Unfortunate Revelations
A sweet girl walked into the club about four months prior for an interview. Bless her heart she was dressed in a button down shirt, dress pants, and sensible shoes. She brought her ID and social security card. We all exchanged a chuckle and she seemed very flustered when she had to audition, as in get naked, for a manager. She pleaded for someone to lend her an outfit. I lent her a minidress as were were about the same size. She auditioned and landed the job.
She called herself Michelle*. She was a huge Beatles fan and decided to name herself after a Beatles song. Her first night she was so nervous she moved like she had just downed ten Red Bulls. She was this petite little sandy-blonde sweetheart and we all fell in love with her. She taught her everything and she went on to be top earner her second week. We were all very proud. She and I became good friends.
The one day, she vanished. Her locker was still locked up with all her shit in it. We wondered where she was, and she wasn’t returning my text messages. Then one day she showed up, looking very tired.
Michelle had beaten the daylights out of some girl she said stole money from her. When he story changed when she told it to me again about an hour later, I called her on it. She was unable to lie to me and with tears in her eyes her story came tumbling out.
She beat the girl up because the girl sold her $300 in fake Oxycontins. She went to get her money back and her friend searched the girls pockets after Michelle beat her bloody and held her to the ground by her neck. There was a warrant out for her arrest for assault and battery, among other things. Also, her father had been popped for having 15lbs of jane, along with scales and baggies, and the police wanted to talk to her.
She said she didn’t know what to do. I said she needed to turn herself in, for one, or else shit would get so much worse. Second, she should consider rehab. She nodded but didn’t say anything. She left right after.
She came abck about two weeks later with a bag of her clothes in her car. SHe was on her way to the local rehab center. SHe even showed me her admittance papers to prove it to me. I wished her luck, then she left and I didn’t see her again for a month.
A month later she walked back into the club to get her job back. But there was something wrong. I was watching her and she was most certainly high. I asked her lat out if she was on any pills, and she giggled and shook her head, but it was pretty plain she was on something. It was cemented when she fell asleep at the bar, drooling into her lap. She was fired, permanently, on the spot.
She came back in about a week later with a large garbage bag to empty her locker. She admitted to me that she fell off the wagon two days out of inpatient. She didn’t think she could kick pills, and she said trying was too taxing. SHe was going to a different club, a club I knew had problems with drugs among the girls, and I told her so. I also told her the end result of drug was jail or death, and I knew this, as the daughter of a mother addicted to meth. It nearly killed her and she ended up behind bars for it. I told her I knew she could do it, and one fall off the wagon doesn’t mean she couldn’t do it some day. She said maybe, but she couldn’t do it right now. She emptied her locker into the garbage bag, hugged me, then began to cry.
It tore at me, but one thing I learned from being around the forms of addiction for years, is many times to tears of an addict are crocodile tears. I told her if she needed to talk, or cry, or rant, she mad my number, but I will not lend her money, and I cannot give her a place to stay and that I hoped she understood my position. She nodded. “I don’t trust me either.”
Bad stripper! No dollar for you!
I kid I kid.
So I haven’t updated in a while. Not much has really happened. I plan to be taking a slight break from the nude circus for a while, trying my hand at phone sex through Niteflirt.com.
But I will be posting another entry here shortly about one of my (former) coworkers, and maybe another if I feel up to it.
Coming Together for The Good Cause
It was a fairly tepid Wednesday night. We have a handfull of customers and all in all the c usstomers were having a good time, and so were the dancers. I was camped at the bar with a ginger ale in hand, bantering with the bartender when the door opened and in stepped a young man, mid-twenties. I immediately noticed his expression: he looked like he was about to cry. I finished my ginger ale and walked over to him a few moments later after he got himself a beer and took a swig.
“Hey, baby. You look thrilled to be here. What’s the matter?” his face kind of contorted as if he was holding back tears. He recovered, looked at me, and made a sweeping gesture with his arm.
“This is my bachelor party.”
He was by himself. For his bachelor party. I was stunned and it must have showed because he looked very hurt and went back to his beer. I asked him to explain.
It pretty much went like this: He was getting married Saturday. His friends were flying in Friday. His bride-to-be told him he could go out Wednesday. I was floored. I reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, kneading it a bit.
“Honey…this marriage of yours isn’t starting out well.” He just nodded. It was a confrotation he did not feel like having right now.
