Gay Leather Night

So, just in case we all weren't aware, I am a girl. One with fairly large breasts and an ass and hips - all those secondary sex characteristics that make 90% of society able to correctly identify the gender of the human being they are looking at.

So, last Thursday, I was booked to dance at a queer leather dance night. And you know what? I had no business being there.

First off, what does a girl who has a closet full of 60s dressed and befringed costumes wear to a leather party? Honestly, I don't know. I know the horrible 70s stereotypes and I happen to have a gay roommate who has played that stereotype so with some guidance (and accessories) from him here is where I ended up:

Right? Maybe? I don't know.

But here is the thing. I want you to close your eyes and think about the advertising that went in to gay leather night at my bar. Now I want you to guess who came. Now I want you to think about how awkward it was when these men came to see the go go dancer on gay leather night and there I am, dancing to remixes of the Spice Girls on my box, all boobs and X chromosomes.

eesh.

So eventually 2 male go go dancers DID show up. Let's talk about that. We are always cautioned when buying/making/putting on costumes that we CANNOT look like a strip club dancer. We need to always have fishnets on - no bare legs. We must look retro and classy and sexy. And I am fine with that, don't get me wrong. But I do wonder what could be when I know I make more money in fringy bras rather than dresses or disco pants.

And then these male dancers show up, literally wearing nothing more than some banana hammocks and baby oil. And they have BUCKETS for their tip jars, since they physically couldn't keep all the dollars stuffed into their crotches in said crotch and needed to dump it out. 

Now why is that ok? Listen, I don't want people shoving money in my crotch. But I do think it is curious that the reputation of the bar stems solely at how properly dressed the female dancers are but the dudes can stand outside smoking in a thong and that's just business as usual.

It was a super awkward night. I danced for about 3 solid hours before I made my one (and only) tip of the night, and it was from the DJ who I am pretty sure felt bad for me.

The next day I asked about the situation: why on earth was there a girl dancer at all? Because we didn't want to "alienate the straight customer"

boo to that.

Ode to a drunk 'Bro'

So the other day I am dancing at the bar. Its a slow night and the music sorta sucks (seriously, don't get me started on shitty "DJs" that spin crap no one can dance to).

So I am wearing a cute enough costume:

it is late, my shift is almost done, and there exactly 3 guys left sitting at the bar. They are "bros" which are essentially as annoying as frat guys, except that they are too old to still be in college which makes it even more sad.

The one guy comes up to my box and starts talking to me. Except there is a speaker in my ear and I can't really hear him.

Him: #@*&)$DDFJS*#$
Me: what?
Him:(*^@$()*# (he makes some weird arm movements)
Me: What?
Him: (he rolls his eyes and speaks slowly but I still can't hear him) *(&#%*BD&*(
Me: It. Is. Loud. You. Need. To Speak. Up.
Him: You need to move your arms more. Do different moves. You've been doing the same thing for an hour.
Me: *laugh* yeah, I know, and the DJ has been playing the same song for an hour, it seems like.
Him: No. It's not like it is that hard. You just have to dance, like this: (he shows me some really jerky and awkward dance moves). I mean, you really suck at your job.
Me: Well, you know, its the end of the night, so yeah. Maybe I do.
Him: You do. You're not even really hot enough to be a gogo dancer.
Me:..... ok. Well, thanks for that.
Him: When do you get off?
Me: 2am. After the bar closes.
Him: And then you're going to come party with us!

So at this point, the other dancer comes over. I tell her that I need to end a few moments early and I get down off my box and start the leave the bar. The guy comes over and tries to slide his hand around my waist. "where are we going to go party?" although really, it was more like "wurwegunnagoperty"

I quickly sidestep and tell him I'll be right back. And I run away.

But I mean really, you come up to my face, mock me, tell me I suck at my job and that I am ugly and then TRY TO HIT ON ME?

Hipsters Don't Tip

Have I mentioned how much I hate hipsters? Real Job™ is in a hipster neighborhood and sometimes I just want to bitch slap this overgrown children who come in and demand their money back for a plant they bought that died, because they "went away to a musical festival for 2 weeks and no one said explicitly that a plant needs to be watered more than once every 2 weeks when we are having a horrific drought and 100+ degree weeks." I mean, how do you get up in the morning and fix your own breakfast and not set yourself on fire?

