Tales From The DJ Booth: Semi-Ugly Truths I Learned As A Strip Club DJ

Santa Claus isn’t real. Taco Bell is not bringing back the Chilito. Spiderman dies in Infinity War. These are the certain, harsh truths, that most adults have already come to accept. But, if you’ve never worked as a strip club DJ, you have no idea the extent to which truth can be ugly. I mean, sure, it’s not like I’ve ever stormed the beaches at Normandy or told a girl "I love you," but shit gets real in these streets. Here are some harsh truths that I’ve come to grips with, as will any strip club DJ, eventually...

DJs Work For The Club, The Dancers And The Customers

As the line from Office Space goes, "I have eight different bosses, Bob." As a DJ, your job is to entertain the customers in a way that the nude entertainer on stage can entertain, all while entertaining the club owner’s oddly specific "no rap music from 2008-2012" rule, regarding entertainment. Trust me—it’s not as entertaining as it sounds. If you piss off a dancer, there goes a tip (and, possibly some customers). If, in an attempt to please the customers and dancer(s), you piss off the club owner, there goes your job. And, if the dancer you’re working with/for demands that you play some stuff that her customers hate, there goes the whole show.

Further, if you ask any one, specific entity, they will be quick to tell you that you work for them. And, they’re all technically correct. If I’m on the payroll, then, yes, Forgotten Daughter, LLC is my boss. But, if that payroll amounts to a third of what each dancer tips me, then I’m technically working for the dancers. That is, of course, until Pimp Steve shows up and gives me a small stack of twenties to play his mixtape. Then, I’m working for Steve. I imagine that, at some point, mobsters have held a strip club DJ at gunpoint (for whatever reason... likely drug-related) and asked, "Who do you work for?!" at which point the DJ replies, "I have no fucking idea." This is how DJs die. There’s a lot of holes in the desert... lots of SoundCloud accounts buried in those holes.

Each Decade Has A Genre That Will Not Die

We’ve all been there—pushing 40 and arguing with a teenage stripper about what the fuck an "A$AP" is and how to plug in her iPhone 9 to make it work. When she decides to give up and say, "Fuck it, just play anything," it can catch the DJ off guard. That is unless the DJ is well-versed in whatever genre of music was huge when that stripper was still in diapers. You could have a club full of newly 21-year-old kids, throw on Toto’s "Africa," Snoop’s "Who Am I (What’s My Name)" or any EDM song from ten years ago, and the crowd will love it. Why? ‘80s, ‘90s and ‘00s are technically genres if you focus on the appropriate cuts. With the ‘80s, anything that was sung by a band with no more than one other hit, is a hit. Two or more hits and it’s old people music—save for Michael Jackson, Prince and Journey. As far as the ‘90s go, any and all hip hop produced west of the I-5 freeway or east of Michigan is a sure- fire hit. And, for everything else, there’s "Sandstorm."

Most Of The Cool Kids Are Lonely Douchebags

You’ve probably been in a busy Portland strip club at some point, trying to squeeze past a group of entitled, smug hipsters, who are back-to-the-bar relaxing and Pabst-spreading over two or more empty bar stools. When the bartender steps toward you to take your order, Johnny Haircut and his posse of washed-up has-beens interrupt her to talk about tattoos or some dumb shit like that—preventing you, a customer who won’t order something from a can, from obtaining a drink. You shrug it off, because this group of scenesters is here every day—they must be important, right? Wrong. As a DJ, you’re often the last person out of the bar. This means, you get to sit there while the club closes and security informs the cool kids that, while they don’t have to go home, they can’t stay there. And, this is when it gets good. Half of these kids can’t afford a taxi and end up calling a friend to get a ride. The other half usually rides their bike off to some "after-party," which consists of six tattooed dudes and an unlucky girl, sitting on a porch in Southeast Portland, bumming cigarettes off of each other and talking shit about the strip club they were just at (I know this because I used to frequent said "after-parties" and sell baking soda to hipsters). If you want to know who the real winners are at the strip club, come in between rush hour and midnight—the guys in the half-loosened ties drinking gin are the folks who will make a difference in the world. Everyone else is just pressing up recycled indie rock or writing music columns for Exotic.