Soon the word spread. The dancers looked at each other in utter shock, stealing glances at the kid hunced over into his beer at the bar in pity. his situation soon spread to the customers, who were almost appalled. One guy stood up, plucked a twenty from his wallet, handed it to me, and told him to go give that kid a dance. He deserved it. So I did. I paid the bar and went over, taking the kid’s hand and giving it a little tug. I smiled when he looked up. “Got a surprise for you.”
When I finished the dance, someone had opened a tab just for him. Beer and lapdances flowed freely. The customers became his bachelor party. The dancers lavished him with attention. The bar would ‘accidentally’ put an extra shot in his Crown and Coke here and there. He had a blast. The club called him a cab to take him back to his hotel and away he went, his drunken, lopsided grin plenty thanks enough.
Published!
I decided to submit an entry into the Feministing.com community blog, from the point of view of a sex worker. Sex Workers and Feminism are like cousins. We’re heavily related, don’t always like each other, but we have to deal with each other whether we like it or not.
Read away! (I also just noticed it was one of the top recommended community posts! Sweet!
I
A lot of people seem to think tht strippers are merely lap grinders, thirsty for quick cash and a tequila sunrise. We are void of all other emotion and understandings. This simply isn’t so.
Many people also seem to think that all strip club patrons come in to have a vapid blonde grind on their lunch box until the finishing point, and maybe a few beers. This is not always so either.
I was sitting at the bar when the door opened and a customer stepped in. I recognized him as a very nice customer I had danced for before. Generous tipper and well behaved. I smiled and greeeted him, asked how life was, and said I’d catch up with him in a few and that the stage was really good tonight. He smiled, got a large stack of ones, and planted himself in a chair at the stage. Time passed and it was my turn on stage. The crowd was really good that night and I feed off of that, so I was on fire. When I got back to the very nice customer, he grinned, stuck a wad of ones in my garter, and asked me to come find him when I got off stage.
After cashing in my ones when I got down, I came over and sat with him and he proposed a Champagne Room. So up we went. While talking to him, I learned his divorce had just been finalized. He tried to sound chipper about it, saying now he could do his favorite hobbies more often, but his face betrayed him. Now I knew what he was looking for.
Lapdances come in many flavors. One of them is touchy-feely intimacy. I shifted into that gear and began a very slow, intimate dance, running my hands down his arms and chest, sighing into his ear, touching the end of my nose to his, daping my body over his. His eyes closed and his head tipped back, a few happy noises escaping him. I continued like this for half an hour, lavishing him with loving attention.
When the Champagne Room finished, he stood and tipped me another sixty dollars and explained he really missed the intimate company of a woman since his ex-wife had refused to be remotely affectionate to him a couple years ago. He smiled and thanked me. He needed that. i said I was happy to oblidge him any time. He knew where to find me.
I am a Jane of all trades.
Hoo-rah!
Ever dancer has danced for a military man. He tends to be easily identifiable by his military fade and cocky demeanor. They tend to be assholes with a lot of money and little desire to spend it. Some surprise you, though.
I was on stage when a young man came to sit down. He was wearing full desert fatigues, fresh cut, glasses. Carrying a beer and a hearty stack of ones. He was having a blast with the two guys next to him which I later learned he didn’t know. He organized a dollar shower with them for me. I came over after my set and sat down with him to talk.
Turns out he was getting ready to go to Iraq. For the first time. He was putting on an appearance to be brave, but you could tell he was scared shitless. He was flying out in a week. He was the only son of his family and he was leaving them to make good pay to help support them. His family was in a bad way. So he pretty much put his life on the line to keep them afloat. I admired that. He payed for a couple dances and I danced for him, though he didn’t give much indication he was enjoying it. I sat with him for a little longer until a man the soldier had been talking to came up and presented me with a twenty and instructions to ‘show the man in uniform a good time.’ As i stood to go pay for the dance, the soldier pulled out his wallet and gave me four extra twenties for more dances.
I danced for him and started to notice his little ways of showing appreciation. How his body would tense under mine if I did this or he would close his eyes and wet his lips if I did that. He refused to make eye contact with me, but when he finally did, I eye-fucked him to the point of color rising in his cheeks. I love my job.
I sat with him for a little longer and he eventually spilled that he was terrified he’d never come home. He was infantry. He was going to Bagdhad. He just prayed he could come home one day on his feet and not in a bodybag. I hugged him and all at once tears spilled down his face. His shoulders shook. He barely held it together. I sat with him, not quite for free because he had lavished me earlier, and held him as he slowly mended his exterior. He soon had to leave, as he had a long drive ahead. Before he left he thanked me for listening. No one in the military gives a damn you are terrified to go to Iraq because they ALL are. You are not an individual to the army so they will never treat you like one. I smiled and said when he came back to come back around and I’ll give him more dances. He grinned and nodded, then left.