But, you know, customer service with a smile and all that. So I let it go.

But the go go bar I work at has become a hipster haunt. Do you know how much that sucks? It sucks because hipsters don't tip. And I know that any tip based worker will say that X group of people don't tip, but hipsters really take the cake. Why? Because they should know better. Because 99% of hipsters that come into the bar work in the service industry and they KNOW how much is sucks to work your ass off and not get a tip. Or maybe they don't, because working hard isn't cool or ironic enough, which is why you usually get shitty service when you go to restaurants or cafes that are staffed by hipsters. But  I still tip, regardless.

But I am sick of working 4 hours, in heels, shaking my ass for groups of bar goers who do nothing but watch, make comments, or in the case of the girls mock me who do nothing but drink the cheapest shittiest beer and then walk out without so much as a dollar in my jar. I mean, the fact is, if you are watching the show, you should pay me for it. I understand that some people aren't really interested in the gogo show, and thats fine with me. But if you are going to let you drunk girlfriend shout obscene comments at me, you are obviously paying attention.

I guess what I am saying is, while I used to be the dancer with the lowest tip night ($4 in 4 hours) one of the other girls told me this past weekend that she actually brought home $2 from a 4 hour shift. And that sucks. At least at an actual strip club the customers can't just sit and watch for 4 solid hours without tipping. Large scary men will ask them to leave. As they should.

Art and Costumes

I was on my way to pole dance class the other day when an email popped up on my phone informing me that I had sold some of my art on Etsy. I was so stoked - I haven't given my Etsy page a thought in over a few months.

I honestly don't know how people can depend on internet sales to survive on. Well, any sales really considering I know there are days when no one walks into the shop I work at. But internet especially. When I started my little slice of botanical art there was no one doing it. I know this because I googled the everliving crap out of it to make sure. Now when you do an etsy search a zillion similar products pop up. And cheaper, too. The American way.

C'est la vie.



I was feeling like I was stuck in a rut go go wise so I made myself a fringe bra to wear for my last shift. Now, let's chat about bras for a moment. I am a 34D. I think. (Honestly, boobs are confusing). You know what sucks about being a 34D? Its like bra makers decided you're either a porn star and want sheer, see through, "hey everyone look at my aerolas aren't they fabulous" fabrics with cleavage up to your bangs:

vavaVOOM

look mom, no nipples!

Behold my opaque seams

Or you are 95 years old with boobs to your knees and you simply need a support hose rubberband to haul them back up: 

it's like a battle tank make of nude satin

And don't get me wrong, I LOVE the sexy come hither bras. They are mostly what I own. But they don't make very good foundational pieces for a costume that's "sexy not strippy". And yes, I can  cover them with fabric but that takes SO. MUCH. EFFORT. So whats a girl to do? The discount stores only offer bras in these two catergories so I went to Victoria's Secret and I paid full price.

Fifty Dollars. Fifty dollars for a freaking bra that I covered with black fringe. But it was blue. And I needed a blue, non-see-through, actually functions to hold my tits down bra.

isn't it glorious?

I think I need to play with the straps more. Glitter? Probably. But it worked for the evening.

Interesting side note: I wore this bra and a miniskirt and made more money than i have in months. Okay, okay, I also took an eyebrow pencil and outlined my boobs so they looked HUGE. Whatever works. I suppose it also might have had to do with the AMAZING DJ that was working that night. How can you not exude pure sex when you get to dance on a box in a room full of people to Closer by the Nine Inch Nails?

And then the cream of the sexy dancing crop:

I mean, how is that not worth some dollar bills?

But I think I am going to start showing more skin. Mama needs to pay off her credit card bills.

We're not that kind of bar

So Go Go dancing. It's what, July now? So I've been at it for over 3 months and I am still not sure what to think of the whole thing. In a lot of ways its pretty cool: I got to quit my gym because OMG, I have abs for the first time since moving to this city. Four hours of straight dancing while sucking it in so you look good does wonders for your core. Plus, I just freaking love dancing.

But in some other ways...

I'm not sure if I have made this clear or not before but the bar where I dance is a 60s style go go bar. Meaning its knee high boots and Sonny and Cher not clear platform stilettos and Rihanna. (Side note: I just Googled Rihanna because I can never spell her name and just now learned that she was born in 1988, so I'm going to go cry silent tears into a can of chocolate frosting now).

