Belly Bubbles at Stage Time

pottylady

Up until the summer before I turned twenty-four, I used to be able to eat anything with pretty much zero repercussions whatsoever.  I ate pizza, pasta, mozzarella sticks, chocolate strawberries, candy bars, everything.  Then, my body turned on me.  I have since been on a mostly gluten and dairy free diet. This helps, but I still have to closely monitor the foods I choose to eat and often times I find myself doubled over with stomach pains.  Therefore, I now carry a pouch full of stomach medicine which includes: anti-diarrhea pills, antacids, anti-gas pills, and baking soda.

Our club had just gotten earpieces with tiny microphones for all the staff to use.  The first week they had them they used them to communicate secretly: “Look at the hair on that one! That do looks like something SpongeBob would live in!”  By the second and third week, the novelty had worn off and the radios had become simply a means of communicating important info from staff member to staff member.

Now that you have the background knowledge, let me begin the story.  This one begins on a Friday night, but not just any Friday night.  This Friday night was one full of posers, freeloading customers, and guys who otherwise weren’t spending much money.  NONE of the dancers wanted to be on stage.  Most of them were drunk or wasting time in the dressing room smoking cigarettes and complaining about the audacity of some of those customers.  One girl was laying on the floor claiming that she could not go on stage because she didn’t feel like herself.

“I think that man put something in my drink.  I know he must have drugged me.  I’m shaking and I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”  She said this after having been drinking all day and night.  The DJ said he wasn’t skipping her and she would still have to go on stage.  “I’m not drunk!” she said.  “He drugged me! I drink all day every day and I never feel this way.”  I told her if it could possibly be that the every day drinking was catching up to her.  “I know he drugged me” she replied.  “I can’t go up!”  Friends were bringing her water and rubbing her back and shoulders.  While this was going on, I saw Samantha standing the mirror looking at her figure.

Samantha was a petite girl with green eyes and auburn curls.  I’ve never known her to be pudgy but on this particular Friday, she was pointing out her protruding stomach and saying, “Look at me! I’m so bloated, I look pregnant!”  I asked her why and she told me.  “I have a bad stomach.  I’m constipated and I didn’t even really eat today.  I drank chocolate milk all day instead and now I have this huge gas bubble that won’t move.”

We commiserated and shared stories about life with stomach troubles.  I offered her something from my panel of stomach medicine and she chose the anti-gas.  Throughout the night I checked up on her from time to time.

A couple hours after giving her the medicine, I found her in the dressing room leaning forward and holding her stomach.  “Whatever you gave me worked and now I have to poop but I really don’t wanna do it here.”

No one likes shitting at work because the bathroom stalls have no doors on them.  This is because strippers are famous for getting high in the bathroom and locking themselves in or snorting lines off the backs of the toilets.  Hence, the reason why our toilets don’t have lids on the backs of them either.

I looked at her and saw pain and fear in her eyes.  I said, “Just go.  I’ll stand here in front of the stalls so no one can walk in on you.”  I gave her a package of baby wipes and moved my bag over by the stalls.  “Just do it.”

She thanked me for the wipes and ran into the stall to relieve herself.  Her pants dropped down to her ankles and her shoes came off.  (You must really be shitting hard if you have to remove your shoes to do it.)

I tried my best to keep the other girls from walking in but my attempt to impede Friday night dressing room traffic was futile.  “I’m sorry!” Sam yelled.  “I’m humiliated!”

“Don’t mind me.  I don’t give a fuck, girl.  We all gotta do it.” Said a fellow stripper.

The dressing room began filling up with people.  I felt so sorry for this poor girl.  Then of course, the Dj starts announcing that Samantha is on stage next.  I called the DJ and asked him to skip her.

“No.  I can’t.”

“She’s on the toilet.  She can’t make it up there.”

“I’m sorry.  I can’t skip her.”

She started crying from the bathroom stall, “I’m gonna have to stop and run up there! OH NOOO!!!”

I hung up the phone and said to her, “You got a problem so take care of it.  Do what you gotta do and then run up there.  Ya can’t stop in the middle!”

The House Mom was now in the dressing room looking for Samantha.  Sam pointed at me and told her, “She gave me something that made me poop!  I can’t go on stage!”

The House Mom saw what was going on and called the DJ back.  I heard her side of the conversation.  It went as follows: “Yeah, She can’t go up.  She’s pooping.  She hasn’t pooped in three days.  No, poop is hanging out and it’s messy.  She can’t go up.  Brittney gave her a laxative…  LOOK, I’M SORRY, BUT I DON’T HAVE CONTROL OVER ANYONE’S BOWELS!!!”

For the record, I didn’t give her a laxative.  I gave her an anti-gas.  It must have worked as a laxative in her system by dissolving whatever gas bubble she had blocking her stool from passing.  I don’t know.  All I knew was that I was trying to help her.  Yet soon the whole club would think I gave this poor girl a laxative and made her shit at work.

By now, Samantha was moaning cries of agony and embarrassment.  “Why does everybody think I’m lying?! You see me pooping!”  By now, the manager had walked in to address the situation.  Sam ran out, washed her hands, and put her shoes back on.  “They both watched me poop.  I’m not lying.  She gave me a laxative.” She pointed at me and looked back at him.  “Vouch for me, Brittney.  Tell him.”

Instead of disputing exactly what it was I gave her or the intended effects, I just agreed with her.  “Yes, I gave her a laxative.  I’m sorry.”

“Ok, that’s fine.” he said, looking at her, then at me, then back at her.  “Now that you’re done, go upstairs and wait til he calls you on stage again.”

She ran out of the dressing room and I followed after.  By the time I got to the main floor, the door man already knew what had happened.  “How, about that, Brittney?” He said, laughing. Damn those stupid little radios! I thought.

When I went to tip the DJ out before leaving, I told him, “I’m sorry.  I gave her something for her stomach but I didn’t know it was going to take effect right when it was her turn to be on stage.  Very sorry.”

“It’s alright” he sighed.  “It’s alright.”

I realized that maybe it’s best that I mind my own business from now on.

 

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