what just happened



---


Jeff had no idea what he was getting into when Joanne asked him to help out at her dad’s strip club, *The Kitten Club*, in West Palm Beach. “It’s just a few nights a week,” she said. “You’ll make good money.” What she *didn’t* mention was that the place was a circus of chaos, cocaine, and questionable life choices.


The first night, Jeff showed up in khakis and a polo shirt, looking like he was about to sell insurance. Joanne took one look at him and said, “Jesus Christ, Jeff. You look like you’re here to audit the place. Go in the back and grab a black shirt. And for the love of God, don’t talk to the girls about their ‘side hustles.’” 


“What side hustles?” Jeff asked, genuinely confused.


Joanne just rolled her eyes. “You’ll figure it out.”


By hour two, Jeff had already been tipped $50 by a stripper named Cinnamon, who told him, “Don’t let that guy back in. He’s a creep.” Jeff, still clueless, asked, “What did he do?” Cinnamon just smirked, leaned in close, and whispered, “He got *turned* at the Motel 6, and he didn’t tip right.” Jeff had no idea what “turned” meant, but he nodded like he did. He’d Google it later.


The night only got weirder. Around midnight, a fight broke out between two dancers over a missing bag of cocaine. Jeff tried to break it up, but Joanne stopped him. “Let them handle it,” she said, sipping a vodka soda like this was just another Tuesday. “They’ll be fine.”


Sure enough, five minutes later, the two women were hugging and doing lines off the bar together. Jeff stared in disbelief. “Is this… normal?”


Joanne shrugged. “Define normal.”


At one point, Jeff found himself in the back room, where a stripper named Diamond was aggressively flirting with him. One thing led to another, and before he knew it, they were on the pool table. Things were getting hot and heavy when Diamond suddenly stopped, looked down, and said, “What’s that white stuff?”


Jeff froze. “Uh… cocaine?”


Diamond squinted. “Nope. That’s definitely not cocaine.”


Jeff didn’t have time to process what she meant because Joanne burst in, yelling, “Jeff! Get your ass back to the door! There’s a guy trying to sneak in with a fake ID, and Cinnamon says he’s the one who stiffed her!”


Jeff stumbled back to the front, shirt half-untucked, hair a mess. The guy with the fake ID was already gone, but Cinnamon handed Jeff another $20 and said, “Good job, babe.”


By the end of the night, Jeff was exhausted, confused, and slightly traumatized. As he counted his tips—$200 in cash and a small baggie of something he was pretty sure was cocaine—Joanne patted him on the back. “Welcome to the Kitten Club, Jeff. You did good.”


Jeff just stared at her. “What the hell did I just live through?”


Joanne grinned. “A typical Friday. See you tomorrow.”


---


And that’s how Jeff learned that working at a strip club in West Palm Beach was not for the faint of heart.

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