Typical

Now that I'm a stripper, I can pretty much tell who else is, too.

The following things usually give it away. Yes, it's stereotypical, but most of the time, I'm usually right:

-Tall shoes - high heels or platforms 24/7.

-Expensive name brand sunglasses, purses, jeans, etc.

-Salon-fresh hair - cut, colored, styled, done up. Frequent salon visits.

-Good quality makeup, sometimes too much of it or unnecessary fake lashes.

-Acrylic fingernails, french-tipped toes. Frequent salon visits.

-Over-tanned or fake-tanned.

-The way they carry themselves.

-The way they look at themselves in the mirror, or any reflection, like a store or car window.

-The way they talk to others.

-Fake tits, on top of the rest of my checklist, are a dead giveaway.

I see these girls at the gym a lot. (And of course they're at the gym.) My personal trainer, who is also a strip club addict, confirms my predictions.

And like I said - I'm usually right.

It's kind of funny.

Note: I am not a stereotypical stripper. Which is why customers like me. Well, except for the depression, security, confidence, and daddy issues. Hmm, maybe I am a stereotype.

DUMBASS

I somehow lost the little pouch I keep my cash in while working last night.

It had over $400 in it.

And my favorite lip gloss.

I cried and went home.

Yes, they're real.

"Who's your doctor?"

"What?"

"Who's your doctor?" she asked again.

"Huh?"

"Who did your boobs?"

"Oh!  These are mine!"

I've NEVER appreciated my breasts until I became a stripper. I suppose it's because I've never been around so many pairs of boobs before. And now, I'd like to say that I'm grateful for my breasts. They are officially my favorite part of my body. (Before stripping, my favorite part was my ears.) Who knew?

"Can I feel them?"

I'm guessing she didn't believe me.

Then more and more girls started coming up and touching them. I had an entire dressing room full of strippers, practically giving me a mammogram.

Some of the girls STILL didn't believe me.

Well, I guess I'll take that as a compliment.

Poor guy.

"A retired American boxer," who will go unnamed, came into the club last night. He sat at a table in front of the stage, which was odd - why wasn't he in VIP?

"He's fucking broke, dude," one of the bouncers said into my ear.

He's been to prison for rape charges, has filed for bankruptcy, and is known to have lost his mind. He currently raises hundreds of pigeons at his home.

It was my turn up on stage. He was lookin' at me funny. He's just a scary dude, that's all. He kept putting cash on the stage. I took the hint. When I was done with my dance, I walked over.

I danced for him. Every now and then, he'd stop me to talk.

"I'm lonely, Lux. I just need someone to hold me, that's all. Nobody understands me. Nobody understands," he said.

I was still scared. He's just...really scary.

"Here, let me give you my number. Just call me sometime, and come over."

I kept dancing.

All of a sudden, he grabbed me really tight, and got so close to my ear, I could feel the hot saliva on his lips.

"Does this make you nervous?"

Yeah it does, you ear-biter-off 'er!

He spent two hundred dollars on me, then went home. I'm only slightly empathetic.

This is when I do mind.

Last night, as I was giving a lap dance, the nasty fucking perv put his mouth on my nipple as soon as he got the chance.

I pulled away, and kind of froze. I looked at him like I was a frowning child, as if I didn't understand why he would do that to me. I probably looked like I was about to cry.

I probably was about to cry.

You see, I'm not good with these types of situations. I'm not going to lie - I came into this job very weak, insecure, and vulnerable.

I know, real healthy. Please don't scorn me, I've heard it all already, and I know there's a lot wrong with me. I treat this job like a drug.

Any professional, sane dancer would have slapped him on the face, walked away, and told security.

"Please just let me suck on it," the nasty fucking perv said.

Frozen.

Frozen.

Frozen.

I leaned in close, so he wouldn't get caught. I looked down and watched. Frozen.

After the song was done, he didn't even tip well.

I left the club, and cried all the way home.

When things like this happen to me, I go into this mode where I'm trapped, and in my head, I'm telling myself that I deserve this.

Kissing Varla

Tonight, in the VIP booth, the customers wanted me to make out with Varla, another dancer.

