Friday, April 30, 2010


I just finished a screaming and crying session that lasted a good half hour. I am suffocating on my impotent rage - that piece of shit Grant, the manager of the club that owes me for two shows, is still fucking me around for my pay. He told me almost two weeks ago that he couldn’t get my pay for me because it was too far back, that Nicki the accountant had to get it for me, but she was away on holiday. When I protested, he told me there was nothing he could do, that I would have to wait.

A week and a half later, Nicki finally returned to the office. I called her to ask about my pay, and surprise surprise, she didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, nor did she have the foggiest idea why Grant would have said that. With gritted teeth, I asked when Grant would be in so I could get my pay, and she told me not until Wednesday.

So I waited impatiently for ANOTHER two fucking days, not having had any work in over a week and not able to buy even a pack of cigarettes. Wednesday has finally rolled around, but guess what? Grant still won’t fucking pay me! He said it’s Nicki’s responsibility, not his. I told him that I had contacted Nicki TWICE, she said it wasn’t her area and she didn’t know why he said that - she said that she has nothing to do with paying the dancers. He told me that yes it was, and that she just said that so that she wouldn’t have to deal with me. His smug satisfaction was just seeping through the phone as he admonished me for waiting so long to get my pay. When I tried to tell him that I had waited so fucking long because HE TOLD ME I HAD TO, he actually yelled at me not to try to make him feel bad when it is my own fault that I couldn’t get my act together to get my pay on time.

I finally got him to commit to calling Nicki tomorrow - BULLSHIT - and that once she confirmed that I hadn’t already been paid for it, he would pay me out. I hung up the phone and let out a scream so loud and frustrated and anguished that MIsha slunk away from me in terror. It wasn’t enough, though, so even though I knew I was scaring my precious little doggie, I had to do it again and again, trying to get the rage out of my system before I ripped my fucking face off.

So, the plan now is that I am going to go to the club tomorrow, and ask Nicki in person to please confirm that I haven’t been paid yet. If she still denies that it is not her responsibility, I am going to ask her to call Grant while I am present and sort it out with him over the phone in front of me. And if that fucking douchebag won’t answer the phone, I am going to ask her to please tell me who can confirm that I haven’t been paid yet so I can get confirmation for Grant. And lastly, I am going to refuse to leave without the confirmation I need to get paid. Hopefully there will even be an owner around, so I can voice my complaint and get them involved.

I can’t believe how fucking petty and small this man is. I also can’t wait until I don’t have to just lie there and take it while he fucking rapes me, unable to speak out in protest for fear of losing my job. I can’t wait to have the freedom to say whatever i fucking WANT to that fucking prick without fear of losing my job.


Okay, it is now the following day, or rather, night. I had texted Boy Agent before i even tried to call Grant last night, asking him if he would please help me if Grant still wouldn’t pay me when I called him. I didn’t hear back from him though, even after I had talked to that douchefuck Grant, until hours later, after my bouts of screaming and bawling had long since subsided.

He had simply texted back, “Of course I will help you,” followed by an attempt to reach me by phone. A few minutes after his unanswered call he had texted again, “Call me before you call the club.”

I immediately dialed his number with my heart in my mouth. Please, please help me fight this, I thought. Grant had made me feel so worthless, so totally beneath him that it was eating me alive - there were way too many similarities between he and Michael.

Boy Agent answered right away, and gave me a chance to tell him exactly what Grant had been doing - telling me I had to speak to the accountant, who didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, refusing to pay me until he had confirmation from Nicki, who again said she had no idea why he would say that, she has nothing to do with the dancers. Boy Agent told me that he had already called Grant, and get this - he told Grant that The Top Dog of Everything had just called him from Province Capital, asking why the clubs weren’t paying V***** B******? That she is supposed to come work in Province Capital but says that she needs her gas money from the south club or else she can’t afford to come up there.

Boy Agent told me gleefully that Grant is terrified of The Top Dog of Everything, and had assured Boy Agent that I would be getting paid the following night, no problem. When Boy Agent told me this, I couldn't help howling and screaming with glee.

