Confessions of a Morally Conflicted Champagne Hostess
My waitressing gig at the strip club was supposed to be a quick way to make easy money for college. But then coaxing tips out of wasted men gradually turned into more elaborate scams, until I was in way too deep.
Illustrations by Alex Azalea Jin
Blue and pink strobe lights danced in my eyes as I made my way across the cheap floral carpet that blanketed Eden’s Cabaret. I balanced a tray in my right hand as I scanned the room looking for empty drinks, feeling the air conditioner blow big cold breaths on my exposed legs.
It was a slow night at Eden’s, the stack of money being held to my wrist with a rubber band was too light and I was becoming very bored.
I saw an overweight man in a suit a few yards away and watched as his head lolled from side to side. He was slumped deep in his chair, his face resting on the mountains of chins connecting his mouth to his neck. He looked like he had money. I smiled and kneeled down next to him.
“Can I get you another drink?” I squealed in a high-pitched, flirty voice, the fakest of smiles breaking over my face. I crossed my arms at my stomach, trying to push my small A-cups up and into the man’s gaze. He mumbled something that I couldn’t hear.
“Do you want another B…