Woodall: Notes from a trip to biker nirvana
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In Vegas, we’ll take your money however we can get it — but cash is still king. Everyone from dealers, cocktail servers and the people in the casino count room to showroom ushers, street buskers and nightclub door staff handles massive amounts of cash each night. And, as we all know, money is pretty dirty stuff. I used to have a cash-handling job myself, and one of my coworkers exhorted me to wash my hands well every night: “You know every dollar in Vegas has been between a stripper’s ass cheeks at one time or another!”
Well, last week, I had occasion to recall this little nugget of wisdom, as I found myself to be a living example of its veracity. And I’m here to tell you, folks: Wash your hands — and wash them well!
I had gone out to Sturgis, S.D., to work the annual motorcycle rally. If you’ve never heard of Sturgis, the first week of every August this sleepy little Midwestern farm town plays host to 500,000 hairy, sweaty, smelly, crazy drunken bikers from all over the world. Meanwhile, every half-baked hustler of child-bearing age within a 1,000-mile radius heads to town to capitalize on them … and this year, I was one of ‘em! In my experience, bikers are usually loaded, and very generous with their cash. So I and five other models from Vegas flew out there to get a piece of the action.
Sturgis actually has a lot in common with Vegas. The rally accounts for something like 80 percent of its annual economy, so residents milk as much money out of the partiers as possible, setting up bars and saloons every three feet, with plenty of scantily-clad bartenders, waitresses and promo models around to facilitate the process. Drunk, half-naked women shake their tits on every street corner, and there are 50 drunk guys throwing money at each one. Sound familiar? I felt right at home!
I had been hired as a shot girl for one of the bigger saloons – my job was to sashay around the bar selling Wet Pussies and Mustache Rides and other provocatively named mixed-alcohol shots to the bikers. They had told me to wear a costume, so I put together a sort of S&M cowgirl ensemble with black pleather bra, chaps and platform Frankenstripper boots. I also threw a toy riding crop into my suitcase at the last minute, and boy, am I glad I did. That crop saw some serious action. I must have spanked at least 700 bikers — and they loved it!
To ensure that I milked max cash from the bikers, I put a “TIPS” sign over my butt, with an arrow pointing to the ass crack visible between my chaps and panties. It worked! Guys inserted $1s, $5s and $10s in my little ATM all week, and one guy even tried to swipe his credit card! Of course, another weisenheimer put in some quarters, but, hey, now I can do my laundry!
I worked my tail off all week, putting in 12-hour shifts for eight straight days of the rally, but at the end of the week, it was worth it. Not only did I cover my airfare and expenses, but I came home to Vegas with a little extra to put back into the local economy. And I wasn’t the only one! On the flight back, half the plane was filled up by hungover chicks with sly smiles and bulging pockets. We came, we saw … we conquered.
So I got home, counted my money … and then washed my hands thoroughly, since every dollar I’d made was tainted with ass. More importantly, I also washed my butt thoroughly — who knows how many other asses those same bills had passed through before my own.
But money’s money, and, tainted or not, all that cash will soon find its way back into our local economy. Gross, huh? Keep that in mind next time they count out your change at Whole Foods.
But the best part for me personally about having all that filthy butt money? I deposited all that stinking cash into my account at Chase — the very bank that tried to foreclose on my house a couple years back.
Take that, Jamie Dimon!
SARAH JANE WOODALL is always cheeky on her blog, wonderhussy.com.