My name is Lux

Nobody was there.

2011-02-21T23:19:00.000-08:00

So I bought a drink. Nobody came. So I had another one. And another.

And another.

And then people started to show up.

By this time, I was eager to get on that sorry excuse for a stage. I got on one pole, and Mediocre #1 got on the other.

I was pretty buzzed, and I relished the idea that it had been awhile since Lux was out, since she was wearing these shoes, doing what she does best. I danced, I stretched, I crawled, I flirted, I laughed, I thought to myself, this feels like home. But as I danced and danced, the men kept staring, and I stared back. And then the buzz started to wear off, and then I saw what was happening. And then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I spun around the pole, and then I saw that I was half naked behind a sketchy bar in Queens. And then I wanted to go home.

But all I had made was $2.

In the back of the bar was where a customer could take a dancer to purchase a lap dance. It was like stripping at Spencer Gifts at the Arizona Mills Mall - tacky animal print chairs, bad lighting, beaded curtains. There was nothing right about it.

Alex, a ghetto Colombian 20-something in oversized everything, had that strain in his eye, snap in his gum-chewing, and carelessness in his touch that only dudes on cocaine have.

"Come home with me and my boys," he said. "Call your girlfriends."

"I can't, " I said.

"Wanna bump?" He showed me.

(See, told you.)

I kept dancing, and he looked up at me. His eyes were too scary to look into. I tried to think about my bed. And sweatpants.

He grabbed my ass and pulled me closer. I looked around. Nobody was going to save me from anything.

I froze there, straddled in front of him. He moved his hands up my back, and then rubbed them down to my thighs. He started to kiss my collarbone and he rubbed my inner thighs so hard now that it hurt. And I was scared.

"Sorry, I gotta go!" I said in my best perky-stripper-who-isn't-affected-by-anything voice. He eventually reluctantly gave me my $40 with no tip, and I went straight to the dressing room to grab my things and go.

I made it out the door, to the subway station, through the train ride. I made it to my apartment, to my room, to the sweatpants, to the bed. I fell asleep. I made it.

I woke up the next morning and looked over at my kitty collar and pearls on the floor. And then I cried.

I couldn't give up just yet.

2011-02-15T02:07:00.000-08:00

I have never been this broke in my life. But I make it work. I eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches all day and steal toilet paper from bars.

I had to expand my search. "Do you allow tattoos?" Everyone said no.

Until I lowered my standards.

There's a sketchy bar in the middle of a sketchy neighborhood in Queens.

The cold manager stared at me in his cold office. "What brings a girl like you to a place like this?"

I filled out some paperwork and he took my polaroid.

I went to the dressing room and changed. I guess it was only me and one other girl. She wasn't very attractive.

I walked out to the bar. Behind it was a tiny stage with two poles on each side. And nobody was there. One bartender, one bouncer, one mediocre, slightly overweight stripper with bad teeth, and me. Hello, Lux.

I needed money ASAP.

2011-02-08T22:06:00.000-08:00

After looking online for clubs, I started to have doubts. It didn't seem like any of these cheesy places would be into someone like me. I called around, and so many places required gowns. Really? Gowns? I called one club and they said to just come in. I took my chances.

As I walked what felt like too many blocks, I pictured tall leggy Russian women with long satin gloves and incomprehensible accents.

Not a short ethnically ambiguous chick with tattoos and striped knee socks.

It was nothing like my club in Arizona. This place was huge. I was taken to the dressing room and amazed at all the space. They even had a House Mom. And a makeup artist. And a woman with a rack of gowns for sale.

Well, here I was. Only five months after I "quit". I started to change when...

"Oh," one of the dancers said to me with a disgusted look on her face.

If being the new girl on her first day at a big New York City strip club wasn't hard enough, there I was, in my bra and underwear, being stared at by every single woman in the room.

You would have thought I peed myself. Or had a penis.

"You can't work here."

A few dancers started to laugh and whisper. My insides went cold and I wanted nothing more to run as fast as I could.

"Honey, we have a no tattoo policy here," the House Mom said nicely. At least she was trying.

