Lucky Old Me

Last night I told myself, and my customers, that I was feeling lucky.  It seemed to work!

At 2am I thought I was only going home with £100 but by the end of my shift I was going home with £244.  Yes! Best night in a long time.  It was all down to some good businessmen with more money than sense.  One took me for three quarters of an hour (costing him £180) just to chat, although he did want to grope my boobs and expected a kiss on the lips at the end. No, I am not going to kiss you, idiot.

Other than that he was quite entertaining.  He kept talking about how he was getting old (he was in his 50s) and how old people aren’t allowed to dance in the eyes of the young.  He said he didn’t care and would dance on his own in the corner, like so many sad old weirdos I’ve seen on a night out.

I do wonder how old I’ll be when it’ll be no longer socially acceptable for me to dance (not that stripping is socially acceptable anyway!) When I’m 30-something maybe? Unless I’m looking really good.


The Despicable Coward

On Saturday night I had my first customer to make me cry.  I was so so angry.  I’m normally a very chilled out person, I can let things wash over me, I can usually ignore it when people bother me, a skill learned from years of practice.  It’s my survival technique to be so chill and patient, because where I’m from, blowing up doesn’t get you anywhere and frequently back fires.  But when I do get angry, I get really angry.  If only I was one of those people who could direct their anger, shout at the attacker some clever things, scare them, maybe punch them in the nose.   But no, when I see red it boils up in my heart and bursts out of my eyes in an uncontrollable flood of tears.  I can’t think properly let alone speak.

It was late in the night and I got chatting to this guy, Despicable Coward, who was out on a stag night with his mates.  He was one of those who liked to talk, and we had quite a bit to talk about.  He was nice (at first).  We realised we studied similar subjects at uni and he was telling me about his early career and how he went on to start up his own company etc. etc.  I managed to interrupt him after about ten minutes and asked if he’d like to continue out chat in the VIP; half an hour I suggested (for £120, not much when you’re on £100k a year as he told me).  He said no, he had a mortgage to pay and agreed to a £20 dance (£20 gets you six minutes).

So he paid and we went to a booth.  As we entered he said: “Do you know what?  I’m not even bothered about the dance.  Let’s just sit and chat.”

“OK” I said.  It’s not rare for this to happen you know.  As much as one in twenty men just want your company, not your naked body.  I sat down next to him and he continued to tell me about his life and asked me about my own.

As it got towards the end of our set time, two of his mates went past our booth and saw Despicable Coward sitting with me through the sheer curtain.  They poked their heads in and jeered at him:  “Are you just talking?” The girls they were with ushered them away.

“I’m afraid our time’s up now” I said.

“What? Aren’t you going to dance?”

“I would but we’re out of time now. You said you just wanted to talk.”

As we left the booth another of Despicable Coward’s mates went past.  “Don’t get ripped off” he said to them.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’m not even going to argue” he said.

“Look, I’m sorry you didn’t get a dance but I thought that’s not what you wanted.” I even offered him a full six minute dance for half the price, which I’m not meant to, to make it up to him, as any good sales person would.  But he refused.

Back at the bar he rejoined his mates and proceeded to tell them not to take me for a dance because I’d just talk to them and rip them off.  As I pride myself in my honesty as a saleswoman, and had even offered him a peace deal, this started to grate on me so I walked away.

After a couple of circuits of the room the stag from Despicable Coward’s group grabbed me and started asking me what I’d offer him for his money.  Despicable Coward reappeared behind me with two others.  “You shouldn’t pay her” he continued to them, behind my back.  “She’ll just talk to you.”  I then felt his hand touch my arse.  I turned and looked at him sternly.

“Excuse me, but may I quote you: ‘I’m not bothered about a dance, I just want to talk’”

“I said before the dance”

“Well surely you were aware that we’d run out of time?”

He shook his head at me like I was a liar.

I turned back to the stag who was still trying to ask me stupid questions, when another of their mates appeared on my right.

“I hear you don’t dance, you just talk at people.  That’s not on, you know” he said threateningly pointing his finger in my face.  I ignored him, he didn’t know what he was talking about, and concentrated back on the stupid stag. I wasn’t going to show them that they were getting to me.  As the stag slurred in my ear I felt again the Despicable Coward behind me, this time cupping my left arse cheek in his hand, sniggering.  The rage boiled up and I knew I wasn’t going to contain it.

“I have to go,” I said to the stag “Your friend’s upsetting me.”

I wanted to whip round and shout at this fucker but I knew I’d cry and I wasn’t going to cry in front of him and his disgusting lowlife gang.

I stormed out to go to the dressing room.  I passed Rob in the back (he works at the club taking dance money and watching the CCTV).  He could clearly see something was up.  “Are you ok?” he asked.  Then I burst into tears.  “Come in here” he said, directing me into the office.  “What happened?”

