“So, do you get some really freaky customers?” my friend Mel asked me over lunch at our favorite burger joint.

“Depends what you class as freaky,” I pondered as I twisted my shoestring fry in the chipotle mayo - I’m definitely one of those people that order fries so I can use them as a scoop for maximum sauce.

“Usually they just want to chat and download. Sometimes I’ll get the odd guy wanting to sniff my g-string or take it home.”

“But that’s more annoying than freaky as it means I have to go out and buy another one.”

The sniffing does make me want to retch a little when I think of the workout I put my outfits through on stage, rolling around on the questionable floor and generally getting all hot and bothered. Some summer nights it gets uncomfortably hot, like dripping with sweat hot if you do anything more than walk seductively across the room. When I’m desperate for relief I go and sneak into the back-bar fridge to cool down.

“Actually there was one customer that refused to let me cool off the other night. He said he loved a sweaty woman.”

I remember dancing for him and feeling really uncomfortable that I wasn’t groomed to my usual standards. I just wanted to pick up the hair that felt like it was stuck to my back with sweat and towel myself off. But Scott seemed like he had the time of his life, rubbing his hands all over every inch of me he could reach. Even gave me a generous tip at the end of it.

“Ewwww,” Mel said, scrunching up her nose. “Gross.”

I don’t really tend to get many extreme fetish requests. I think I’m too ‘girly’ to be honest. And also, girls like Saskia and Jade do a much better job with these clients. They have the unflappable personality and the ‘don’t mess with me’ attitude that it takes to indulge some of these fantasies, especially when a bit of force or control is required.

When I first started dancing, I had a fantasy of my own. I wanted to dress in black latex, catwoman-esque vibes, thigh-high boots, and learn how to crack the whip on stage like some of the male strippers I’d watched. I wanted to feel the adrenaline of holding the sexual power and owning it (and look sexy while I was at it). I’m lucky I got to realize my fantasy a number of times over the years. I felt like I was prowling the club floor, it was such a rush.

It’s funny though, the more different fantasies and desires I’ve been exposed to at the strip club, the more ‘vanilla’ I’ve got with mine. I think part of it is desensitization. When you work in the sexual fantasy industry you come to a point where you’ve seen or heard it all. It stops being exciting after a while.

I think the other part is that I’ve been burnt in relationships where I wasn’t able to meet someone else’s fantasies sexually. Not because I’m a prude - an 8 person orgy just wasn’t something I could physically (or mentally) accommodate.

Don’t get me wrong, I love sex. And the build up before sex, sometimes that’s even better than the sex itself if there’s a skillful set of hands and mouth on the other end. That sexual rush is what got me up on stage to begin with.

The job just makes you a little cynical in some ways. You get a lot of demands on you physically with your body being the object of desire and satisfaction. With the customers that bark requests and expect you to bend and twist (sometimes literally) to meet their every whim, it’s hard to not feel like an object sometimes.

So I think I’m probably retaliating to this in some way and craving more of an emotional connection - with touch. I’d say that’s why most of my regular clients are more of the ‘girlfriend experience’ like clients. I just have that vibe.

You never know what’s going on in people’s lives. Sometimes the people with the most straightlaced jobs are the most freaky in bed. It reminds me of the math teacher that came to the club one night and wanted to drink our piss out of a wine glass.

You really just never know.

Meanwhile, here I am wanting a cuddle with no clothes on, our bodies pressed together, feeling the heat of him against me while our lips and hands explore…

Right, I’ve officially got myself all hot and bothered now.

I might need to go and find something, (or someone) to cool me off..

I’ve been quiet on here of late. My computer is currently held together with duct tape. It’s in working order, but I have to be honest, writing isn’t a fun experience at the moment. There’s a particular position it needs to be in to work (no more writing in bed) and the duct tape means there is a bit of guessing work i…

Read more

You look like you’ve had a kid,” the brash frat boy said to Jade.

“I can tell,” he carried on, pointing determinedly at the faded silvery lines detailing her belly.

Her ‘tiger mama lines,’ she calls them out the back with us girls.

Jade clapped her hands together slowly.

“Well done, you prick. You want a gold star?”

“F%$k off, you stupid c$%t.”

Bad move, kid.

For every pleasant customer, you usually get five horrific ones. It’s much like anything, I guess. You have to learn to sift through the nonsense.

The worst, in my opinion, are the mouthy ones. I just never have any clapback’s on hand for them. I’m the person who leaves a conversation and then kicks myself a couple of hours later, thinking of all the retorts I could have said. Because of my lack of wittiness, I tend to avoid these people like the plague.

You can usually spot them a mile away: big groups with a couple of larger-than-life jokers who like to push boundaries for attention. Sometimes they just want a bit of a laugh and some stripper party tricks — tips between the boobs, a little twerk, that sort of thing. But other times, they are downright rude. Like when they “mooed” at Mak and told her that her (gorgeous, natural E-cup) breasts were too saggy.

Read more

“Look at him,” my niece G said, proffering her phone at me.

“Isn’t he cute?”

G is crushing hard.

The object of her affection is Jesse, one of the boys from her church youth group.

