  I usually get stuck with the dingy one who can’t hold a conversation to save her life.”

Sweet.  That was Clue 2 that Mark I was my night in shining armor that night.  For the next two hours we talked about everything under the sun: his teenage kids, the affair he had with a Christie’s dancer 10 years ago, his former job as a meat salesman at Porky’s Pork (apparently he’s legendary b/c the guys kept coming up and patting him on the back) politics, my social liberalism vs his conservatism.  I never even took my gown off.  I love nights like this.

Towards the end, the guy who was paying for the whole thing (lets call him Fucker) came over and started whining at me, “You need to dance for him! I paid you 500 dollars and all you’ve done is run your mouth! Now go make out with her,  I want to watch!”  Ugh.  This was the same guy who asked me what he got in VIP.

I rolled my eyes at him.  I think that made him even madder, “I have a woman at home that doesn’t do what I say, I’m paying you to do what I say so you have to do it.” he ranted.

“Actually, I don’t have to do anything you tell me to do.  But I will dance for her, she’s a hottie.”  I walked over to the drunk girl sprawled out on the couch, took off my gown and straddled her.  She was new, I had never seen her before so I introduced myself as I gave her a lap dance.

“How did you do that?”  she asked me “You’ve been up here for 2 hours and you haven’t done a single dance yet.  I’ve been passed around between these 4 guys, each of them trying to cop a cheap feel and saying nasty things.  And we’re getting paid the same amount!!!”

“Make out!  Make out!” Fucker and the two guys hovering over us chanted.

“This is not a football game!”  I told them. “And I just met her, I’m not going to swap spit with anyone I just met!”  I said firmly.

Then I turned my attention back to the poor drunk girl.  “You get back what you put out there.  If you act like a dumb bimbo, they will treat you like a dumb bimbo.  Not all customers want a dumb bimbo, but obviously these fuckers do.  You acted like one, I’m guessing you told them that they could get more VIP so obviously they are treating you like a dumb bimbo and touching you like a piece of meat…and you let them.”

“Thats it!  Stop talking!  Cut! You are out of here!”  Fucker ranted.  I think he was on something more than alcohol.

Mark I motioned for me to come toward him.  “I’m going to leave too, I’m sorry for my colleague’s behavior.  He’s got champagne taste and a beer budget, so he doesn’t know how to behave appropriately sometimes” then  he slipped me another Ben.

“Thank you.”  I said and gave him a peck on the cheek.  “Do come back again!”

“And good riddance!”  Fucker called out to my back.  What a loser.  I feel bad for the drunk girl who had to sit with him for two hours and make $200 LESS than I did.  Fucker is not the type of guy who would tip, I’ll bet the house on it.

Yes.  All was fair and balanced in the universe last night

 Thanks mainly to the propaganda of ugly, flat-chested, Barbie doll-hating feminists, a single question is being asked by more and more people upon seeing a well-endowed woman:

Are they real?

The controversy arises not because the woman’s breasts are discolored, lopsided, furry, hexagonal, or metallic, but because they are simply large (and/or well-rounded). One question: since when are plastic surgeons installing holograms? Ok, so silicone isn’t natural, but it exists for Christ’s sake. Fake breasts are real in the sense that they aren’t illusions or made out of tofu. They’re there, aren’t they?

But let’s ignore this illogic. Generally, what people mean is: are the breasts natural? In other words: did they grow on their own, or was there some kind of intervention by man? The answer: who cares? Since when is a cave better than a house? Or a donkey better than a Ferrari? Or wild berries better than dinner at a French restaurant? What makes something less valuable just because man created it? God dammit, do the breasts look like breasts?

No?

Ok, in that case, we have a problem. If you happen to be looking at a pair of breasts and notice something odd (like, for example, the breasts are looking back at you), you may have inadvertently stumbled upon the bad boob job.

The question is, how can you be sure? Were the breasts accidental freaks of nature – or was it worse? Were they the products of some sick practical joke? Or mad scientist? Or visiting surgeon from the University of Baghdad? Before you attempt to go near the breasts, you must be certain that the breasts are reliable. For your own safety, we now present: The ten benchmarks of real breasts you can trust:

1. They look like breasts.

The breasts should serve to make the woman look attractive as a woman. Not as an elephant or a space alien. Therefore, if you’re tempted to feed the breasts peanuts or to report them to the FBI, you may be dealing with a bad boob job.

1. They feel like breasts.

It’s hard enough to get a woman’s bra off in a hurry. The last thing you want to find are two objects resembling rotten grapefruits or broken light bulbs. Also keep your ears open for women who discuss their breasts using words like “prickly”, “jagged edges”, or “squishy”.

1. They’re attached to a woman.

Women have breasts, so it makes sense that women should be the ones who augment their breasts. Not men, not five-year-olds, not Fifi your pet bunny rabbit. A corollary of this point is that the breasts should be attached to the woman at all times. Beware of breasts seen jettisoned into outer space. What you thought was a woman is most likely a reptilian cyborg porn star.

1. They come in pairs.

Ever sit in a seedy bar late at night, smoke blurring your vision as you finish your last sip of bourbon, when suddenly a lone breast asks you to dance? If it hasn’t happened yet, one word of advice: dance. While your instinct might be to run, do whatever the breast says. Peaceful breasts always stick together.

1. They don’t rattle when shaken.

When you hear strange noises coming from a car’s engine, isn’t that a good sign not to have sex with the automobile? Of course. Similarly, strange noises coming from breasts are also a sign of danger. If the rattling comes at regular intervals, sounding more like a ticking sound, drop the breasts and immediately run for cover.

They don’t taste like metal.

