Close to the Edge
It was when I handed out the money to pay; I realized that the cabby was wearing latex gloves.
As in medical, germ-phobic, or serial killer kind of latex gloves.
That the kind of paranoia, or affectation, can mean any number of things; but, really, any of the options available still made it a perfect cap to the night.
As it was the first seasonal day of snow in Toronto, the club was, predictably, slow. Inching. Crawling. Friday nights are often very good for me. I get to drink, play, chat, dance, and make lots and lots of money.
This Friday was a terrible thing. There was bustle, but no bustling, if you get my meaning.
Canadians suffer on the first snowfall. They suffer the memory of all the snow they've had to endure, all their many years, up until that point. To see a snowflake is not to see a snowflake, but more to see every snowflake that has ever heaped your sidewalk, buried your driveway, or barricaded your road. That first snowflake is the symbol for all frozen condensation, and here it comes, that tyranny of water, and sun, and the void.
So they don't go out. They stay inside.
I understand. I would be with them. Cuddled with the new computer under the duvet, watching Buffy, and drinking tea.
But I hauled it in. Yay for me.
There were a lot of gawkers and wannabe fondlers, but a dearth of solvent patrons, and the night deejay on Friday is not, as a rule, my favorite disk jockey. I put in my time. I did, what you might call, the "groundwork" for private dances in the future. I smiled, and I sashayed, and I drank....
When you're your own boss, time management is a skill quickly mastered or submitted. Tick. Tick. Tick.
A regular who likes to be dominated covered my commission. Thank you, Jesus... or whichever reasonable, sin-savvy, queer positive, cheeky facsimile deity it was that answered my quiet plea. Actually having to pay for the privilege to be there is not the happiest way to leave.
I could have been home with Raspberry Thriller and Season Five.
The stage show is fairly important to the stripper's income. It's the billboard, the marquee -- we certainly have the lights -- and without it, we've lost our star power on the floor. Said Friday deejay and I are not particularly close. We don't have anything that would even resemble an understanding. We're cordial, and that's about all.
The fellow picking the music is also the one who co-ordinates the stage schedule. Friday, I am almost always one of the last on the docket for the main stage.
This is fine. I've come to understand and work with this. I budget my time accordingly.
What's irritating is when two of the more motivated dancers decide to do a duo show on the tiny (picture a surface area atop your refrigerator) stage, all slinkin' and touchin', just when I was up. At first I thought it was impulsive, and kind of cute... and then it went on... and on.
I was completely upstaged, on a night when there really wasn't that much attention to go around, and even less money.
I wasn't prepared for how mad I felt. I was angry. I don't get angry very often, when it happens I can feel the speed of the blood passing over my temples. Whoosh.
I was this close to taking my job seriously.
I'm better now, thanks.
As in medical, germ-phobic, or serial killer kind of latex gloves.
That the kind of paranoia, or affectation, can mean any number of things; but, really, any of the options available still made it a perfect cap to the night.
As it was the first seasonal day of snow in Toronto, the club was, predictably, slow. Inching. Crawling. Friday nights are often very good for me. I get to drink, play, chat, dance, and make lots and lots of money.
This Friday was a terrible thing. There was bustle, but no bustling, if you get my meaning.
Canadians suffer on the first snowfall. They suffer the memory of all the snow they've had to endure, all their many years, up until that point. To see a snowflake is not to see a snowflake, but more to see every snowflake that has ever heaped your sidewalk, buried your driveway, or barricaded your road. That first snowflake is the symbol for all frozen condensation, and here it comes, that tyranny of water, and sun, and the void.
So they don't go out. They stay inside.
I understand. I would be with them. Cuddled with the new computer under the duvet, watching Buffy, and drinking tea.
But I hauled it in. Yay for me.
There were a lot of gawkers and wannabe fondlers, but a dearth of solvent patrons, and the night deejay on Friday is not, as a rule, my favorite disk jockey. I put in my time. I did, what you might call, the "groundwork" for private dances in the future. I smiled, and I sashayed, and I drank....
When you're your own boss, time management is a skill quickly mastered or submitted. Tick. Tick. Tick.
A regular who likes to be dominated covered my commission. Thank you, Jesus... or whichever reasonable, sin-savvy, queer positive, cheeky facsimile deity it was that answered my quiet plea. Actually having to pay for the privilege to be there is not the happiest way to leave.
I could have been home with Raspberry Thriller and Season Five.
The stage show is fairly important to the stripper's income. It's the billboard, the marquee -- we certainly have the lights -- and without it, we've lost our star power on the floor. Said Friday deejay and I are not particularly close. We don't have anything that would even resemble an understanding. We're cordial, and that's about all.
The fellow picking the music is also the one who co-ordinates the stage schedule. Friday, I am almost always one of the last on the docket for the main stage.
This is fine. I've come to understand and work with this. I budget my time accordingly.
What's irritating is when two of the more motivated dancers decide to do a duo show on the tiny (picture a surface area atop your refrigerator) stage, all slinkin' and touchin', just when I was up. At first I thought it was impulsive, and kind of cute... and then it went on... and on.
I was completely upstaged, on a night when there really wasn't that much attention to go around, and even less money.
I wasn't prepared for how mad I felt. I was angry. I don't get angry very often, when it happens I can feel the speed of the blood passing over my temples. Whoosh.
I was this close to taking my job seriously.
I'm better now, thanks.
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