I take a look at the picture. Wavy hair, big grin, outdoorsy by the looks of his surroundings. And no teenage acne, which is always a win.

“He’s cut…

Read more

For a while, I dated a man with oodles of money. At first it was incredibly seductive, those rose-tinted glasses were firmly glued to my face. I was enamored with the freedom and choices he had and I let myself sink into his life.

He’d wake up and decide he wanted to see a concert, and suddenly we were jetting across the country with no qualms about those inflated last minute airfare prices.

Dinner? Whatever we felt like. Wagyu steak wasn’t “a special occasion,” it was almost expected that I indulge; heck, have two — and dessert.

And honestly, initially it was actually a relief. The constant pressure of being the CEO of every bill I’ve ever had relaxed its grip. I didn’t have to carry the entire spreadsheet of my existence in my head, mentally churning the numbers all hours of the day and night. I felt safe, someone else was taking care of the provider part.

I could finally unclench. Just a little.

Read more

Mak is a larger-than-life diva. She has the kind of presence you notice immediately, whether she is in the strip club or not. She doesn’t need a stage to command attention. If you met her in real life, you would probably find her equal parts intimidating and impressive.

For a while, we were roomies too.

Mak is covered in tattoos. You might imagine chains, skulls and roses with thorns, but hers are incredibly beautiful and feminine. Sensual cats of the jungle, exotic fairies, perfectly blended watercolors. I have no tattoos myself, purely because I have never loved anything enough to permanently put it on my body. But Mak is the kind of person who could almost convince me to change my mind.

Subscribe now

She comes from a long line of artists and performers. Her mother is a model, her father an artist, and Mak grew up constantly in a pose learnt from modelling her mothers outfits and sashaying down a pretend runway. Pretty much every childhood photo she has shown me has her in some elaborate costume, pouty lips, demanding attention from the camera. Not much has changed.

I was slightly hesitant about moving in with Mak. She is “extra” in almost every possible sense of the word, and I am the complete opposite.

I remember coming home one afternoon to find her topless on the sofa, chatting animatedly to a couple of girlfriends who had popped round to visit. Her boyfriend at the time was diligently working away at the knots in her back after a night spent contorting herself around the stage — and various men.

Read more

The smell of roasted coffee beans wafts through the air. I’m in my happy place: parked up in the corner of my local café, in prime position to watch the bustle of people coming in and out. I’ve got a copy of Off Campus freshly downloaded on my Kindle, after watching the series on Amazon Prime I am utterly seduced by fictio…

Read more

Let’s be real here. There is a lot of pressure to look a certain way in a strip club.

It is everywhere.

Certain clubs have unspoken (and sometimes very spoken), guidelines about how the…

Read more

Nina is one of my stripper coworkers. Her dancer name is Nina, AND her real name is also Nina. That’s how much of a badass she is; she doesn’t feel the need to hide behind the safety of a stripper stage name. Nina is Russian, and of course beautiful, with an angled jawline, full lips and a perfect nose that she likes to look down on people with.

I’m envious of her nose. Mine has a little bump in it, which I think happened when I fell off the gymnastics beam at school while racing one of the boys in my class. I didn’t want to lose, so I pushed myself as hard as I could to get to the end of the beam first. But my balance gave out when I was about three-quarters of the way across, and I toppled off, faceplanting on the floor. It really hurt, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, so I blinked back the tears and never got it checked. Maybe I should have though, because I’m pretty sure that’s where the bump came from. I can fill it in with filler, but that’s tedious, and it hurts too.

Anyway, back to Nina. For someone who comes across so badass and assured, she makes some really terrible relationship decisions. Currently, she is supporting this loser, Chris. Note, I said supporting. Chris doesn’t have a job and doesn’t look like he has any intention of getting a job. He barely even seems nice to Nina - although maybe that’s part of the allure. Nina has a sharp edge herself, so she can match him at his own game. But it feels like he thinks Nina is his ticket to an easy life. At least until the next, best “Nina” comes along. Some of the other dancers have tried to talk to Nina about it, but she is pretty dismissive, as she is about most things. So we have just left her and Chris to it.

It’s still so frustrating, though. I know how hard Nina works (as we all do), and she makes a very nice income. It’s infuriating to see her work so hard and then blow it all on this man. It’s a pattern you see a lot in the strip club, unfortunately. I briefly found myself close to it in one of my relationships.

Read more

It’s hit and miss out there at the moment. I’ve mentioned before the strip-club scene is going through a bit of a lull. It’s not unexpected with all the world-craziness that is going on at the moment and I’m not overly worried - yet. What’s that saying - this too shall pass?

Despite knowing this is one of the ebbs and…

Read more

Fiction inspired by the club

Roxy walked slowly down the hall to VIP, fighting to keep her balance and composure. Dean had bought a dance with her and was being unnecessarily grabby, his hand locked around her forearm, applying constant pressure as they headed down to the lap dance area.

Roxy knew his type. Classic A-type personality, amplified by one too many drinks with his mates at the pub. Now he was here to further assert his ego at the strip-club. Lucky me, she thought as she pasted on her ‘stage smile’, Dean’s hand still in a vice grip around her arm, the other pushing her forwards in the small of her back.

