07.02.12
I consideration I could handle bartending at a strip club, but it turns out I couldn’t. I consideration I was somehow morally superior to the dancers—untouchable. The customers disagreed. In without warning, I knew shit about shit. The following is a brief account of the three days I fatigued working in Manhattan strip club that shall remain unnamed.
During an hour of initiation, we learned the rules. No one was allowed to turn down a drink—not the bartenders, not the waitresses, and certainly not the dancers. If someone did, we had to dispatch her to the house mom (A woman, usually a former dancer, who collects the dancers’ lodgings fees, sells them their thongs, and makes inspirational bulletin boards reminding them of the rules, then punishes them when they don’t accede). They could however, order a drink with “two limes,” which was codespeak for “no juice.” Were a patron to order a Grey Goose Soda with two limes for a dancer, she would only gain just the soda water, while he was charged the full $21. The club would imply about 800% profit, and the dancer would avoid getting shitfaced.
Source: BlackBook Magazine