I know his name. I hope I never see it on the list of military deaths.
The Stripping Taboo
One of the ultimate taboos of stripping is meeting customers. It flirts with legal prostitution in many areas, even if it never becomes sexual. Many, many dancers have met customers outside of the club. 99% of the time it is because it is a regular, and you want to keep the money flowing by instilling in this man’s mind that you really like him beyond a customer. I am guilty of this in two instances.
One with Thomas. It was his birthday and he had a very humble request to go eat sushi with me. I have met him a few other times outside of the club, and each time he was a gentleman. He was just tickled to have a pretty girl come spend time with him.
The other was with Mike. Mike was my regular and the time came when he decided he was no longer comfortable coming in to see me. Many factors resulted in this, but I was very sad to see him go. I loved seeing him and asked he come in just one more time so i could give him a gift and say goodbye properly. He came in and I was bulldozed by a particular situation. Sitting in the champagne room, cuddling with him like normal, and when I looked up at him, I wanted to kiss him. I didn’t because I was shocked at myself.
I had been attracted to him for the entire duration of his patronage. I have a soft spot for Italian men, and he fit the bill. He was older than I thought he was. I had him pegged at late 30’s, and he was 45. He was taller than me, with dark hair and eyes, naturally tanned skin, and prominent facial features characteristic of an Italian. He was well in shape. I had no intention of acting on it until I realized just how attached I had grown to Mike.
Later we met up and had dinner and drinks, and had clean fun the entire night. I had a blast. I had someone who enjoyed fine dining, good wine, and in depth conversation. So I did it again. The second night, I kissed him.
I think it blew him away more than it did me. Completely out of left field. He was floored, and so was I. The entire ordeal made me look hard at my life and relationship with the man..men…I loved. Many things came up, and ultimately, i split with my long-term boyfriend for reasons outside of my jaunt with Mike. I continued to see Mike.
I committed the ultimate stripping taboo. After some time, I made the conscious, sober decision to sleep with him. This is the ultimate taboo. It is a cardinal sin to sleep with customers, past or present. Mike was no longer my regular. He had not been for two months. And one night, having spent the day with him, I attempted to seduce him. Mike stopped me. It was not that he did not want it. He was insanely turned on, his entire being wanted me, and I wanted him, but he managed out four words to stop this from happening. “Baby, sex changes everything.” Looking back, it was the ultimate testament of his character. He wanted it, but he was a gentleman enough to deny himself the pleasure for what might have been a greater good. It made me respect him so much more.
Long talks, more time spent together, and good communication occurred. We did end up sleeping together, and he refused to have an orgasm of his own, instead focusing on me all night. I was very humbled by the experience. We continued to talk and see each other, and he continued to have the utmost respect for me, in and out of bed.
Some rules are made to be broken, at least in certain instances.
The Zeal of the New Girl
There is nothing like a girl dancing for the first time. Usually she is terrified. She stands in shoes she can’t quite walk in yet, shaking a little bit, her body language defensive. She looks at the stage like she might never return from it. She has no idea what to do.
Usually, in small, cozy clubs the vets of the club will take the new girl under their wing and show her some moves, give her basic tips. Rarely will a vet dancer give up all her tricks of her trade, because she doesn’t want the competition, but we all remember what it was like to be knock-kneed in far-too-little clothing. Some, like myself, didn’t have the privilege of having someone take pity on you and show you a few pointers, so we often reach out to the girls trembling at the bar.
We got a new girl. She was friends with a girl that has been at my club for some time now. Like a lot of women in this business, she desperately needed money. She had a little girl and the dad was nowhere in the picture, vanishing along with all the child support he was supposed to pay. She came in, awkwardly auditioned, and was loaned a pair of old shoes and a mini-dress. She was supposed to get on stage shortly.
I was talking with the bouncer when the bartender came over and handed him about four dollars and told him to go tip the new girl. She was dancing for the first time very shortly and he wanted to help her out a bit, make her more comfortable. The bouncer split it with me and we sat at the stage.
New girls go either two ways when on stage for the first time. Either they barely move and are terrified to approach customers at the rail, or they go all out. New Girl was the latter. I was rather impressed. She was quick on her feet, klutzy in a cute way. She even attempted a pole trick, including one that made me raise my eyebrows in surprise, hopping up on the pole and performing an invert. She made a killing. The entire bar came over to support her. She moved with an energy that only new girls have. It was contagious.