I explained though hyperventilated bursts.  I was shaking.

“Do you want me to go have a word with them?” he asked.

“I don’t know” I said.  I couldn’t think. God I wish I’d said yes.  I should’ve gone straight to the doorman, who is an awesome guy, and had their arses kicked out immediately, maybe leaving a few teeth behind.

“Does this job get to you?” asked Rob.

“No,” I said.  “Not usually.  This is the first time.  Normally I can just let it wash over me and walk away.”

The club was only open for another half hour at this point so Rob offered that I could cash up and go early.  No, I’d be ok.  I thanked him for his help and went to the dressing room to compose myself.  Luckily I hadn’t cried long enough that you could tell and my makeup hadn’t smudged.  It was like nothing had happened.  I went back on the floor with a smile on my face and made another £33 before the end, from nice customers: a music teacher from Norway who tipped me £5, and a man with a well groomed beard.  I noticed the despicable slime ball stag party had left anyway.  If only they’d left with a few broken bones.




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!


“Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind”

I’ve changed a lot over the last year.  I’ve got braver and more daring, pushing myself in ways I had always hoped I could but never thought I actually would.  Of course becoming a stripper has been part of that.  Although I’ve always been naturally attracted to the unusual and the controversial I’ve equally always been wary not to rock the boat.  It’s that age old internal battle between wanting to be yourself versus wanting to fit in.

In the last year I’ve broken away in many ways from the mundane existence that is expected from any ‘respectable’ person from my home town, the place where I’m meant to fit in to.  Living away in a much more diverse city has done me the world of good.  Or so I believe.  A ‘friend’ from home seems to think the exact opposite.

Ironically this friend also lived in this city for a time but continued to exist in her comfortable middle class circles with her eyes firmly shut.  A lot of my friends from home are like this.  They’re all well-educated with good degrees from reputable universities but at the same time are, in many ways, still completely ignorant.  And worse still is that they are ignorant to their ignorance.

Anyway this friend of mine, she doesn’t even know about the stripping, and I wouldn’t dare tell her either.  No it’s something else that bothers her about me, an unorthodox relationship I’m having if you like.

You see she comes back to this city every few weeks to see her (completely acceptable) boyfriend who still lives here, and when she does she also meets me.  And every time she insists on having the same argument with me over and over again: “What are you doing with this person? It’s so weird!  What’s wrong with you?  Why don’t you get a nice normal boyfriend?”

“Because normal boys are boring” I say.

“What about my boyfriend do you think he’s boring?”

Yes. “No.”  He’s perfectly nice but he’s not my type.

To be honest, she’s boring.  She’s so convinced that she’s right about everything and that anything anyone else does that’s different is just wrong and they need rounding up and putting in their place.  I need putting in my place.

Sadly, when you’re told there’s something wrong with you by a ‘close friend’ you’ve known and trusted for many years, you tend to believe them.  Every time she’s come up I’ve been left completely unbalanced.  Who the hell am I meant to be? I ask.  I end up feeling like I have some grotesque split personality disorder, that I can’t be sure about anything.

There’s no worse feeling; not knowing who you are, not being allowed to love what and who you want for fear of rejection.  It tears you up.

This is why you need people around you who understand you when you do a job like mine.  Or at the very least, they don’t agree with you but they accept you and will support you regardless.  I am lucky to say I have some people like this who do understand and accept me.

“You know what you’re doing” one said.  “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“You’ve come such a long way.  You’ve done what ninety-five per cent of the population wouldn’t dare.  You are brave and I’m proud of you so stop beating yourself up!”

I know they’re right.

So please, surround yourself with good people who will accept and support you.  Don’t listen to those who are trying to stamp on you, no matter who they are or how long you’ve known them for, because you’ve simply outgrown them.  Tell the important things only to the people you trust.

“Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind”



How Mainstream is the Twerk?

Genius burlesque performance!

☺same great taste☺

Michelle L’amour performs “BUTTHOVEN’S 5TH SYMPHONY” and further complicates the viability of the white woman twerking. But unlike Miley at the VMAs, something makes L’amour’s performance easy to consume without icky feelings of race-appropriation or irreverence. Arguably this is an effect of spoofing the twerk and undermining the Western canon. L’amour’s use of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony makes fun of elitist music taste while her butt moves without missing a note. And unlike Ms. Cyrus, the only prop is a bejewelled tie that sits on the lower back in the spirit of tongue in cheek. The appeal of this video is the result of mainstream music appropriating sub-cultural twerking and neatly channeling it towards the former-Hannah Montana to bring big gasps and shares online. And just when we thought it was finally over, a Burlesque dancer enmeshed in alternative representations re-appropriates the twerk.

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