It was 3am, the night was almost over and normally she would have just said no to the Dean’s of this world, they usually weren’t worth the hassle. But it had been a slow night at the club. The tipping rail had been thrifty and none of her regulars had appeared, so she was a bit under what she would have hoped to pull in this evening.

Just before Roxy sat down in the booth with Dean, she spotted Mason, the club’s security guard. He gave her a quick raise of the eyebrows as if to say, ‘Just say the word and I will get him out of here for you’.

He knew Dean’s type. Roxy tilted her head slightly in recognition. A little nod to say she knew and she had it under control.

Read more

One of the less openly discussed problems in strip clubs is “extras” — sexual acts in addition to dancing. They are one of those things that I am adamant should not happen in a strip club, but unfortunately they do.

I have avoided writing in depth about it myself for a couple of reasons. Firstly, the more casually it is talked about, the more normalized it starts to sound, and the more customers think of it as naturally available. I also think it drags the occupation further into the mud. For dancers who work hard to keep clear boundaries and treat stripping as performance, sales, and dancing, it cheapens the work. Stripping already carries enough assumptions without adding fuel to the idea that every dancer is for sale if the price is right.

But — extras do happen. Often times of economic instability are a pre-cursor. Times are tough and we are all needing to earn an income and some girls start expanding their boundaries. New dancers can arrive and either don’t understand the rules or don’t care.

Read more

Lexus got rejected by a customer the other night. Apparently her bush was “too big”.

Any derogatory comment on your appearance when you’re naked under neon lights stings — I won’t pretend it doesn’t. And Lexus was naturally upset. In true Lexus fashion she turned to the hip flask in her locker and got absolutely hammered, spending the rest of the night showing her vagina to anyone in the dressing room who would look, demanding an honest assessment.

“Is it actually that big?”

“Be honest”

“No, actually be honest”

“Men are just c%&*!”

In our club (and most others I would imagine), the norm is definitely no hair at all or a small landing strip. That’s just the baked in culture. Partly by design and partly practical — there is nothing less glamorous than a stray pubic hair making it’s appearance outside your G-string mid shift.

Subscribe now

Read more

Read more

It’s interesting, the moment you let someone know you’re a stripper you can correctly assume that a number of stereotypes are circling through their heads. Suddenly they have a clear picture on who you are as a person, what you do and what your relationship with your father was like growing up.

So, for public education purposes, here are some stupid stripper myths people still believe.

Subscribe now

Read more

Ok, here’s another fun one for the weekend.

I don’t actually like reducing people to types — we are all unique humans after all. But after enough shifts, you start recognizing customer ‘themes’. Different faces, but same behaviors, energy and little tells.

So … here we go!

Read more

It’s a strange old time in the strip club at the moment.

Lots of uncertainty. Lots of talk of fuel and Iran. A bit more panic out the back in the dressing room.

And some equally strange clientele experiences to boot.

Read more

Welcome to my workplace! And what a wild and wonderful workplace it is, thanks in no small part to the girls that hold it together. A workplace, full of personalities that clash and connect and circle each other night after night.

And we have some wonderful girls on roster. Some I gel with, some I don’t. But every one of …

Read more

When I write about stripping, Jesus periodically turns up in the comments. I’m not someone who belongs to a church, but I understand why people do. I’ve watched my brother find Christianity in a season where he really needed something to hold onto and it changed the direction of his family’s life for the better.

So, I got…

Read more

I’m in a bad mood.

My dog has an infected ear. He’s been pawing at it for a few days, one floppy ear now red on the inside with matted fur. And the licking. It’s driving him (and me) insane. His paws, his bum, at all times of the day and night.

Lick, lick, lick.

Neither of us has slept much these past few nights. I made an emergency trip to the vet, paying the extra ‘night tax’. We were prescribed an expensive ear wash and gel, which involves me chasing him around the house, sneaking around like a burglar with a syringe. My decoy, a piece of cheese in the other hand, waving it round madly as a distraction.

He’s not falling for my silly games.

Subscribe now

And I’m meant to go to work tonight. Not “work” like the regular 9–5 where you can get away with using snippy ‘office-speak’ in your emails and turning off your camera in the Zoom meeting. But work where your face and your energy are part of the product. Your mood is visible, it leaks through in the way your body moves, your stance, and every interaction.

I had a reader comment on one of my stories saying she referred to stripping as ‘thong-gong.’ Like qi-gong in a thong. Because it was all about getting the energy moving for the client. She’s so right. Stripping, like most things in life, is all about energy. What you give out in, you will usually get back. Energy is contagious.

The nights I walk in ‘light’ the room answers back. Tips flow, banter lands. Customers soften. They want to be near me, like I’m sunshine on an overcast day. But on the nights I arrive carrying something heavy, there’s a change in the air. The stage feels sharper and the lights less forgiving. The customers are more demanding, they can sense my mood and want to challenge it. The same jokes don’t land (it’s very possible I’m just not that funny). It’s an energy shift, and the club responds accordingly, reflecting it back, testing me.

Read more