I honestly believe there should be some sort of clientele manual. Perhaps gentlemen’s clubs should pass out books on etiquette when they hand back IDs. I don’t know why men think it’s okay to check their manners at the door. This is our job. We are scantily-clad laborers, so men, listen up:

1.) If you can’t afford to tip, get the fuck out. Just because you paid the entry fee, and can afford the one drink minimum, does not mean you have the right to view my boobs for hours on end. Swinging around this pole is not as easy as it looks, and I’m not doing it for nothing.

2.) If you are a broke sonofabitch, and must get your tits-and-ass fix, please tip a minimum of two dollars on stage. Why must you jerks flash one measly dollar, and then proceed to stand there until I come over? I suppose you want to make sure you get your money’s worth, and I’ll give it to you– in the form of one naked finger. Fuckers.

3.) I want a drink. We all do. Or at least we’d like to be offered. The more we drink, the friendlier we’ll be, but that’s not to say you’re going to get any. However, instead of screaming for the bouncer when you grab my ass, you get just a moderate slap. Maybe you’ll like it.
If my top wasn’t see-through, and we’d met in a regular bar, you’d probably buy me a drink. If you had any manners, that is. The strip club is no different. You earn bonus points if you’re a gentleman, and we’ll chat with you for longer. Instead of hustling for a lap dance, then disappearing for a couple hours, we might stick around if our drink is at your table. Therefore, when the waitress comes over with your watermelon Smirnoff, the polite thing to do is ask me if I want something. Nothing says “complete waste of time,” like a cheap pansy. You totally deserve a roofie in your drink, and we’ve got the resources.

4.) If you are too lazy to stand up and walk to the stage, flag me down when I’m on the floor. Do not crumple up dollar bills and throw them at the stage. It’s dark and chances are, I’m not going to find all those bills. And even if I do, I will have to spend the next ten minutes unfolding them backstage. Either way, I’m wasting my time and energy on a few bucks, and you just look like an asshole. Is it really too much effort to walk to the stage? I’d hate to see what you’re like in bed. If you must relish in your childish entertainment, at least fold some swans or frogs. Nothing gets me hot like origami.

5.) If you are sitting at the stage, do not blow air towards my crotch. I don’t know what gave you the idea that I wanted you to blow into my genitalia, but I’m scooting away from your face. It does nothing for me. Are you waiting for an echo? I’ll give you one. Enjoy.

6.) I can get closer to you, if you move your beer. I don’t want to knock it over, because you won’t get a replacement. I can’t help it if I’m working hard for the money, and I spill beer on your crotch. Don’t look at me like I’m the jerk while my vag is in your face. You should have moved your drink. I know my ass is entrancing, but pay attention! I think you’d want to do that anyway, because I’m clapping my butt cheeks inches from your drink. Maybe you didn’t know this, but girls poop. I might have dropped a deuce before I got onstage, and I definitely didn’t wash my thongs today.

7.) Private dances are usually set prices, but we’re not asking for the world. Don’t respond to my inquiry with, “well, is it going to be a good dance?” Yeah, it’ll be great. Just like the hundreds of dances I did before. We are only asking for thirty dollars, but don’t you agree that a blow job is asking a little much? You’re making me more uncomfortable by the second, and that great lap dance is going to turn into five minutes of shaking my ass two feet in front of you.

8.) If you actually manage to score a decent dance, you need to remember that this is my job. I’m glad you’re having a good time, and that I’m turning you on, but I’m being paid to be sensual. This is a fantasy, and I’m your own personal actress. Consider your lap as my stage. That being said, do not tarnish my performance by taking out your penis. I’m probably not turned on by you, and it ruins my flow when I turn around to see a baby penis sewn on a fifty year-old. It’s not impressive. It’s also insulting. Like I said earlier, you’ve paid thirty dollars for one dance. Stop fooling yourself. There are plenty of women working the streets, aching to smoke a thirty-dollar rock. You couldn’t afford me if I was for sale.

9.) Out of all things that annoy me about “gentlemen,” I absolutely hate being asked about my plans for the night. I don’t know how to tell you this, but you are at a strip club. This is not the place to meet ladies. This is a place to pay ladies to get naked. You should assume you’re not going to see your future wife naked, the first night you meet her. Just like I sincerely doubt I’m going to meet the love of my life in a tittie bar; you need to wise up.
I’m sorry you’re so naive. It would be kind of sweet… if I wasn’t topless when I met you. The truth of the matter is, if you’re the kind of guy that frequents a strip club, I’m writing you off without a second thought. If I’ve seen you here twice a week for the last year, I’m going to keep “losing” your number. Maybe you’re not that guy though. Maybe your friends have never been to a club, and it’s your drunken friend’s twenty-first birthday. Then, maybe you have a chance of meeting me outside, but you’re still not getting my number. Instead you can give me yours, but I’m probably going to forget I met a semi-attractive, seemingly nice man tonight. I get hit on nightly, and the bad experiences way outnumber the good ones. I am jaded, and you are exploitable. Don’t be deceived by my enthusiastic nature. Sure, I promise I’ll call you, but only if we do a twenty-minute dance right now. Your number is getting tossed into my purse with the twenty other napkins I received tonight. And I blot… a lot.

10.) I’m putting out fires right now. Breaking stereotypes. Isn’t it crazy to think that most strippers aren’t easy or classless? I’m totally blowing… your mind. Guess what? Not all of us are drug addicts either. Therefore, stop asking me if I like to “party.” I want your money, not your drugs. You are not scoring any points here. If I wanted drugs, I would take your money and call a dealer; please, by all means, save your seedy bud. Jeez. I can’t seem to score a zinfandel to save my life, but you’re sneaking me a folded-up, one-dollar bill?

There are many more points to be made, which, like these, are mostly basic rules of etiquette. Exotic dancers are women, and like all women, we want some respect. Oh, and some money. This is our job. I doubt your boss waves your paycheck around until you bend over. Or maybe he does. I don’t know how it works at Denny’s.
Not all strippers are dumb or slutty, but there are plenty of loose women you can harass in public. My advice is, if you can’t bring your wallet or your manners, save yourself some face. Go to the bar on your corner, and buy some drinks for the lonely divorcee. She’s already warmed up. She’s been playing exotic Photo Hunt for the last five years. Maybe she’ll bend over for you, but I wouldn’t put my money on it. Not even a dollar.