I like Varla. She has big eyes, a round face, and long brown curly hair. She looks young, just like me. And I like her bum.

I already had a nice champagne buzz going. I shrugged my shoulders and went for it.  

I've never made out with a girl before.

And there I was, making out with Varla. 

It was so soft and gentle. Pretty. Graceful. Slippery.

I hated it.

I hated it so much!

At least now I know for sure - I want to be kissed by a man, and only a man.

I need the strength, the aggression, the MAN.

I guess I could never be a lesbian.

P.S. I also do this job for the stories.

Billy

Billy has a lot of money.

The majority of the big spenders that come into our club are old. Or, at least, not handsome. At all.

The best part about Billy is that he's young. Very young. And handsome.

Very handsome.

And a big spender.

By "big spender," I mean a whole lot of money. A LOT of money. The very top of the top.

Billy comes into the club a lot.

Ever since the first night he spotted me on the floor, and invited me into his VIP booth, I am now, to this day, always one of his girls. He usually picks three.

I love when he comes in. Because I'm guaranteed loads of cash, flirtatious fun, and a nice champagne and strawberries buzz by the end of the night.

Last night, I danced for Billy.

"Choke me," he said.

"What?"

"Choke me."

I reluctantly put my hands around his neck.

"Harder!" his voice strained.

I did it harder like he said to. I was still dancing.

He pulled my hands off his neck and gasped for air. I didn't know what to say. I kept dancing.

"Slap me," he said.

"What?"

"Slap me!"

Surprisingly willing, I slapped him.

"Harder!"

I slapped him harder, just like he wanted me to.

I stopped moving, and just sat there, straddling him.

We looked at each other and smiled. It felt like a really long time.

He quickly pulled my legs together and put them to the side. He grabbed me close as I curled into his lap. We held each other tight. I could feel how lonely we both truly were.

This is when I don't mind the job at all.

It's the validation that's addicting.

Violet

I have a regular, named Jim.

When a dancer has a "regular," it means she has a customer who comes into the club often, just for her.

This is especially good if he comes in when it's slow. When work is slow, I usually send text messages to my regulars. ("Come visit me! I'm bored! XOXO) And if you've developed  a decent relationship with your regular, it usually means good pay. (You don't want regulars who aren't big spenders, anyway.)

I like Jim because he gives me a lot of money, mostly for conversation. Usually, he'll come in with Julie, who dances at another club. He'll have me do dances for her, which is no sweat.

I also like Jim because he's pretty cool. He has taken me out a few times, with Julie. He buys us dinner, drinks, and takes us shopping.  

One time, he took me with him to Julie's club. Julie danced for me, and he also bought me dances from some of his other favorite girls.

"You've got to get a dance from Violet. She isn't the most attractive lady, but boy, does she give a good dance," Jim insisted.

Violet wasn't very attractive. She looked a bit dated. She looked a lot older than the other dancers. 

Violet was the best lap dance I've ever experienced in my life.

I told her this.

"Dancing for women is much different than dancing for men," Violet explained.

She went on about women liking it slow and sensual. Men usually like tits or ass in their face, with the occasional grind or booty shake, but this does nothing for women. Women like to be touched and taken care of. Stroked. Massaged. Slowly.

Violet got on her knees and slowly slid her hand under my shirt, from my belly button, to in between my breasts. It felt good. She straddled me. But she just sat there and massaged my neck and shoulders. And then she massaged my scalp and pulled my hair. It felt awesome.

I got dances from Violet all night.

The next time I was at work and had a lady customer, I tried all of Violet's techniques myself. The woman practically fell in love with me, as her husband watched her open her legs, throw her head back, and moan all night.

Thanks, Jim. Thanks, Violet.

Sometimes...

...I hate myself for doing this.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I know I'm better than this.

At the end of the day, I look at all the money I've made, and I stop questioning.

At the end of the day, it makes for a good story.

I've got a lot that I can write about.  And I love to write.

Strippers smell like candy.