"Oh," I said quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Well, maybe Linda can cover them up," she looked at the makeup artist, who was too busy dusting bronzer on a pair of breasts.

"I can't cover those up. Are you kidding me? Those are huge. I'd have to charge you so much. No way."

"It's okay," I said, in the voice you make when you're doing all you can not to break down and cry. "It's okay, really." Did I really buy shoes and a FUCKING gown, do my hair and makeup, take three trains, and walk sketchily toward the Hudson River just to be rejected within a matter of minutes?

And while girls were either still laughing at me, still staring at me, or still disgusted with me, I put my clothes on as fast as I could and stormed out even faster.

I pushed open the door into the cold night air, walked as fast as I could, and as soon as I made it around the corner, cried my eyes out.

I moved to New York City.

2011-02-06T02:58:00.001-08:00

I had to get out of Arizona. I hated it there, and I hated who I had become. (See previous posts.) The sole reason I moved out there meant jack shit to me (he is now fat and republican and has an overwhelmingly obnoxious tribal tattoo a la George Clooney in From Dusk Till Dawn) and let's be real - it was fucking hot. It was ridiculously, disgustingly, hot.

I moved out here to 1. write for a magazine, and 2. pursue a career in theatre. Okay - I will now pause for your guffaws, eye-rolling, and exclamations of disbelief. Yeah, yeah, now I must be fake, or a man, or a jaded slanderous stripper telling lies and defaming the face of sex worker blogging forever. Whatever. That is so two years ago. Anyway, I'm actually not kidding. (I know this all sounds totally random, but aren't you happy to be catching up?)

I've always loved writing. I spent every single college summer in New York, interning at different magazines. And in Arizona, I wrote for the big newspaper. (And then my cocaine addiction got bad and I stopped showing up. And then I was fired.)

Halfway through college, I changed my major from journalism to theatre. Again, the cocaine addiction was getting bad. And I found myself rushing to my evening acting classes after working the day shift. There I'd be, closing my eyes and deep breathing during pre-class meditation, distracted by how much my hair reeked of cigarettes and how badly my skin smelled like sweat, red bull, and shame. (And of course, Aquolina Pink Sugar perfume.)

I was about a semester away from graduating, but I dropped out. I threw out all of my stripper gear, packed my bags, and moved to New York City. I had an interview with one of my favorite women's magazines. Beauty writer. No sweat. My portfolio was killer. My references were top-notch. I knew I was I going to get the job.

After not hearing from them, the magazine eventually folded.

There was an open audition for an off-Broadway show. I stood outside in line with over a thousand people. And after callback after callback after callback, I was told that they loved me! That I would be a star! And that I would be perfect for a certain role - that they didn't need anyone for - at the moment. It wasn't bad news. It wasn't great news. And they would eventually call me. But not now.

Long story short, while anxiously awaiting my big New York City stage debut, I was broke. So I went to the West Village and bought a new pair of heels. I doubled up my long pearl necklace around my neck, and buckled on my velvet kitty collar - the one with the 'Lux' heart on it.

Did you really think I was going to throw those away? I knew there was a reason to keep them.

More later.

I guess I do have to delete this blog.

2009-02-17T16:09:00.000-08:00

I'm going to be weak.

I am weak.

It's too hard for me to write my COMPLETELY HONEST stories when people think they're fake, or just out to offend strippers, or attempted "male fantasies."

Yes, I know. This is lame. I'm giving in. I'm letting them win. But how could I ever write everything that I want to write if they're all going to hold me back? And I let them.

I was going to write about the VIP booth over the weekend, and how I got really drunk, and ended up having sex for a few seconds with a man I don't care for, but jesus, I could only imagine all the people barking at me for that, right? I was going to write about how I went to this nice hotel with him after, did some coke, and had the most awful painful sex ever, but what, is that a male fantasy? Or wait, an erroneous stereotype? Or wait, totally fake? I must be a dude, right? No one would ever do that! My labia is torn and I can barely pee, shit, that must be fake. I have to scream when I pee, and you don't believe me. You don't understand. Few people in my life even know I'm a stripper. I have all these new fake friends but they don't count. I've ditched my old ones. Do you know how much I wish I could tell my mom that I can't pee right now? But I can't. And I've just told you all, but half of you will just say bad things about me.

