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So You Want to be a Stripper... Step 5: MANAGEMENT

Jacq

Strip club management is 60 shades of evil that you shouldn't ever try to begin to understand. I've been ripping for 5 years and I don't know stink on stank about the inner workings of the Ed Hardy elite. Why? Because ignorance makes for a safe working environment.

A lot of clubs practice all sorts of shady business dealings like laundering money and selling fake POGS to minors. That's why we love strip clubs - they're polluted with dodge and intrigue! They make us feel like gangsters when really we just can't wait to go home and eat organic mac and cheese while watching Netflix. Strip clubs are my very own true-to-life Netflix experience! Being near danger is a turn-on! Danger is significantly less sexy when you become part of it. So don't eavesdrop too intently, keep your fucking head down, and ask the drip in the khakis for a lap dance. Recall So You Wanna Be a Stripper Tip #4: TRUST NO ONE

If you haven't already learned that there is no free lunch, get with the fucking program: There is no free lunch. 

If you ask a favor, you will have to repay that favor. 

The only favor you can ask for is free drinks. That is your goddess-given right as a stripper. You should never ever have to pay to self-medicate when you have to put up with chodes in sweatpants and the unrelenting sobs of a man in a hapless marriage. 

Management is usually power tripping. At any given moment in one club, there are at least three different people in cheap suits thinking they are in charge. Let them be in charge. I spend a lot of time listening to them talk while I nod encouragingly, occasionally saying, "You're so right," with a false intensity that has always kept me in their good graces.

Do not ask to go home early.  Unless you're shitting your goddamn brains out (and even then, just bring your phone to the shitter as usual, only this time make sure it has a full battery life), or there's a family emergency, if you ask to leave early I assure you it is going to be problem. Men with little power who like to think they have a lot of it like to create moments where you're going to have a problem when there is really no problem at all. 

Maybe there are enough girls to cover the absence of your glorious tits. Maybe there isn't a lot of money that night, so you'd really be doing others a favor by excusing yourself. Maybe you're tired. Maybe you sprained your ankle. Management can't legally make you stay, since you are the one paying them as a freelance contractor with rights, right?

WRONG. Well, legally speaking, this is correct. But legalities are horseshit in strip clubs. So if you want to go on declaring to the feds that you make forty dollars a day, you have to swallow your need to be a protected-by-the-union stripper and sit in the corner until the DJ plays Purple Rain, the lights go up, and the final dawdling husband is queuing up in the taxi line.

To those in charge you are not human; you are a cash cow. Most of them hate their lives. And if they weren't so rude, apathetic and greedy, I might feel sorry for them. But that ship has fucking sailed and yours should too! Management is your frenemy. 

Pay them on time, every time. 

Tip them generously, but ONLY WHEN THEY'VE EARNED IT (Read, sat you in the lap of a billionaire). They are robbing you blind, anyway. 

And if I have to say it, I'll say it with a backhand to your blinking, precariously contoured face: DO NOT (literally or figuratively) FUCK THEM. You will end up at the bottom of the Long Island Sound and then one day maybe Olivia Benson will try to seek justice for your mourning parents and the art show you never got to have.