We don't get topless (usually, heh) and there is no "back room." When I "go on break" I really and truly go downstairs and put my feet up. Because they hurt. I also usually drink a lot of Gatorade because damn do you sweat a lot up there. The point is, I am not trying to get you to buy lapdances from me or anything else. You tipping me in my tip jar is because you are enjoying my performance, you like my moves like Jagger, you are trying to make your girlfriend/boyfriend/lover jealous, whatever. It isn't going to buy you any face time with me. It sure as hell isn't going to buy you any crotch time with me.

Now for some of the older gentlemen that frequent our fair bar, this is confusing. And in some ways I sympathize. You see, up until the grand opening of this new bar there was a strip club in the very same spot. A strip club with the very same name, even. A strip club where, from what I understand, $20 when a very long way. So these guys show up from time to time, either missing the memo, or just choosing not to understand it, and they have it in their heads that it is still  a strip club.

Like the gentlemen the other night. When I get to work the first thing I hear from the bouncer, the bartender, the other dancer is that "there is a creepy man that hasn't actually done anything wrong so we can't kick him out." Awesome. Within 5 minutes of my dancing on the box I have him singled out and am watching him. Yes, he is in fact creepy. And then he tries to tip me. He starts waving money at me and I point to my jar. He shakes his head, grabs at his own chest, and says "titties." Then he tries to stuff said money down the front of my dress. I stop him. And he gets all indignent and says "fine, then i'm keeping my money" and saunters away.




Luckily for the other girl his behavior was enough to finally earn his ejection from the bar.

I think my favorite part, though, was that he was only flashing me a single dollar and he acted as though I was losing out on some great sum of money because I wouldn't let him grope me.

Tutorial: The 24 Hour GoGo Dress

So like I wrote about in my last post, I got overly eager to make a costume for my new gig. After scrapping my first idea, I moved on to a black and white A-line Mod dress. So at about 3:30am, I gathered my materials:

Simplicity Pattern 2967 and fabric

The dress pattern is Simplicity #2967. Don't be fooled, though it is a reprint of a 1960s pattern, this isn't vintage (though, it does appear to be out of print, again). This was one of the "retro" reprints that Simplicity put out  a few years ago (I have a few 50s styles and a 40s skirt suit, too) and I picked it up for a dollar when JoAnn's had a pattern sale a few years ago. I had made the dress once before, so the pieces were already cut out (saving me precious precious time) but really, this dress is like 3 pieces, anyway.

The fabric I used was a white sparkly spandex. Why spandex? Well, here is the thing about being a self taught seamstress: I don't know how to install a zipper. At all. I know there is a special foot for the sewing machine... and I think I can even identify it from all the other sewing machine feet, but damn if I know what the hell to do with it. So while the directions for this dress call for a zipper up the back I don't know how to do that.

Back of dress

Hence the spandex. See what I did there? I just completely sewed up the back of the dress. No zipper needed! Good thing it is stretchy enough to go over my boobs.

So at this point, I hemmed the neck and arm holes as well as the skirt line. There are supposed to be cap sleeves, but A) I was really tired and B) It gets really hot in the bar as you dance so I just decided to forego all that.

Awesome! I have an A-line dress is a pretty white sparkly fabric. But, it doesn't look very 60s. So I looked on google for some mod dress ideas. I was inspired by these two:

Clearly the answer was arrows. But unlike a lot of tutorials out there on the internet, I did not already have an arrow applique. So I had to make one. Using black jersey I made a tube and turned it inside out, so the seam was inside. I sewed it flat to the dress and then made triangle ends that I sewed on.

Mod Arrow Dress

Bam! Instant 60s street cred!

You'll notice that the arrows are not perfectly straight. There is a reason for that other than sleeplessness! You'll notice in this close up, that there are darts in order for my boobs to fit:

boob dart

Turns out boobs are curved. So sewing on a straight arrow over the boob curve means that when the dress is on it looks crooked. So instead, I had my roommate pin the arrows on while I was in the dress to figure out where they really should be placed.

So then I was done! I passed out and went to bed.

The next day I went to Real Job and came home. I decided to try on the dress with the rest of the costume before I went into the bar - the rest of the costume being fishnets and gogo boots. Thank goodness I did. Why? Because like an idiot, I chose white fabric and it was 100% see through. Awesome. Totally awesome. At this point I had NOTHING ELSE to wear, so I had to figure something out.