She made a killing on stage, and off of stage too. She didn’t know how to hustle, so her friend walked with her and practically shoved the poor new girl into guys laps. She made a ton in sales that night. She was heady from it all, flushed from the power and realization of how much money she was making.
Later, after the lights went up and we were all waiting to tip out, she emerged from the dressing room looking absolutely beat. I was kind of amused. I remember being that tired. I told her she would never enjoy sleep so much, and a hot bath would be her friend in the morning. I paused and thought a minute.
“So, honey, now that you’ve made more in a night than many women at your age and in your situation make in a week and a half. What will you do with it now?” I posed this question like those reporters pose that question to guys who just won the Super Bowl. She stopped, and dropped her head. Her shoulders quivered, and i heard her sniffle.
“I’m going to buy my baby some toys. She hasn’t had new toys in a while.”
Of Ho’s and High Horses
The club I work at is fairly clean. I can think of no extras going on (until now). I hit a peak in my earnings and I am doing good, but that also coincided with several girls leaving. The bar decided to hire a couple, one being a girl named Tasha (not her name or stage name.) She’s blond, busty, ‘mature,’ and knows how to move on stage. (Hell, I took notes!) The first night we worked together, we competed. In a friendly way of course, and we tied for how much we earned, but in total, with tips, I won and was top earner that night (I love competition.) I gained some serious respect for her.
As time went on, though, something about her bugged me. She knew how to hustle, but it was her hustle I was worried about. She was getting a ton off Champagne Rooms and Hot Tubs, which, while a large section of our sales, do not happen that frequently even to the best hustlers in my club. I was suspicious. It only confirmed my suspicions when after the club closed on night, a customer outside of his car, as if waiting on something. When a bouncer inquired as to what he was waiting for, the customer replied that Tasha said she would come hang out with him and he was waiting for her. The club was a bit miffed, but gave Tasha the benefit of the doubt when she said she had not agreed to such a thing, looking truly offended.
The other night, another dancer stalked up to me, looking most peeved. “Rob said Tasha tried to get him to go out to dinner with her.” Rob is an established customer. He knows how it works, and has no tolerance for whores. He usually comes in on Saturdays because he has an All Time Favorite (ATF) dancer. He told this other dancer about it, truly annoyed that he was the target of a ho.
I proceeded to watch her for a couple days, bangin’ (hee-yuk) out Champagne Rooms and Hot Tubs, talking about how she simply could not work sober, talking about how she would be cool with her boyfriend (the shock hit me there. She’s whoring around behind her boyfriend’s back!) coming to this club because their ‘ain’t no hos here.” I chuckled and almost pointed to the mirror.
Then she got caught. Out she went.
Club back to normal.
Haute Cuisine
Or is it Hot Cuisine? *smirk*
Mike has been my regular for several months now, but it has come to a point where he does not feel comfortable coming in anymore because his ex-girlfriend works there. He invited me to go to dinner with him, then hit up a fancy-schmancy restaurant and bar for some booze. Always one to jump on good food and high dining, I ran it passed Boyfriend then confirmed with Mike.
I joked with Mike that this will be the first time he has seen me in decent clothing. He laughed, but we both looked forward to it. His time as my reg had ended, and we both knew it, but we wanted to remain friends. I threw on a skirt, a tasteful halter top, some nice sandal heels, pulled back my hair and applied tasteful makeup. I cabbed out and when I walked in the door, Mike stood up and paused for a second, taking in my appearance before smiling a very genuine smile. Something I don’t see on him often.
We dined, moving on to a very nice wine bar to have martinis. Bless his heart, he paid for everything. Even my door charge for another two bars we hit up, even though I had it in hand.
Mike lives alone. He has many fineries to keep him company, but it is not human company. We stayed out for quite some time, and he was the happiest I’ve seen him in a while. He seemed kind of tickled that he had someone who enjoyed drinking a good Shiraz and talking stocks, who was pretty to boot. I was really happy to see him enjoying himself like this. We laughed over being klutzy and whatnot, and generally had a good time. This is hopefully going to be a regular thing.
Boyfriend made a crack about my becoming an escort now (as Mike had given me a small chunk of money for ‘cab fare’ which turned out to be almost two hundred dollars. Pfft.) but that’s not it. Just Mike and me going out for some things we both enjoy. I enjoy his company more now, than I did while he was my regular.
Stiletto Stories: Tales From the Brass 