Coco's history -- part 5 -- the real thing

I've always wanted to be the best at what I do, and I didn't like being the second-class citizen who just serves the drinks. Cocktail waitresses are almost at the bottom of the totem pole. We were below the mamasan, the strippers, the barman and the bouncers, in that order.
The "real" girls on stage didn't talk much to us, unless it was bossing us around to fetch them a drink, which was usually iced tea or something in whisky glass.
News alert for clients: Strippers pretend they're socializing and drinking with you, but alot of them are cold-stone sober businesswomen. They accept your drink because the club gets cash out of it, not because they want it. (Others are total drunkards, too, though).

You might think that being the cocktail waitress would at least be safer and easier. It's not true.
Despite what they might say about club security, men are still going to grab your ass, boss you around, leer at you and ask for sexual favors. They don't know the difference between the various scantily dressed girls around. So Coco brings your drink and Candy strips for you -- or is it Candy bringing the drink and Coco stripping for you?

After a while I thought -- If I'm already scantily dressed and having to work the room, I might as well strip. After all, the only difference between my bikini / lingerie and what a stripper wore was very small -- let's say 5 square inches of fabric. So people could see my nipples. Whoop dee doo.

So I asked for a promotion and my manager gave it to me. I could start stripping in the mid-day shift. (You have to work your way up to the late shifts, which earn more.) Suddenly, I was basically double what I was earning before.

Now I was working noon-4pm Monday to Friday for lunch ($500). Plus I still did my cage dancing gig on weekends ($100).

The $600 a week -- plus tips -- was a record high for me then. I know it sounds like peanuts now. But remember, this was 10 years ago and I was just a kid.

I only remember such details because I used to keep a diary. Otherwise, this whole portion of the blog would be impossible to write.

I was 20 years old by this time. I was a full-fledged stripper. I was living in my own cute flat (not a dorm). I could afford to eat out and buy clothes. Basically I was earning what college grads might get as their first professional office job after school, though I was still in school and only working 25-30 hours a week.

But my studies were falling by the wayside.
Freshman year, I took a full load -- 5 courses a semester.
Sophomore year -- 4 courses a semester.
By junior year -- 3 courses a semester, and the dean's office downgraded me to "part time."
At this rate, I would need an extra year to graduate -- I'd be in college for 5 years. I figure I'd hang on for the ride and enjoy it.