Beauty Is Not A Social Construct

As a fat, middle-aged guy with tits and hip problems, I’m not coming at this from a position of superiority. Yes, I feel that everyone should be comfortable in their bodies. But, no, I’m fucking realistic enough to know that I won’t be starring in the sequel to Magic Mike (unless the role calls for a washed-up, Rocky V-style lead). For as much bullshit as current-year political sensitivity calls for, it’s refreshing to see a room full of various genders, ethnic backgrounds and sexual orientations all drop their jaws, simultaneously when a bomb-ass stripper steps on stage. Sure, there are preferences all over the place, as various body shapes, beauty types and styles exist, but that’s the type of thing I’d type before making a crass, sexist generalization. Such generalization is as follows: symmetry, youth, a nice smile and a bangin’ booty are undeniable qualities in any woman—stripper or otherwise. I’m not saying this is a good thing or a bad thing— I’m just saying that it’s one of those small acid tests that put bullshit to rest. Hot is hot, and if you don’t "conform to media standards of beauty, blah blah blah, liberal arts degree professor says...," you’re gonna need one hell of a smile and personality if you want to make money as a dancer.

The Money You Make Will Spend Itself

Any industry has its business expenses. If you’re in the weed game, you’re going to have to spend more money on sandwich bags and candy than a soccer mom would. If you work real estate, you’re gonna need a Prius and a best friend named Marci. Expenses are to be anticipated, but when you work late into the evening (and want to grab a bite to eat or a drink after work), unexpected costs arise. First, you’ve got the lifestyle expenses associated with waking up ten minutes before every government office, billing department and healthy grocery store close. Late fees become a habit and your family wonders why you never join grandma for church. Next, you’ve got the post-shift meal and/or drink which, unless planned for in advance, is usually purchased in an after-hours establishment, at a significant upgrade, in the company of co-workers who may or may not pressure you into coming over for "just a beer"—a decision that often leads to waking up in Gresham, while the sun sets, telling yourself that you’ll never do lines of MDMA with strange girls in fuzzy animal ears ever again. Even if you’re squeaky clean and sober, it’s always easy to spend your paycheck when it’s given to you, nightly, in cash.

Dating Becomes Impossible

I’m not exaggerating here. Speaking as a male DJ, at least (female dancers will have their own nasty mess of problems when it comes to relationships), you’ve got three options when it comes to women you date: those who are cool with the industry, those who have worked in the industry and those who detest the industry. The first group will, at some point, become a member of the second or third group, so we’ll skip that one. As far as dating people who also work in the industry...man, there’s something to be said about trying to get sexy, after six hours of faking it to make a buck. I’m not saying that some dancers aren’t amazing, in terms of being able to put on a genuinely sexy and erotic performance—I’m just saying that it’s a performance. Any stripper who acts the same on stage as she does in the bedroom, is faking it. The same thing goes for DJs—if we appear to have rhythm and confidence, know that it’s a front that will cease to exist as soon as we get five songs into the shift. Plus, the last thing a stripper wants to hear after a night of being told "You’re beautiful, I’d like to fuck you," is, "You’re beautiful, I’d like to fuck you." I’ve dated some fantastic women who were dancers and, to be honest, nothing would spur sex quicker than eating Taco Bell and watching Shameless in pajama pants, while she has no makeup and I’m still smelling like cigarettes and Nickelback. As a plus, all that "personality" and "connection" crap that women’s magazines throw around is legitimized, as the mere sight of your partner naked is not enough to get you off (I mean, it’s part of your job), nor will your witty remarks and amazing taste in music do anything for her.

The third group of woman I’ve mentioned as a dating possibility, is the one that (often secretly) has a distaste for the entire strip club industry. And, trust me, this group is the worst. You’ve never gotten into a real argument until you’ve had a self-described "sex-positive, body-positive, feminist" tell you about how all of your friends are money- grubbing whores who have never met their dad. Ahh, the irony of current-year ethics. Personally, I have more respect for the most stereotypical, Dr. Phil-ish, ghetto dancer, than I do a stuck-up, rich bitch who marries old men for money (or expects working-class dudes to buy them expensive shots). Further, I am always suspect of chicks who claim to be cool with the strip clubs, but wish I’d "do something else, like write for the free paper." I’m sorry, but Exotic pays writers five times what they’d make writing for Columbia Weekly or The Gresham Venus (and, no, we’re not currently hiring, so don’t email me). Strip club DJs make the same as wedding DJs, without any of the setup or violent bridesmaids. And, if you want to talk about women in skimpy outfits being exploited and forced to have conversations with douchebags for tips, look no further than a Dutch Bros coffee stand. The bottom line? Get a sex doll.