When you’re 21-years-old you really expect the worse when it comes down to finding any job, and currently spending my life in Merrill, Wisconsin, didn’t make it any easier. Regardless, I finally found an ad in the paper the fit my skill-set and I applied.

I got the job.

You start tomorrow.

As the disc jockey at the strip club.

Yes, you heard me correctly. Girls, with little to no clothes, dancing on poles while doing unspeakable things to their body for money.

Um, okay you talked me into it.

Like I said, I had never been in or ever had a desire to be in a strip club before. Corralling concubines had never been a real problem of mine, I hadn’t known anyone who had gotten married, and quite simply it was not high on my things I must see in the near future list. But there I was, in “the booth” with absolutely no clue on what was about to transpire. The “proprietor” was a big man in his fifties named Mack. I could go on with a tirade of adjectives, but to save time just imagine what the stereotypical owner of a sleaze saloon might look like and I guarantee you’ll be pretty close. He gave me about a thirty minute overview of my duties.

Then the naked girls came.

Now by no stretch of the imagination were naked girls new to me. However, naked girls just standing there talking to me while other naked girls poked and prodded every inch of my personal space was an entirely different story. In fact, it was downright uncomfortable. I mean seriously, how can you not look? It was extremely hard to keep focused; I equate it to winning the lottery after taking a work boot to the nuts, full force.

Hurray!

For the most part it was a sink or swim situation. I was good in “the booth” and this time would be no different. Most notably because of the hot, (well most of the time) naked women roaming around everywhere, this club, from a disc jockey’s standpoint anyway, was a little non-traditional. I was more of a glorified MC than anything else; dancers are very particular about what they want to dance to. Although they gave me some leeway eventually, at first they pretty much determined their own set lists and my job was to talk them up as much as possible. You learn quickly not to argue with a dancer. It is a super bad idea.

So talk them up I did.

They must have been awfully surprised that first night. Since I had never been in this situation before, I was also naïve to the often degrading phrases used by the majority of strip club jocks. I am sure they expected to hear something like…

“Gentleman, put your hands together for the rack with the back, and the bod that treats the rod. Please welcome to the stage Miss Brandy Boom Boom and her Triple F treasure chest. Get your wallet out guys; she’s working hard up here to keep you hard down there.”

Instead, I introduced them with a little class. Except for one isolated spray painting incident, if there is one thing I am not, it is disrespectful to women, and this instance was no different. I talked about how beautiful they were, how well they danced, and how their smile lit up the darkness. They raked it in that first night. They loved the new baby faced blued eyed DJ.

Then the real fun began.

The list of girls that became a part of life that winter is long and clouded. Girls with names like Dakota, and Torii, Amy and Sweet Pea, Miss Kitty and Mercedes revolved the door on a weekly basis, each girl with a different act, a different personality, and a different story to tell. I can’t count the number of times I have received a rogue lap dance when I least expected it. They loved having me around and I loved having them. Dancers are a breed of their own; there are a few bad apples as there are anywhere else. But on the whole, most of them are intelligent, hard working, and in my personal opinion usually quite lonely. I feel comfortable making that last statement as I have spent many an hour talking with dancers one on one. So much so, that three of the girls were so delighted they eventually took me with them on there summer tour as their personal disc jockey.

I am not worthy.

Now if you’re expecting an orgy story with assorted objects and other substances I will apologize in advance. Although surreal in every aspect, it was one of the most enjoyable vacations I have ever taken. These three girls treated me like a prince. They paid for everything. The paid for my hotel, my meals, my travel, and even forced me to go shopping so they could buy me the appropriate outfits. In turn, I talked them up from club to club in what turned out to be a stream of money the likes of which I had never seen before. These girls were pros and it showed.

I have the fondest memories of these three women. It was an unforgettable experience and although it wasn’t a scene from Caligula, for historical purposes, I will mention that they never wore a thing in the hotel.

Except a smile.