Creating this blog was a mistake. I thought it would be a wonderful way for me to get these awful stories out that I've sadly chosen to experience. But no, it just makes me feel worse. Because I've got other strippers just making me feel more like shit than I already do. And I didn't start this blog for that.

I think I will just write in a journal. That seems to be better.

This blog is finished.

I just don't understand...

2009-02-16T13:39:00.000-08:00

...why people think I'm fake? Why they think I'm copying them? That's such a fucking insult. If you knew me personally, I take writing seriously, and I would never fucking copy anyone!

Caught

2009-02-09T19:43:00.000-08:00

Jay came into the club last night.

This was the first time that someone I know personally has come in.

Of course, he had no idea that I became I stripper. It makes for a big and honest reaction.

My secret nickname for Jay was "Rebound," for obvious reasons. He's the first person I started dating I mean fucking after my ex-boyfriend and I broke up.

Oh, wait, I guess this is the second time that someone I know personally has come in.

I was genuinely humiliated when I saw Jay. We both knew this wasn't me. At least it shouldn't be.

"I absolutely will not give you a lap dance," I told him. And then I decided I will never give guy friends lap dances. New rule.

It was a weird night. I felt like I had been caught, at rock bottom. I wasn't proud of myself. And just that feeling was enough to start questioning what the fuck it is that I'm doing. Whatever it is, it's most definitely for all the wrong reasons.

My Thing

2009-02-06T04:07:00.000-08:00

Not too long ago, I got really tired of taking my top off, then putting it back on, over and over again, all night long. So now, I don't bother with a top. I wear my black velvet kitty collar with the rhinestones and red heart ID tag (that says Lux, of course,) and my long white pearl necklace, doubled so that the pearls are also a choker, as well as long and hanging over my boobs. I like the way they swing when I dance on the pole. Cute bottoms, and funky knee stockings or socks put over thigh-high black fishnets. And of course, my favorite black eight-inch heels. And that's it. Every day.

It works out nicely. I never have to fuss with a top anymore. And, it's the perfect marketing scheme for what I think is my best body part. Might as well advertise. For only $10, you can have these titties in your face!

Tonight, one dancer saw me sitting on the stairs of the DJ booth, and looked me up and down. "That's totally your thing now, isn't it? It's cool." She grabbed my pearls and started playing with them. She put the red heart tag into her hand and brought her eyes closer.

"Lux. Sweet."

The Day Shift

2009-02-03T21:40:00.000-08:00

Lately, I've been working a few day shifts.

I don't know why I decided to try it. I had heard other girls talk about it, so I thought it would be worth checking out.

It sure is different.

I had always heard managers or DJ's use the term, Day Girl. Like, "One of the Day Girls actually tried to come in tonight. Gross. She was sent home." I never knew what this meant.

I get it now. They're much older. Their boob jobs are hard, lopsided, and very much from the 80's. And some of them actually go by names like Candy. But guess what? These ladies have worked the pole for years now - they've got regulars coming in for them every day, more power to 'em. They're makin' their dough.

There are only a few Day Girls who are my age. A few work at other clubs in the evenings, and a few take evening classes at school. Another girl would rather be with her husband and child at night. Me, I take evening classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays - and on the other days, I sometimes cut class. Don't tell my parents.

I come to the club at 10:00 in the morning. The first three girls who arrive at the club don't have to pay a house fee. Otherwise, it's only $25. There isn't much action for the first few hours. Girls have to do two songs on stage instead of only one. Sometimes we're dancing for no one. (It's a good time to practice pole tricks.) People start trickling in during lunch. We offer a buffet.

It's absolutely bizarre to be dancing for men while they eat their spaghetti and meatballs.

I grab a plate and eat if nobody is around.