I noticed that where I had turned the fabric under to hem it was not see through. So I decided I needed to line the dress. But, I didn't really know how to do that. Instead I made myself a tube:

weird wannabe spanx

Yeah, it is exactly as big as it looks - smaller than the width of a coat hanger. I figure it had to be snug so as not to slide off. So snug, in fact, that I could barely wiggle into it. I basically made spanx out of the dress fabric. But whatever, it worked.

So I was able to pull it out and get a costume made in 24 hours. Want to know the best part? I got to work and SURPRISE! It was disco night. So my dress was completely out of place anyway.

I was going to post about craft time...

So I went down to Fabric Row the other week and dropped about $100 on materials for making go go costumes. Because I make good financial decisions.

I was pretty pleased with myself, though, and I decided I was going to make a fringe top and hotpants combo. I bought 16 yards of fringe. More than enough, right?

Look at all the fringe. And my purchased hot pants base!

You guys, that didn't even cover the bottom third of my ass, let alone a halter top, too.

So crap. It is 3:30 in the morning and I have work at 10am all day and then go dance after that. And I really, REALLY have nothing to wear. So I started on an entirely different costume. And you know what, it worked! Sleep is for the weak. I'll post a craft time tutorial about that later this week.

In the mean time, I was introduced to the wonders of Joyce Leslie stores. They are yet another tween disposable clothing chain, but at the moment, 60s inspired outfits seem to be in style. (Thank you Mad Men.) So I bought a lot of amazing clothes, including hot pants and a disco suit! Yes, a disco suit.

I would just like to take this moment to really point out that there is currently a chain of stores in America selling MASS PRODUCED DISCO SUITS. Who would wear that? I mean, other than someone who happens to work at a 60s and 70s themed go go bar. Why is this being sold?!

I did happen to notice some mixed messages from the store though:

I don't know how to interpret this...

But the finished products are pretty awesome!

The Evolution of Go Go

So the other day I auditioned for a go go dancing position. I was excited. Who wouldn't love to wear vintage 60s clothes and get paid to dance on a box!?

This is what I want to be.

Well, here is the thing. When did "go go dancing" become something other than that? Because apparently I've been living under a rock and 'round these parts Go Go dancing means stripping. I honestly did not know that. I thought, you know, stripping meant stripping and go go meant go go. And we all know how qualified I am to be a stripper...

So here I was, telling everyone I could that I had a go go audition wondering why people weren't getting more excited.

But the bar I was auditioning at really WAS a go go bar in the 60s sense. Girls dance in costume to 60s soul and funk. So I have to figure out how to explain that to everyone who has the wrong idea.

I got the job.

And then last night I got called in to work a shift. And it was amazing.

Today? Not so much. I'm getting old you guys. Everything on me hurts.

keywords

You guys, the phrase "wearable fake vagina" just directed a lot of traffic to this blog.

I'm disturbed, and I have not once written about a wearable fake vagina. Because I don't know what that is.

Confessions of a Booth Girl

You know something? I've been through quite a bit of nonsense working as a convention booth girl. There was the porn convention, where good christian girls would walk up, lay their hands on you, and speak in tongues in order to save me from the sins of fornication on film. Which, you know, was nice, except that  I don't have sex on film for money and I was working for a liquid clothing brand. And then there was the part where Ron Jeremy drunkenly stumbled up to me and signed my boob. No seriously.

Yeah, you're right. That IS the girliest "signature" ever. And, no, I didn't ask for it. He just sorta branded me with a sharpie as I walked past. To be fair, it was a porn convention. I wasn't expecting normal.

But I have worked other conventions that have turned out to be just as strange. At the Baltimore ComicCon I posed with many men for many pictures. Not surprising when you are dressed as a sexy female space cat. But when guys start telling you that they are sending your photo to their ex-wife and "can you just say something into the phone to prove you are a real girl" you have to wonder.

Now I am currently working at the Philadelphia Flower Show. Flowers. Garden stuff. A nice, wholesome section of the population. That are crazy. Every single one of them.

Do you know what pissed plant people off? When you hold up a plant and ask "how long does this last?" How long does it LAST? It is a LIVING THING. ALIVE. It lasts as long as you do! Oh wait, no, it won't, because you are going to take it home and kill it. That is... it's like asking the pet store owner how long the kitten you are buying is going to last. And how do you kindly say "it will last until you kill it."

