“When you’re sitting on their lap, reach your hand under your leg and grab their c*ck” a stripper told me, when I was that doe-eyed new girl. It was her advice in the matter of persuading gentlemen to accompany you to the VIP room. “Eww,” I reacted with a grimace. She rolled her eyes like I’m the new employee complaining about bussing extra tables. “You’ll get used to it.” I never could. I never will and I don’t have to. I don’t care how many sales I lose and I strongly advise all new girls to never do anything that they don’t want to do. This is not me pretending to be morally superior to strippers that do those sorts of things, but it does make it harder (no pun intended) sometimes to compete with girls that are willing to put in the extra mileage because they create customers who expect that sort of treatment. “The last girl did it,” they’ll say. I’m not desperate. “So go find her.”
There is always another customer out there who is willing to pay for clean dances. You’re wasting your time with the spoiled perverts if you’re listening to some guy try to convince you to break your own rules in order for him to give you any money. There’s no shame in listening to a customer try to convince you to do anything if he is paying for your time, however. I’ll listen to anything really. Your softball team won the big game? You must be so good at softball, my favorite sport ever. It’s probably my favorite thing in the world until your time is up.
I was just thinking of a customer who is exceptionally spoiled. I’m not even sure what he does for a living but he blows so much money on VIP room dances that I almost want to ask him. And I mean he was there every day at one point. I don’t probe too much anymore. I’ve ceased to be interested in anyone’s real story. Anyway, the guy, we’ll call him “Dick,” comes in and treats the strip club like it is his personal doll house. “I would take those two into the back and make them titty fight!” he says about two blondes with watermelon-sized breasts. There are deep grooves of white stretch marks like eroding hills on both of those women’s breasts. Not to be catty or anything. but the first image that comes to mind when I think of those gargantuan, pendulous sacks is the road map of stretch marks where the skin is losing an epic battle against gravity. They’re both nice ladies.
Anyway, Dick is crazy about me. “My fantasy is to hang out with you outside of here.” He gives me a list of reasons why he would be a great boyfriend. He would let me drive his luxury German car and give me tons of money, he says. He wants to take me on his boat, he says. Since he is married, he assures me I would have my own space. I giggled or something. I reminded him that I already have a boyfriend. “You should do whatever you want with your own body.” I told him that that is exactly what I’m doing, by declining. He offers me $100 per song for dirty dances and I refuse every time. He settles for the clean ones from me first and then goes to the dirty girls for the happy ending. I’m certainly curious how much he pays for it.
That night that the stripper gave me that sage advice about stroking a c*ck to improve sales, she made $3,000 and I made 10 percent of that. She was in the VIP room the whole night while I did dances on the main floor. It was my first shift at that strip club. “Come back tomorrow night,” she advised. She said she would show me the ropes. “I have school the next morning,” I explained as we walked out the back door into the parking lot. The sun was just beginning to make the sky a lighter blue behind the neon lights, a sparkling façade masking the painful darkness of Vegas life. “So what?” she said. She said. She didn’t ask. She wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. So I did what she taught me. I lied to her and never was in her toxic presence again.