The clientele is definitely different in the daytime. The vibe definitely lacks in the fun and lighthearted. You know the slightly creepy dudes that come in by themselves wearing basketball shorts, who sit in the darkest corner available? There are a lot of those. It breaks my heart a little. They're in here every day at 11am. That seems kind of serious.

The day shift is hit or miss for me. I think I need more time to develop some regulars. There have been a lot of days that I've worked 'till 5pm, gone home to take a nap, and come back at 10pm. Those days have been financially rewarding. But I think being in a dark smoky club for most of my waking life, sipping on Red Bull, sitting in nothing but a thong, knee socks, and heels has had an effect on me. Maybe.

I may ditch the Day Shift in the future. I feel like I've simply become...addicted to stripping.

Your Song

2009-01-25T03:49:00.000-08:00

When I first started stripping, I learned the hard way that girls tend to claim songs.

"This is my song, sweetie," a girl once said to me as I was about to get on stage.

Totally understandable. Actually, now, if someone were to pick my song, I'd be pretty pissed.

Songs are important because they become your signature, your anthem. When the first few notes play, everyone - the dancers, the staff, the regulars, should know that you are about to get on stage.

Some of my songs are:

"Seven Nation Army" by The White Stripes.

"The Hardest Button To Button" by The White Stripes.

"Foxy Lady" by Jimi Hendrix.

"Only" by Nine Inch Nails.

'Woman" by Wolfmother.

"Redhouse Blues" by The Doors.

There are others, but "Seven Nation Army" is the first song the DJ will play for me, 100% of the time. While the other songs may sometimes be played for other dancers, or when I'm not there, "Seven Nation Army" is definitely all mine, only mine. That - is my song.

It's a treat to hear someone say, "Whenever I hear this song, I think of Lux."

Clever marketing ploy?

Dave

2009-01-18T03:28:00.000-08:00

This is the worst story to date. I'm warning you.

I danced for Dave all night, from the very beginning of my shift to the very end.

Dave is one of those stuck-up business types - 44, good suit, parted hair, glasses. He has a nice voice and talks like Frasier Crane.

"Come home and dance for me some more," he said to me.

"Sorry, I don't go home with customers," I lied.

"I just want you to dance, nothing more," he insisted.

"No, thank you," I insisted.

"I'll give you a thousand dollars."

I went home with Dave.

Once we got to his house, he offered me an ecstasy pill. Knowing it was a bad idea, I took it.

We talked all night. He told me about his divorce, his children, his job.

He cut up some lines of cocaine. I hate cocaine. I took a few bumps. By this point I knew that I had gone deep into bad decisions, and by this point I had hated myself, I hated myself so much, so by this point, I just wanted to be fucked up.

"I've got a guy coming over to bring me some Cialis," he told me.

Yeah, this was definitely a bad idea, I thought.

"Are you ready to dance for me?" he asked.

Now, completely fucked up, I danced for him. I remember hating every moment of it.

Dave put some porn on his big-screen TV.

And some guy indeed dropped off a paper bag of Cialis.

He took out his stupid penis and started stroking it. I went and sat at the other side of the room.

"You're not into that?" he asked, pointing at the TV. There was a woman bent over and two girls fingering and eating her out.

"No, not at all," I said.

"Do you want some Cialis?" he asked.

"Okay," I took the Cialis.

I can't write anymore. I can't bring myself to replay the end of the story in my head again - his bed, the sounds, the sweat, his voice - it makes me want to vomit. It makes me want to kill myself. How has it come to this? When will I love myself again?

The check bounced.

Update

2009-01-12T21:08:00.000-08:00

I've been so exhausted lately.

Every night, I come home from the club, eat my Subway sandwich, hit the bong, go to sleep, then wake up and do it all over again.

I haven't seen my friends in a really long time.

As a matter of fact, I haven't seen my roommates in a really long time.

I haven't called any of my best friends back home in a really long time.

I haven't been my self in a really long time.

Or maybe this is just the new self.

I'm in the zone. I suppose I'll get out of it sooner or later. I've got a few new stories, but I feel uninspired to write, uninspired to do anything.

I'll come back later.

Actually, a lot of us are wicked smart.