But ok, that is just my pet peeve. At least this time I get to wear pants.

This Food Stamp Thing is STILL a Joke

So last week I spent about 8 hours in a car driving across various states in the union. I hate driving. And it wasn't my car. So I sat in the back of this car for all 8 hours. Do you know what I did? I read books. And in between reading books I called the damn food stamp office. Like... once every 20 minutes or so.

Do you think I got through?

I was on hold for a while. My wait time was 34 minutes, the recording helpfully informed me. Every 5 minutes the perky voice broke in: "your call is important to us, please stay on the line." Then, around minute 30 or so I get a new recorded message: "there are no agents available to take you call. Goodbye" and the line went dead.

Totally awesome.

Later on I called back. Busy. Again. Busy. Again. Busy. Etc. Until, finally! RING. RING. RING. It rang for a bit and an answering machine kicked on. Fine, I thought, I can just leave a message and they can call me. BUT GUESS WHAT! THE MAILBOX WAS FULL AND SO IT HUNG UP ON ME.

So you know what I did? I took a nap. Around 4:30 the driver woke me to say I should try to call again before they closed for the night. So I called. AND OH MY STARS I GOT THROUGH. A PERSON WAS THERE ON THE OTHER END OF THE LINE. I started to explain my situation - calmly, I might add, I didn't accuse or get sassy. And then I hear "oh" AND THE BITCH HUNG UP ON ME.

AFTER ALL THAT.

I screamed. I screamed so loud that the driver almost swerved off the highway. I mean good lord, what's a girl got to do?

Of course when I called back, immediately, the perky recording informed me they were closed for the night.

Fast forward a few days. I started waking up early to call in before I got to work. I actually was on hold the entire commute from my house to my job one morning. I was still on hold when I opened the store and customers came in and had to hang up. You know, so I could actually WORK.

The next morning I called again. This time, finally, I spoke to the operator. After many minutes trying to explain why I was even calling, I was informed that my case worker would call me in one hour. I explained that no, that wouldn't work since I was on my way to work. She helpfully informed me that if I wanted my benefits I would "have to take it seriously" and "work with the system."

I don't know how I didn't reach through the phone and choke the woman.

This Food Stamp thing is a joke

Seriously, I feel bad enough that I can't feed myself. Just so we are all clear. This is not the American dream that I worked for in college. But here we are. I have been using that money to buy myself actual foods and not just high calorie low nutrition obesity causing crap which I think is the worst part about poverty in America: if you can't afford to eat right, you eat cheap, and just end up with even more problems.

But I digress.

The issue today is that it is January. And because it is January it is food stamp renewal time. I highly support this. In the way that we should give driving tests more than once in a lifetime, it is good for any sort of governing body to step in and just make sure things are functioning the way they ought to be. It reduces fraud and waste.

But this system?

I get a packet in the mail and am required to fill it all out. Submit pay stubs and gas bills, etc. Sure, that is all logical. Then there is a telephone interview. Great! I don't have to haul my public transit taking ass up to the scary building location, you can just call me and we can talk about it. What a great idea! Then I keep reading and they have assigned me a time for this interview: Thursday, January 12 at 2:15. You know, right in the middle of the work day.

And there, next to the scheduled time is a friendly reminder that "WORK IS NOT A VALID EXCUSE FOR MISSING OR RESCHEDULING YOUR INTERVIEW TIME." You're right. It would be a lot better if I was just sitting at home, NOT working, feeding off the system and not even TRYING to be a member of society. Whatever.

So my scheduled date comes, and luckily my boss is understanding. I take an hour and a half off for lunch. from 2 until 3:30, waiting for this call. Guess what? IT NEVER COMES! Meanwhile the store is getting busy and I can't just sit there, so at 3:30 I give up and put my phone away.

After work, I have a message. From who, you ask? THE FOOD STAMP CASE WORKER! Leaving me a very smarmy message about how this interview is important and if I wanted my benefits to continue I would need to make myself available. Bitch, please. The call came around 4pm. Never mind that she called me 2 hours late. It was my fault. For having a job.

So in her message she left me instructions on what to do. I have called that number every day since. I have never once gotten through. I just get that "high call volume, please try again, goodbye" auto hang up. And guess what? I cant spend all day calling that number because I HAVE A JOB!