These guys are often hard to spot.
I used to think you could spot them by their Rolex watches and Gucci leather loafers. Apparently not all millionaires look rich.
The thing with people who have money, is that they don’t need to prove they have it.
A lot of customers come in and show off how much they have to spend, often teasing the dancers, tempting them in like alcoholics and a free bar. These are the ones to avoid. Whilst it seems easy to go over and make money, they won’t be big spenders. They are only there for their own satisfaction, the power of wads of cash and how many girls they can potentially have a hold over that night.
Plus, once their money runs out, so do they.
The millionaires are different. They aren’t dressed flash and don’t order the most expensive drinks. They take their time in picking the right girl, those who pester and nag will not be rewarded. Millionaires need to be treated like VIP’s, after all that’s what they’re generally used to.
He comes in and orders a whiskey and coke. After some polite conversation with the waitress he is left alone, allowing Nikki to introduce herself.
Nikki’s style is pushy and arrogant. It generally works, which makes the other dancers wonder why – she fat and has saggy tits. It baffles us why she makes so much money.
After talking for ten minutes he is convinced to go for a dance. He is in the private booths for a while, he obviously spent a couple of hundred. She comes out and sits down with the rest of the girls.
‘Tight bastard. Only got £200 out of him. He’s so rich as well, partners in some sort of law firm’
As the club is getting busy I loose track of who has spoken to him. He still hasn’t gone upstairs to VIP though. In our club the VIP room is treated like the holy grail. To spend time up there customers must spend at least £130 per half an hour. Once up there, the key is to make them stay for as long as possible. Pressurising them to use their PIN can often be hard, considering VIP isn’t anything special. The room is old fashioned, littered with lager stained couches and a vomit stained carpet. The entrance is adjacent to the front door of the club meaning every time a new rowdy group of Irish stags come in, their annoying pissed banter echoes the room.
I approach him and after polite conversation I work him out. Stinking rich and eager to spend his cash but the other girls pushed VIP too much and put him off. I talk to him for what seems like hours. He’s nice, but really bland. He talks about his firm and colleagues. He is polite and not pervy. He mentions his wife but only briefly, he’s got no children but adores his two dogs. Brilliant, blah blah blah, your dogs are great, you have a kind wife and you’re really rich, now get onto the part where you make me a millionaires. Well not exactly, but some money would be nice. There’s been no muttering of a dance, or any form of financial transaction. I hurry things up without being obvious.
So, what do you fancy doing tonight?’ ’Well what do you have to offer?
A lot of men use this technique as a bartering tool. They try and play against other girls. In this case he wanted to know what I had to offer. Maybe he forgot, he’d drank a lot of whiskey and cokes since he’d arrived, or maybe the other girls hadn’t interested him. Maybe they were too pushy, it’s frustrating knowing a customer has money but is unwilling to spend it on you. We’re selfish bitches you know?
I tell him I’m happy to entertain him all night. Whatever he wants he can get (within reason, I’m a dancer not a prostitute). If he wants to sit and relax, have unlimited dances and generally have his mind taken off his stressful job – all these are possible (at a price, but I leave that part out for later).
The key to the rich man is to not mention money. They don’t want you to think that you’re exploiting them because they’re wealthy.
He reveals that ‘he likes my company’ so I play on this.
‘Well, you know you can have me all night, just me and you. We can have some private time away from the crowds’.
I direct his view around the club, filled with drunken stags and annoying football wannabees. I subtly class him in a different category to these people, as if to say ‘well we could stay down here with the riff raff or go upstairs to the VIP room where only the select few go’. (Realistically, as mentioned earlier VIP doesn’t involve any VIP treatment).
It’s much better upstairs‘ I purr. ‘Come on then, let’s go’,
he replies. He downs his drink and follows me. I hurry, there’s no way I’m losing this sale. I take him to the waitress station where dance vouchers are supplied. I haven’t told him the cost. ‘You want me all night, yes? He nods. I look at my watch, 12.35pm. We close at 4.15am which means there’s only three hours and forty five minutes left. ’That’s about £1349′ (actually it’s £630 but because he’s paying on his American Express card the club adds a 20% VAT for card payments’. He agrees to this and I wait eagerly, ensuring that the transaction has gone through.
We go upstairs and find a vacant couch. He looks unimpressed at the room. Most people are.
That’s why the clubs dim the lights and the dancers encourage the customers to get drunk. Nobody wants to be reminded that they’ve spent £1000 and have sat down in somebody else’s dried vomit from two years ago.
The waitress comes up and he orders the drinks, one for me and one for him. I give Jennifer a knowing look. She knows I don’t drink at work but she will charge him for two double vodka and lemonades (£16), give him the vodka serve me a soda water and pocket the money he’s paid for my virgin drink. She benefits from a tip larger than her hourly wage and I stay level headed whilst trying to offer this guy a good night.
As we sit there sipping our drinks I relax. I have the money and I don’t need to try and make him stay in VIP for longer as he’s paid until the rest of the night. That means I go to the toilet and text my boyfriend and explain that I need to go to the changing room for something (a cigarette and a gossip with the girls, obviously).
Seems like easy work? Sometimes it is. In this case I guess it was. I spent half an hour convincing him to spend the rest of the night in the club with me, then spent an two hours getting him drunk and listening to stories about him and his wife. He think they’ll end up getting separated soon, ‘things haven’t been going well in the bedroom department, you know? She’s pleasant but frigid’. How lovely. I bet she loves that she tells strangers the details about their sex life, or lack thereof. As he becomes drunker he starts slobbering. ‘Fancy meeting me later in a hotel room? I promise you it will be good. I’ll pay you a lot for it.’ Bluergh. Same story, different man. It always turns out like this. They get drunk and think we genuinely fancy them. They start off as Gentlemen and turn into cheating husbands propositioning young girls for sex.
At least I got paid a grand to listen to him beg.