Sniffing In The VIP Area

"Sorry, what? Take off my what? Dude, I can't hear
anything over all this loud music."

Every night with my star friends

We eat caviar and drink champagne

Sniffing in the V.I.P. area

We talk about Frank Sinatra..

"You know Frank Sinatra?"

He's dead!
Hahahahaha!




To be famous seems so nice

Suck my dick, kiss my ass

In limousines we have sex

Every night with my famous friends

Nice...


~ Miss Kittin & The Hacker


I have decided that I am not going to torture everyone by waxing lyrical about the Henry Rollins show last week. At least, not in this post. You guys get enough of that every other time I post. Instead I am just going to link it; if you’re interested at all, you can check it out.

So. I am back to answering the phones for the agency this week, as Gigi has jetted off to Africa to see her family. It’s been interesting, doing this job sober. For once.

This phone never stops ringing. As a natural antisocial hermit, it has taken me a few days to get used to having to become the polar opposite of what I am naturally; to become a social butterfly. This includes answering the phone every time it rings, being friendly to people even when they are rude to me, and listening to male and female dancers go on about how special and irreplaceable they are. I can kind of see why I used to like to be high while doing this job; it does not come naturally to me, discussing thongs for a forty-five minute stretch, or trying to figure out whether tiger print or leopard print is the pattern to make your balls look bigger.

It’s tiger print, by the way.

But I am enjoying the chance to be organized and bookish, to keep business running smoothly at an agency that employs around 30 people, while the owner is away. Incidentally, I also enjoy telling others what to do. I feel it is one of my better features. Better, certainly, than being told what to do.

The only tough part about running the show is that I worry too much, you see; or at least, I do when I am sober. Last year I didn’t really give a shit if you didn’t get paid for your show; it had nothing to do with me, so please leave me alone. But it’s a different ball game now. I want everything to run smoothly; I want all the clients and the dancers to be treated well and to enjoy their functions; at the end of it all, I want to be told that I did a good job.

Lofty goals, I know. But I am determined to succeed.

Once my initial distress at always having to actually answer the phone has abated, I have found that I actually like talking to the customers most of the time. Some are friendly and normal, some are bizarre and rude, and some say things that I am glad I don’t usually have to hear, in my capacity as the performer.

“That one? No, she’s not very pretty.”

“Her? No, she looks like I could just pick her up in a bar.”

“What? HER? Hahahahahaha! Um, no.”

Etc, etc. And I just think, Ouch! Luckily no one has said anything mean about my picture yet, since that would be really hard to hear, and I would probably end up sending them a midget dancer of the wrong sex by mistake. Someone who likes the thrill of the chase and has ingested too much Ecstasy. Heh heh.

Most of the time, though, it’s fun talking to the clients when they call to make their bookings. Usually they are really exited about booking their friend’s bachelor or bachelorette party and are very friendly, though every now and then they will keep me on my toes with their varied statements and requests.

“We only want a twelve minute show,” one woman told me yesterday. “Not a second longer. And we want him to go down to a thong.”

“Ew, really?” I said without thinking. “I mean...ah...wouldn’t a nice boxer brief be sexier? You know, like David Beckham.”

“No,” she said firmly. “It’s gotta be a g-string.”

“Fine,” I sighed, and then went through hell trying to get a male dancer who didn’t balk at the very idea. The whole process left me pondering my existence and the question that I think plagues all of us, throughout our lives: What is the difference between a g-string and a thong, anyway?

Another customer didn’t bother to sugar coat anything, and gave it to me straight. “We don’t like fake boobs,” he announced when I suggested a beautiful blond waitress for his party. “Are her boobs real?”

“No, they’re imaginary,” I smirked.

“What?”

“I said ‘They’re legendary’,” I enunciated loudly.

“Oh.” A long pause. “But are they real?”

“They’re real nice,” I offered brightly, and then booked her anyway.

There is always a lesson to be learned in this industry. And that lesson is, be nice to me, or I’ll send you an inflatable sheep to dance at your bachelor party.

"Hi, I'm Lateasa! From the agency?"