2009-01-04T23:39:00.000-08:00

I was giving dances to an old man, and all was well, until...

Old man: Well, I suppose I'm rather introverted.

(Slowly, as if speaking to a dumb child or a person who doesn't understand English)

Do you know what introverted means, Lux?

Me: (Shocked and at a loss for words) Excuse me?

Old man: (Unaware that he just offended me) In-tro-ver-ted.

Me: (PMS-ing, on my last nerve, and in no mood to play cute) Are you fucking kidding me? Do you think I'm stupid? Are you assuming I'm stupid? Of all words, introverted? Really? Can I have my money now? Thanks. (Walked away, laughing like a crazy person.)

Non-fiction

2009-01-03T03:19:00.000-08:00

A reader comment that I would like to respond to:

I have to tell you the line "I also do this job for the stories" bothers me A LOT.

Seriously, are you living your life or constructing an image?

I read an interview you did where you said something along the lines of your work as a stripper not affecting your personal life or sex life at all, that you found no separation between the 2, yet you repeatedly imply that you DO, in this blog. So, which is it?

You're obviously talented as a writer, but I can't figure you out beyond that Lux. And the post you wrote about stripper stereotypes also bothers me a lot. It doesn't sound like anything any stripper I know would ever say. It sounds like something an outsider would say...

Please know I'm not judging, but just trying to understand you. The stripper/blogger community (for lack of a better word) is a delicate one and authenticity is vital if outsiders are ever going to comprehend the reality of this unique and special work.

Personally I would take great offense if anyone claiming to be one of us were to jeopardize that by superficiality or inauthenticity.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am not a fake.

And in regards to stripper stereotypes, you've just met one who would say those things.

Me. Which is why I said them. Just stating what I observe, and what I think. The point of this blog.

Let's face it, stereotypes are funny. Why are they funny? Because sometimes they're real. And sometimes it's okay to be aware of them.

I'm probably an outsider in that I'm not much like those stereotypes I speak of. But in the end, I'm taking my top off and grinding on strange men for cash. So I'm not much of an outsider at all.

In regards to the interview you speak of, I have never done an interview. My work affects my personal and sex life completely. My work has affected me and everything around me completely. I don't recall this interview, or ever saying that.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am not a fake. And it bums me out that you think that, because I've chosen to pour my heart out on here and get it all out, for all to see. And it's completely true and real. Sadly.

And anyway, who the fuck would fake a story about Mike Tyson? That shit is real. Real funny.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am not a fake.

It's not their fault

2008-12-23T14:02:00.001-08:00

It always breaks my heart when I see my parents. It's probably just the guilt kicking in. They are two very sweet uber-Catholic parents who raised extremely smart and talented kids. I'm just going through some issues, but I could never explain that to them. They'd probably kill me, then kill themselves, if they ever found out what I do.

It would probably kill my father the most. He'd probably realize that all of his nudie magazines and porno videos that weren't actually hidden well enough during my childhood may have actually had an effect on me. Not to mention that he used to frame centerfolds and post them in the garage and the bathroom and the closets. I grew up thinking that was normal. Until people came over and were usually appalled by it.

Oh well, now that he has obviously "re-discovered Jesus," I think all that's long gone. To him, at least.

He has cancer and only has a year to live.

Teddy Pt. 3

2008-12-18T22:59:00.001-08:00

We went on another date.

Nice as usual.

But onto the juicy stuff -

After a bit of drink and a bit of smoke, I ended up in his bed.

The making out turned heavy, and then the clothes came off.

He was inside of me, for five seconds, and then...

"No, I can't do this," he said.

"What?"

"I can't do this."

Feeling more humiliated than anything else, I got out of bed, put on my clothes, and drove home in tears.

It's because I'm a stripper, isn't it?

I knew he was way too good.

No dating. No dating. No dating. It's just not right. And it all makes sense.

Teddy Pt. 2

2008-12-14T05:56:00.000-08:00

Teddy and I went on a date last night.

It was actually kind of nice to not work on a Saturday night. Although, there were a few times that I caught myself thinking about money that I may be missing out on. I can't help it.

