I found this picture just now.  It’s funny but it has a point.

A man came in last night who paid for a lot of dances on my very first night of stripping.  He tried to continue his campaign of getting me to go to dinner with him (or rather have sex with him which let’s face it, is the bottom line here).  He thinks he can persuade me with flattery and ludicrous amounts of money.

“What’s the longest you’ve been in VIP?” Several hours actually.

“What about all that money I gave you on your first night?” You gave me that because you wanted to.  I’m not indebted to you and I’ve made far more since.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Irrelevant.  You mean “Can I get in your pants?”

“You know you’re the best looking girl in here by far.” Yeah because I haven’t heard that a million times.

Sorry man, but in the words of Shania Twain “That don’t impress me much.”

(And even if it did, it’d still be a no.  Stripper’s don’t exist remember?)


Strippers don’t exist

An exhausting number of men want my number, want to add me on Facebook, take me out blah blah. But I know all they really want is to shag me, whether they know it or not.  One stupid Londoner this evening was relentless in his pestering.  They think they know you but they haven’t a clue really. If this guy saw me on the street in my jeans, converse, pink raincoat and minimal make up he wouldn’t look twice. The ‘perfect’ fantasy girl I am in the club doesn’t exist.  And thank god for that too!