And for good reason:

Pink Sugar by Aquolina

One of the girls, actually, many of the girls use this fragrance, and it's hard to resist. It just screams stripper, but there's just no denying how tasty it smells. It's like candy. And being a stripper is like an excuse to be able to wear it. So why the hell not.

(Although, I did get two of my best friends into it, and they are not strippers. It's weird hanging out with them when they wear it, because I'm reminded of work!)

Many times I've danced for a customer, and he's asked, "Pink Sugar?"

That's when you know they come to the strip club a lot.

Ben

"Come home with me," Ben told me.

These are the kinds of moments I don't know how to deal with yet. I'm so gullible.

"I can't possibly leave with a customer," I told him back.

He held my face in his hands, and touched my nose with his. I was still straddling him. The music was still loud.  

"You are the most beautiful little thing I've ever met," he said into my eyes.

I'm so gullible.

I had already spent the entire night with Ben. He wasn't that bad, and he was giving me a lot of money.  I didn't have to dance much; all we did was talk. He was an ex-cop. He quit after he was shot in the face. Though he had scars, he was still kind of handsome.  Very tall, maybe 6'5". Definitely works out.

Kind of handsome.

"I can't," was all I could say.

Because that was my rule. No dating people from the club. No sleeping with people from the club.

He kissed me.

Fuck, I thought, while helplessly enjoying it. I'm breaking all of my rules.

He left.

Not long after, I left the club. I had made much more money than I had anticipated. And I was still in shock after the kiss.

While driving home, I saw a very tall man's silhouette walking on the sidewalk.  It was pouring rain.  

I pulled over.

"Ben! Why are you walking in the rain?" I yelled out the window.

"I'm too drunk to drive," he said.

"Get in the car, I'll take you home."

Breaking all of my rules.

This is a really stupid idea, I thought. He could attack me. He could attack me, rape me, kill me, put me in the trunk, and drive my car into a river.

We got to his apartment, and as soon as I parked, he kissed me again.

"Just come up for a minute," he insisted.

Fuck.

He had a really nice apartment. We went out to the balcony, and in no time, it was no surprise that we were making out again.

He picked me up and wrapped my legs around him. He brought me to the bed.

Fuck.

He took off my clothes. He took off his.

"I've got to warn you - I'm very well-endowed."

I looked down to see the biggest penis I've ever seen in my life.

I let him (gently) do his thing, and he didn't last very long. I didn't enjoy it - at all - because it was very uncomfortable.

"Wow, you feel amazing. Women don't usually let me finish. Even girls twice your height."

I can see (feel) why.

We exchanged numbers. I left right away. I didn't feel too good about myself.

At least I didn't end up in a river.

There are a couple of things that are addicting about this job:

1.  The money.

The obvious answer.  Sure, it sucks when the night starts pretty slow, and you're still trying to pay back your house fee (the fee that dancers have to pay the strip club every time they come into work). But once it really starts to pick up, and big tippers make you their favorite, or better yet, you're drinking champagne in VIP, you are pretty much set for the night.

2.  The attention.

The serious answer.  I've got to be honest - getting paid to be told how beautiful or hot or sexy I am is a definite ego boost.  Having men fall in love with me all night doesn't bother me.  I know it's probably so, so wrong to be feeding off all of this, and it's probably so unhealthy for me right now, but I really don't care.  And I can tell that I'm not alone with this - I'm sure we all love this part of the job. I've watched so many girls, myself included, base their moods on how much they're working that night.  If it's slow and lame, girls will mope in the dressing room, feeling unwanted, or not so attractive.  But, if they score and are doing very well, their spirits are up, they're confident, and they're on fire.  Well, I love being on fire.  For some reason, I can only feel this way when I'm Lux.  Not when I'm anybody else.

I work almost every night.  I like the money.  And I like the attention.  Not only am I keeping myself busy, but I'm paying off my debt.

Mortifying:

My ex-boyfriend came in today, while I was dancing on stage.

(You know, the ex-boyfriend I was with for four years. The one I cheated on.)

"Really?!" he shouted, in front of everyone.

"Really!!!" he shouted again.

"This is really what you want?!"

I don't remember the rest, I started to shut off in the middle of his shouting.

I guess this is really what I want.