You work on an outcall basis, showing up at private bachelorette parties and gay weddings for 120 dollars an hour. You occasionally do a night here and there at one of the two male strip clubs in town ("The Boy Barn" and "Gustavo's By The Airport").
Most people pity you. They see your life as one endless gyration in a fraying thong. They don't know why you really do it.
"I'm an urban vigilante," you'll tell your customer when she pays you at the end of the night tonight. "When someone shoves a bill into my thong, if something horrible is going to happen to them, I get a vision."
She'll ask, "Did you get any visions tonight?" They always ask that.
Tell her no. "You'd have known if I had a vision. It's so powerful that I fall to the ground and throw up everything in my stomach."
She'll say, "It's great that you have these visions to help out with the vigilante thing. But even if you saved someone here tonight, had you thrown up on yourself I wouldn't have called you the next time I need a stripper."
Nod your head woefully. "That's why I still have to substitute teach."
The woman will hand you a fifty-dollar tip. "Well I'm glad everyone here is going to be okay," she'll say.
Don't take the fifty. Say, "Everyone who put a bill into my thong, you mean."
The woman will hold your gaze, trying to remember whether she had ever tipped you tonight. Then she'll shrug and slip the fifty into your pants. You'll promptly drop to the floor and throw up all over your chest.
"What! What do you see!" she'll shout.
"Get me a Kleenex!" you'll shout.
"No! Tell me!"
Shout, "There's still time. Your hairstyle is different."
The woman will bring you a box of Kleenex. She'll gasp when she hands it to you. "I have a hair appointment this Saturday!"
Clean the vomit off your mouth and your neck and chest, and then tell her that she's going to interrupt an armed burglary in her house and the burglars aren't going to be too happy about it.
Happy You Are A Male Stripper With Psychic Powers Day!