We went to dinner, then drinks, and then back to his place for a little bit. It was weird being in normal clothes, knowing he had already seen me mostly naked, as some kind of character. It was weird being me. Just me.

He's from St. Louis. He's very polite. And sweet. I'd call him All-American.

We kissed. Just kissed.

I'm thinking we'll go out on another date. I'd like that a lot.

Teddy

2008-12-12T08:26:00.000-08:00

When guys like Teddy show up, it's like a breath of fresh air.

Teddy isn't the guy as old as your father, and he isn't the creep-o in the corner wearing basketball shorts. He isn't a regular, just here with his friends because they thought it would be a stupid idea. He can talk to you as if you weren't naked, and you laugh at the same things. Teddy is genuine.

Simply put, Teddy is really fucking cool.

Teddy was the first guy I broke my rule for.

You know, the "I won't ever give my number to a customer" rule.

Teddy was the first guy I broke my second rule for.

You know, the "I won't ever go on a date with a customer" rule.

So what if I'm obviously on the rebound, so blatantly insecure, constantly looking for trouble, falling for anyone, for the wrong reasons?

These are my ways now, and although it is temporary, this is the way it is. Life is a learning process.

At least I'm aware. More on this development, later.

Debt

2008-12-04T22:32:00.000-08:00

When people ask me why I started stripping, I tell them that I have credit card debt and student loans to pay off -

which is true, but also the easy answer. I never mention the stuff about the breakup, which was a result of my changed views on sex and relationships. I don't mention that my father is dying, I don't add that I have the inability to cope with feelings. And I certainly don't talk about my discovery that vulnerability equals money.

But yes - I have debt. Too much for a girl my age.

So, although I've been making money as a stripper, I don't feel like it.

Every night, after I work a shift, I go straight to the bank to deposit the cash into my account. I am constantly paying back my debt. I just want to get it over with.

Typical

2008-11-30T22:06:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-25T19:32:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-24T21:44:00.000-08:00

"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.

2008-11-22T02:19:00.001-08:00

"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.

2008-11-19T19:45:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2008-11-18T00:50:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-17T01:23:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-11-15T01:51:00.000-08:00

Violet

2008-11-14T15:56:00.000-08:00

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...

2008-11-13T05:25:00.001-08:00

...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.

2008-11-12T02:55:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-09T16:02:00.000-08:00

"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:

2008-11-08T22:35:00.000-08:00

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:

2008-11-07T05:56:00.000-08:00

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.

A few things:

2008-10-29T01:45:00.000-07:00

1. It's really hard to walk in stripper shoes for the first time. (Mine are black and have 8-inch heels.) I fell instantly in the dressing room. I'm slowly getting the hang of it. I think the trick is to be confident. If you hesitate, you WILL fall. (Wow, think about that one!)

2. Dancing on stage is (unexpectedly) a lot of fun for me. (Maybe too much fun?) I guess as a dancer and actress all of my life, I just have a passion for performing. (I was surprised that even though I was topless and dancing around a pole for dollar bills, I still felt compelled to entertain the audience!) It gives me a bit of a high when they love me! Is that bad?

3. The money's not in the stage performances, the money's in the lap dances. Which is why it's important that you're absolutely amazing on stage, so customers are dying to meet you and buy a lap dance from you. And going even further, the money's in the VIP lounge. (More on that, later.)

4. I'm learning a lot from my friend, Rayleigh. She's about to quit, after doing this for years. She's taught me a lot, and has given me a lot of advice. Especially on giving lap dances!

5. Last night, some guy paid me $50 to burn the top of his hand with his cigarette. He insisted. I kind of enjoyed it, is that bad?

Hello.

2008-10-25T03:07:00.000-07:00

My name is Lux.

I'm 21 years old.

I just broke up with my boyfriend because I went to Las Vegas for my birthday and had my first threesome with two Chippendales dancers...

...and liked it.

And I think that crazy night in Vegas did something to me. It must have opened something up. A completely different person.

An adventurous, dangerous, confused little girl.

And I'm excited about this new development.