Flashback to early 2002. I was 26 and working at The Larry Flynt Huster Club in San Francisco. Despite the leave nothing to your imagination mantra of the magazine, this club wasn’t even topless. We had to glue cloth pasties on our nipples and cover the entire areola. This was back when I drank copious amounts of vanilla vodka and Jaegermeister with DJ John. I had to be tipsy to dull the pain of ripping those things off my nipples at the end of the night.

San Francisco has a different strip club scene than other cities I have lived in. It is a very liberal town. People are very open with their sexuality there. Mitchell Brother’s O’Farrell Theater is reknown for its live sex shows. Many people mistakenly classify it as a strip club. It’s not. It is licensed as a “sex theater” and every night there are live sex shows performed onstage. How do they get away with contact like that? The establishment does not serve alcohol The four topless clubs in town: Gold Club, Boys Toys (now Broadway Showgirls), Hustler, and Hungry I served alcohol and therefore by law were supposed to refrain from the contact levels that were available at Mitchell Brothers. The swingers clubs were open four nights a week. It boggled my mind how there were enough sexually open people to pack The Power Exchange Wednesday thru Saturday, every week!

“Hello, you are very pretty. My name is Habib. Will you come make a deal with me?” Habib said to me in a thick Indian accent as I walked past the mini-hallway that lead to the restrooms.

“Um, sure. Would you like a $20 dance here or would you like to go to VIP?” I wasn’t quite as polished those days before DancerWealth

“I don’t want a dance. I want to drink you. I will pay to drink you.” Habib said, not budging from the door to the restroom.

“Huh? Drink me? I can’t get you a drink from the bar. What do you mean?” I was clueless. Little did I know the fetish education I was about to receive.

“Pee for me. I will pay you.” Habib explained. “I have a lot of money. You name the price.”

“Oooookaaay…my urine is very expensive,” I had no idea what the going rate for pee was so I just threw a number out there, “500 dollars.”

“Not a problem,” Habib said in his thick Indian accent. He sounded like the guy on The Simpsons. ”I will pay you when you deliver.”

“No. No, for special orders like this, I require half up front.” I was not going to set myself up for a loss on this deal.

“Fine, fine.” he says handing me two hundreds and a fifty. I grabbed his beer bottle and started walking toward the dressing room.

image“Wait..the bathroom is right here!” he insisted.

“Oh. I want to use the one in the back. It’s more private.” I said.

For those of you who have never been to Hustler in San Francisco, the locker room is behind the VIP room and DJ Booth. I had so many thoughts running through my head. How the heck am I going to pee into a beer bottle and not get it all over my hand? Ewwwww….this is so gross, I can’t believe I’m doing this. But then again, I’ve had to pee in a cup at the doctor’s office and pay someone to run tests on it. OK, don’t be a wuss, just do this. It’s an easy $500. I had to babysit 36 5th graders for a week to make $500 when I was teaching school.

As soon as I entered the Blue VIP Room the lightbulb went off. Of course! I go straight to the DJ booth. I don’t know if DJ John remembers this, it was back during the DotComBust days when we would do numerous shots of Jaegermeister waiting for customers to walk in the door. “John, here’s 50 bucks…go piss in this beer bottle for me.”

John looked at me. Shrugged his shoulders and pocketed the $50. “OK” A few minutes later he returns hands me a very warm Budweiser Bottle.

“EWWWW! It’s all warm!” I squeal.

“What did you expect?” he laughed. “Even though I already know….I don’t want to know what you are going to do with that.” Without missing a beat of the music, he turns to the microphone and resumes his ball-busting job of professional cat herding.

I walked out and handed the bottle to Habib. He handed me the other 250 bucks and took a looooong drink of DJ John’s pee.

“What the hell is this?” he snarled “this doesn’t taste like anything!” he started getting a bit irate. “You just put hot water in this. This is not pee!”

“Nope…it’s definately pee.” I said matter of factly. His breath was absolutely rancid. My stomach started clenching up and I felt the back of my throat close in a dry heave. “Look. I gotta go, your breath smells like urine. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

So if in 14 years of dancing, I can chuckle over the weirdest thing that ever happened to me…I’ve got it pretty good in this life. Hmmm…what is the going rate for pee these days?