6.      Getting friendly with an Eskimo woman shouldn’t entail getting your tongue frozen to her cleavage. Reliable breasts, both natural and artificial, have built-in mechanisms for dealing with extreme temperatures. Aluminum siding is not one of them.

1. When you squeeze them, they return to their original shape.

The ability to bounce back under extreme pressure is just as admirable in a woman’s breasts as it is in her character. Breasts with depressions, dents, or dimples can only mean one thing: they’re filled with sand or fiberglass and they’ve had at least one previous owner.

1. They rarely, if ever, excrete bright green fluids.

A bubbling, bright-green ooze is no more of a turn-on in the bedroom than it is in a nuclear power plant. Breasts which have had their safety-seals broken are not to be fooled with. Heck, if the breasts even have a safety seal I’d watch my step.

1. When their owner lies down, the breasts don’t remain standing.

It’s perfectly fine if part of the breasts are a bit stiff. However, if the breasts just refuse to make themselves comfortable, even in the face of a direct order, the breasts are simply not to be trusted.

1. The words “Made in China” are not stamped below the left nipple.

It’s astounding how many people inadvertently acquire sexual satisfaction at the expense of tens of thousands of Chinese political prisoners. It’s not only unethical to fondle a breast made in China, it’s downright risky. To be truly certain that a breast is of the highest quality, look for the “Made in the USA” label.

Once you’ve verified that a set of breasts have met these ten benchmarks, you are free to interact with them. This goes for all breasts, natural or not. Jesus Christ, if you can’t tell the difference, what do you care? Even if they are man-made, at least they’re being discreet about it.

So, what then is the proper response to a woman with unusually large, round, or perky breasts? Well, it ain’t “are they natural?” Instead, try a comment that shows her the respect she deserves. Like “thank you.”

June 16

So, Gino the day manager put signs up in the dressing room this week.

“I need lots of girls to work on Friday.  I am hosting a VIP Party starting at 6 pm.  Please be here and ready to work this lucrative party”

So, I carpool in with Jaynie the housemom.  I figure, even if this “VIP Party” is stupid like the last one….at least I can raid the buffet table.

So, I was right.  The VIP guests turned out to be the beverage distributers, the food service guys, the armor car guys who pick up the cash, and (this is the best) Gino’s friends!

Oh it gets better.

The buffet was set up in the pit by the back bar.  I didn’t eat much all day so I was STARVING around 6.  The guys didn’t show up til 6:45 no food til 7:30.  So I wait til the “VIP Guests” are done serving themselves…and they were all very courteous “Have some dinner, you need to eat!” 

I sit down at the bar to eat and get called to stage.  Great.  So I cover my food with my napkin (sign language to the bartender to NOT take my food away)  Of course, he dumps it.

So, I go and get another plate of food and sit back down.  Brian the bartender looks at me and says “I’m sorry, Avalon, but you’re not supposed to be eating from the buffet it’s for the VIP guests”

I ‘m holding my chicken wing midair, about to take a bite, as he reaches for my plate to clear it. 

Dude!  Do not take my food!  I smack his arm away.  “So you’re going to put it BACK on the buffet line?”  I ask him. 

“No, but I’ll get in trouble if Louie sees you eating it.”  Dude….do NOT throw away good food!

So I take my food over to a table in the back corner.  Louie, the general manager,  comes over and sweetly says “You’re eating all my profits Avalon”  Now….I like Louie, he’s a nice man, and very reasonable.

“Not really.  By my count…and I have records to prove this….I spent over 8 thousand dollars last year in this club on house fees and merchandise.  Gino’s friends and the liquor distributors haven’t spent a dime yet.  I think 8 grand covers the wholesale price of 3 chicken wings, a stuffed shell, and a few celery sticks…..don’t you??”

He nodded his head.  “I should know better than try to talk numbers with you.”

uh huh.

June 10

Boston people are so cool.

The Red Sox were playing the Dbacks this weekend.  I was totally expecting the average “Phoenix in June” crowd this weekend.  But WOW!  Am I glad I was wrong!

Apparently it’s next to impossible to to get tickets to a Red Sox game at Fenway Park.  So what do all those Boston fans with cash burning in their bank accounts do??  Fly to Phoenix, snap up some of the posh resort’s off-season rates, and hit the strip club after the game!

Christie’s was MAD crazy!!!!  I love when outta town guys come into the club.  Since Phoenix lapdance prices (a whopping $10) lag the current national average ($20) these tourists are in heaven.  Especially when I give them the opportunity to go to VIP for “only $20″ a song.  How cheap!  In their hometown VIP is 3 for $100!

So, what did Avalon do?  One by one I just plucked them off the floor and walked them upstairs.  The glow-in-the-blacklight fuschia dress helped to attract the eye to the tall busty blonde (OK, maybe it was the boobs, not the dress) who was “only” doing dances upstairs.  I had them lining up at the bottom of the staircase waiting for me to get done, so they could be next!  Cosmo had to tell them to sit down!

Being the complete dork that I am, this makes me think back to Macroeconomics 101.  The strip club is a perfect example of price theory.  When the supply of hot dancers is low (key word here is HOT) and the demand of wealthy customers is high…Avalon’s lapdance price increases. 

Now, I would NEVER rip anyone off.  Or “acci-purposely” charge for 5 dances when I only did 4.  Or make false promises about what happens in VIP.  That is just bad karma. 

What I WILL do is only dance upstairs in VIP for $20 a song.  If someone only wants to pay $10, I tell them to come back on a Tuesday night in July.  This one guy chuckled and said “You’re a quite a businesswoman.”

“I just look dumb” I winked and led him upstairs.