Swear to god I am never so brutally socially anxious as when I'm trying to tip a gogo dancer at the club because like. The idea to tip always enters my mind at the drunkest possible moment of the evening and I forget all the previous tipping moments and scromble around in my bag for a dollar and then have to navigate the crowd and while I'm doing that I realize that it is in fact the drunkest moment of the evening but it's too late to back out, she's already seen me coming with my sweaty dollar so there we are. Me (drunk, strange) and her (standing at some profound level of elevation.)
And gogo dancers are professionals, right, like they're at work, so they're ready to sexily present somewhere for you to put the dollar but by the time I reach the pedestal I'm like. Remembering/possibly imagining all of my past awkward gogo dancer faux pas and thus am trying so hard to be normal that it wraps back around to being weird and so I stand there holding the dollar up over my head like a kid at the convenience store, hoping she'll just take it, but that's not how the social contract works so she strikes the pose, often already dripping with money and the strap of her g-string is the runway of a regional airport and the dollar a packed Boeing 737 and I'm on the horn with air traffic control (4 vodka crans) trying to thread that needle and then when I finally succeed and muscle my way back to my WIP (Wife of Infinite Patience) I'm like. Dude I just did Tony Tulathimutte's the feminist (le— and my wife is like you did not do Tony Tulathimutte's the feminist (lesbian version) to the gogo dancer you're literally fine just calm down.
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