“He needed to be shown that there is always a bigger dog,” he said, which is an analogy he uses often. It perfectly portrayed exactly what I had been thinking and feeling throughout each interaction with Grant - I wanted so badly to do something to harm him, something that would show him that if he thinks he is better than me and can just fuck with me whenever he wants, he is fucking wrong. That while he thinks I am worthless and enjoys peeing all over me because I am a lesser human than he, that there is someone ELSE who will SHIT all over him. I hadn’t a clue how I would do it, but I knew I had to do something, or this would fucking eat me alive. I have to confess that my mind was going to some pretty dark places. I just had no way to stand up for myself without shooting myself in the foot - if I pissed Grant off sufficiently, I would not be getting booked at the south club anymore. And having a meltdown on him would have be pointless anyway, cuz if I spazzed enough to get banned for life, I still wouldn’t have gotten my money.

He could pee on me all he wanted, and there wasn’t fuck all I could do about it, until Boy Agent came along. I swear to God, I felt like Boy Agent has avenged my childhood with Michael, so vindicated did I feel by his exertion of power over Grant. That Grant cowered and bowed to the bigger dog, just as he had been making me do. It felt so GOOD to put him in his fucking place! The difference between us is vital to my self esteem, though, and it is this - he was making me bow to him out of pure spite and malice, getting off and reveling in his clear enjoyment and smug satisfaction of putting me in a place that I could not free myself from. I, on the other hand, only did what I had to do because he left me with no other choice. I am not the kind of girl who enjoys throwing around the names of people she knows - basically because I don’t really know anyone - but he forced my hand in the matter. He left me with no choice but to ask for higher help.

I am so grateful to Boy Agent right now, I cannot believe the complete turn around in my optimism. After ending my conversation with Grant last night, I was so fucking angry that I just screamed into the empty house, over and over. I was being held down and raped, but if I wanted to keep my job and I would just shut my mouth and take it. My emotions were out of control last night - I have never felt such fury, I was actually scared that it could overwhelm me, that I might actually hurt myself. I think that Grant treating me the way Michael used to brought up years of supressed rage at how I was treated, and all of it just hit me at once - this terrible rage that I struggled for over an hour to contain.

Fucking Grant is such a petty piece of shit - during our phone conversation yesterday, I said the words “this isn’t funny anymore”, meaning his making me jump through hoops to get my pay, to which he innocently replied, “It was never meant to be funny.”

“Oh really?” I snapped back.

“I have better things to do with my time, actually,” he said smugly.

God. I have never had a real, honest urge to kill someone before, not even Michael, but I wanted desperately to kill Grant right then. It was overwhelming, the urge to put him in the same position he currently had me in and watch HIM beg ME to do the right thing. And if it hadn’t been for Boy Agent, I honestly think that I would have done or said something very stupid, like threaten his family, or slash his tires . I hope I never feel such desperate hatred and rage ever again.

I have no idea if I will be working at south club again any time in the near future. When I went in tonight, shortly after 10:30, I went straight to the office door and pressed the bell. To my immense surprise, the door buzzed, and I was able to shove it open.

I walked in to find Grant behind his desk, with the owner, C, and the DJ/Manager, Britt, deep in conversation. Grant looked at me smugly and told me to come back in five minutes. I had expected no less from him, the petty fucker, so without a word I turned around and walked silently out of the office. I texted a status update to Bf, who was cheering me on form home with Baby, and then went and sat down at the bar. I was determined that I would remain there for the rest of the night if I had to, if that’s what it fucking took to get my fucking money.

After ten minutes, I went to the door and buzzed again, and though all three of them were in there, I got no response. I sighed and whipped out my cell phone while still in view of the security camera, hoping that I might lure Grant into thinking that I was texting The Top Dog. I started to walk away, and I was actually texting Boy Agent, when the office door opened and the three men finally emerged.

Grant said nothing to me and I said nothing to him, but he held the office door open for me and I followed him through into his office. I stood at the corner of his desk while he ignored me, and eventually sat down when I realized his pantomime of cutting the pay stubs was going to be a long one. I got my phone out again and pretended to text, just for something to do. Grant eventually sat down to write out my pay stub, speaking only when he had to ask me my show price. I answered, and that was all I said to him, even when I handed my signed pay stub back to him and he said, “You have to go cash it at the bar.”

I didn’t even look at him, I just stood up and walked silently out of the office, not even thanking him for finally giving me my goddamn money. I resisted the urge to say all kinds of colorful things, as I really did hope to work there again some day, and just walked out of the office.

When I was back in the club, I made my way to the bar and cashed my cheque, then looked down at the bills in my hand with a huge grin on my face. I realized that I had never had to work so fucking hard for my money in my life. I stuck it in my pocket and walked out the front doors, carefully keeping my hand pressed against the bills to ensure they couldn’t fly away - I wasn’t taking any fucking chances with that $120.

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