Alaskan tittie bars rock!

I’m back in that little fishing tourist town that I was in all summer. The tourists are all gone, and so are most of the strippers. It’s about forty degrees warmer down here too.

I pulled into town around one in the morning, and my first stop was the strip club. Everyone was standing around the door getting ready to leave. When I walked in they stared at me like I was a ghost.

“Well goddamn,” the manager said, picking her jaw up off the floor, “I didn’t think we’d be seeing you again till June.”

Her and I went back to the office to hang out with the owner so they could try to convince me to work every single day and never leave. They’re down to three strippers. “And the last one I found in a parking lot and brought home. She’s living on the couch out there, Tara, and boy is she the perfect project for you.”

“What’s wrong with her?” I ask.

The owner grunts and looks up from his computer. “She walks like a cowboy. Pretty enough to be a model and she walks and cusses like a cowboy. Great personality though.” He goes back to his one handed pecking at the keyboard, then looks back up at me. “How do you spell ‘estate’?”

I love this place.

Apparently they’re getting worried about the stripper shortage, even though it happens every winter. From my perspective, three is the perfect number of strippers right now. Enough for a stage rotation, but not so much that everyone’s getting cut throat over the crumbs of customers that come in. See, we may not have many crumbs, but the crumbs we do get are generally pretty loaded. You have to be patient and opportunistic to sit around all night waiting for them and then be the first one to them when they come in tho.

“Do you know anyone that’d come here?” the manager asks.

“No.”

“Are you sure? Cause-”

“I know, you’ll take anyone with a vagina,” I say, repeating what she always says. It’s true. This summer I worked with two women who were well over two hundred pounds. They both did well, one being a relatively low earner and the other being one of the higher earners. I think of them whenever someone starts in on me about all us strippers caving in to men’s magazine standards.

“Hell, I’d take ’em without a vagina too.”

“Really? I might know someone.” I don’t really, I just want to see how tolerant this club really is.

“She got a dick?” she asks.

“Yeah, but she tapes it up really good. You can’t even tell when she has her thong on.”

“She got boobs?”

“Yeah, nice ones.”

“She danced before?”

“No, but she’s really been wanting too,” I lie.

She shrugs. “Find with me. Hey,” she turns to the owner, “is that okay with you? A girl with a little rod?”

“Huh? She’s got a steel rod? She have a doctors note?”

“No, a dick. You know, one of those girls was born a boy.”

“Oh,” he shrugs. “I dunno, how good does it tuck?”

“Really good,” I tell him. “She doesn’t have testicles anymore so it’s very small, and when she flashes in the front it looks totally like a pussy.”

“Fuck if I care, tell her to come on down.”

Alaskans are the best kind of people.