Eurgh stags.

They are the most hated group in a lap dancing club but ultimately they bring in a lot of money.

Even if a weekend is quiet, you can guarantee that a rowdy, pissed, kebab breath bunch of idiots will come in.

The problem with stags (apart from the kebab breath) is the sheer size of the group. For example, Marin is getting married. He’s 32, works in IT, very boring, probably marrying an even more boring woman, up for a stag weekend with his boring friends.

They want it to be like a lost weekend. They have ideas that it will be exactly like The Hangover, – fuelled with drunken antics they will all keep a secret and talk about when they watch the match together in months to come.

The reality is, boring Martin will always be boring, No matter how many shots he downs from ‘shooter girls’ in a trebles bar, or how hot the curry is that he eats sat down in the gutter in someone else’s puke, he will always be a bore.

Martin and his mates are in the club squabbling over who’s paying for pints of Fosters they’ve ordered.

Seven of us approach the men. Some jeer and clap, others look embarrassed. Out of half a dozen men, not all of them want to be here. Two are probably happily married and class seeing a pair of tits as being unfaithful, one is undoubtedly gay,, leaving the other four (including the stag) to hold the fort. Straight away they have whipped around to get money for Martin. He is taken away by Kirsty to a loud cheer by the boys. I talk to James. How annoying. He tells me how pretty I am, how he would love a dance but… wait for it…. he feels bad. Not for his wife, or girlfriend or whoever he’s currently shagging, but for ME. I seem like a nice girl you see, intelligent and sweet, and he feels bad taking me for a dance. What? Who the hell is he? My father? He says that I should be doing something more than this, that I’m better than it.

Once a man goes here, they’re never coming back. They’re the patronisers. The ones who claim they feel sorry for us, that we should be doing better for ourselves, that girls shouldn’t be taking their clothes off for a living, yet they’re the ones sat at 4am on a Wednesday night with their hands down their pants.

After listening (or pretending to) to this stupid man I ask him bluntly that if he doesn’t want a dance because I’m a fallen angel or whatever, then he should just give me the money (this is fair, I’m earning a living dancing, he doesn’t want a dance of me as he feels bad for ME, therefore he should pay ME). He shakes his head and laughs, he can’t understand why that’s an option. I tell him politely to go and fuck himself.

The stag is back from his dance, he’s smiling but shouts ‘Sandra would kill me for that!’ Sandra probably being is unfortunate fiancé. He sits back down, ‘thats me done for the night’. What? ONE lap dance off ONE girl? Surely the point of coming to a strip club as a stag is to see as many pert tits as you can, before you settle down with the same woman forever. One dance? Wow, he’s wild.

Lucikly the best man gestures me for  a dance. He is loving the atmosphere and is making the most of being here. He moans that his mates are ‘too old, they’re all married and don’t enjoy it’. He’s making up for them. He hands me £60 and asks how much that will get him. I say fifteen minutes (I’ll only give him ten, but he’s drunk so won’t notice).

We walk back out to his friends. They’re on about leaving. Apparantly Martin is on the phone outside to his wife (typical) and John (Martin’s cousin) has passed out in the toilets. Lovely.

As they trickle out after a whole 40 minutes in the club we know they’re all going back to the hotel. So much for a lost weekend ey boys?

Looking around at the group, only three have them have bothered to go for a dance. The rest have replied ‘I’m only here to make sure Martin has a god time’ ‘I’m married’ ‘I don’t like dances’ ‘I’m skint’ blah blah blah. BORING.

I need to move on and make some more cash. I scan the room to look for men who look rich and horny. It’s harder than it seems.

Keep Reading

Chapter 1

Chapter 3

 

About The Author

The London Look

Skinny jeans Prada Saffiano chambray chignon strong eyebrows tee braid neutral ribbed. Indigo Casio ankle boots Topshop skirt texture cotton denim shorts washed out Céline Luggage. Rings sneaker oversized clutch black Jil Sander Vasari crop & Other Stories Lanvin motif. Parka leather knitwear minimal beauty print vintage leggings cable knit. Choupette dove grey oversized sweatshirt white shirt tucked t-shirt la marinière Céline A.P.C. Playsuit dress navy blue backpack knot ponytail. Weekday luxe leather tote gold collar ecru beanie plaited envelope clutch statement tortoise-shell sunglasses. Tea-green button up Copenhagen relaxed longline seam street style cami powder pink flats.

3 Responses

  1. Dan

    What a fascinating insight into the mind of a stripper. I admire the clandestine contempt you have for your customers. Tell me, are we really all ‘stupid, lonely old perverts’ as you allude in your first post? Do you have anything but pity for us?

    It sounds like the perfect business relationship to me – men get to see tits, women get paid, nobody gets hurt. The kebab breath and condescension are just minor hazards in an otherwise profitable venture, not much different to the day-today gripes of more mundane professions. The perpetual whiff of stale coffee, from a patronizing boss in an endless meeting, must be just as endearing? If I could swap with you, I would.

    Reply
  2. Stripper

    Thanks for your comment Dan.

    As you can tell from the first two posts, each customer is different and that’s what’s fascinating about my job.

    Whilst some men are friendly and charming, polite and well mannered – these are not the tales people are eager to know when begging for extracts about working in a strip club.
Whilst these stories are based on reality, I have chosen particular ones which should prove more interesting to readers.

    The unfortunate kebab breath is only a minor issue. The nipple biting, ass grabbing and being told you’re too fat to work are the bigger problems.
    
Oh and leaving in debt to the club after an eight hour shift really takes the piss. I’m self employed so working for free also goes with the role.

    Comparing employment in a strip club to an office is simplistic. I’m sure you can appreciate the ‘mundane’ professions as you call them, are often not as fun to hear about.

    I’m not looking for sympathy about my job, or hoping any readers will dislike customers who go to strip clubs (after all, they’re my living and I wouldn’t be able to work if it wasn’t for them), this is merely a diary of my job.

    You would swap if you could?

    Try thinking about your balls being licked (against your will of course) by a smelly man who then refuses to pay for a dance and gives you abuse for not wanting to sleep with him. Then let me know if you would honestly trade.

    Reply
  3. Dan

    “Try thinking about your balls being licked (against your will of course) by a smelly man who then refuses to pay for a dance and gives you abuse for not wanting to sleep with him. ”

    Well that’s always been a fantasy of mine… Just kidding! Put it that way, and I’ll take my mundane job any day. Although I wouldn’t mind my balls being licked once in a while, rather than busted (figuratively speaking of course).

    You could try lacing your nipples with arsenic – that may deter/punish the biters.

    Great blog – I’ll look forward to reading more of your exploits.

    Reply

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.