Confessions of a stripper Chapter 10
If I was a rich girl
I’m sat here eating frozen food. You know, a council house dinner; chips, fish fingers and beans.
I can’t afford to go food shopping and my rent’s due tomorrow. Shit. Oh and council tax, I hate paying for that. When I moved into my city centre flat with floor to ceiling windows and a balcony with a view over the river I thought ‘it’s worth paying the highest council tax band for this’. Boy I was wrong.
Strippers. ‘You must make loads of money’ ‘If I was confident enough I would do this job, blah blah blah’.
Yes, sometimes I make a shit load of dish. My fifties are hanging out my garter and I go home thinking ‘£600 for an eight hour shift, not bad but I should have made more’.
I think nothing of spending £200 in Mac and I justify a £20 lunch as ‘the cost of a three minute dance’.
I splash cash like a gangster, trying to be generous when I can, but patronising in many ways. A £5 taxi ride? ‘Keep the tenner!’ ‘I’ll pay for dinner, put your money away love’. It’s sickening sometimes. Who do I think I am?
Yet today, a bleak Monday afternoon, I would love nothing more than to be treated to a tasty lunch, not consisting of anything from my freezer.
You see when times are good, they’re great. When they’re bad, they’re awful.
I don’t save, I live within my means as I know money will be coming in soon.
There’s no point in saving when I know next weekend I will be earning no less that £800.
That was then.
The strip club industry has slowly been declining.
People can’t afford to frivolously spend what they used to, businesses are unable to offer clients an expenses paid night out and with the rise of cheap international stag tours to other parts of Europe no one wants to go to a local sea side town to see some tits when they could pay the same price and get a shag in Prague.
The novelty of the strip club has diminished. No customers means no money.
So here I am, smoking a roll and feeling sorry for myself.
As a twenty five year old girl I should be saving. I know my job won’t last long so when I was in Urban Outfitters making the assistants run around after me I should have been using that money for a house deposit. I should have a mortgage by now, own my own furniture and have paid the finance on my car. Yet I’m staring at my rented flat, nothing to show for my earnings except a wardrobe full of shoes and a pile of unpaid bills.
Sitting in an empty club waiting for customers to arrive is demoralising. Pretending to be interested in their lives for half an hour in the hope of a dance then to be shattered when they say ‘sorry love, I don’t like lap dances…. there’s no point in them, I’m just here for drink’ makes me want to kick them in the balls.
‘WHY THE HELL DID YOU PAY £10 TO GET IN AND THEN £3 FOR A LUKE WARM BEER IF YOU DON’T WANT TO SEE NAKED GIRLS?! GO TO A NORMAL BAR YOU UGLY PIECE OF CRAP’. I keep quiet, I’ve already been warned by the management about my attitude. (Men shouldn’t wind me up when I’ve got PMT, it’s their fault).
Sometimes it takes four hours for a customer to enter the club. One guy between nine girls isn’t possible. We’re like vultures; waiting to feed on some poor innocent prey. Except the man isn’t innocent, he’s a horny bastard.
Last night I sat around until 1am. I spoke to four men and none of them wanted a dance. Excuses included: ‘I have no money’, ‘I’m married’, ‘I’m just here for my friend’ and ‘I’m scared I’ll get too horny, take my pants off and try to stick it up you’. How nice.
On a week night if I can get four dances that’s £80. No bad for six hours work I guess. The only problem is I pay £20 to work in the club (known as the house fee) and I also pay £20 in booth fees (for each of the first four dances I have to pay £5). I also pay commission to the club (which can be anything up to £70 on a weekend). I have to make sure I’m left with £20 for the next night so I can afford to work. So out of four dances I have £20 profit at the most, which I need to spend on a taxi home.
That’s if I’m lucky. There’s been nights where I’ve only done one dance so I’m £5 down. Other nights (fortunately only two in the time I’ve worked there) in which I’ve not secured a dance meaning I owe the club money.
It’s times like this I wish I’d saved when I was making good cash. Rather than blowing my earnings on Topshop boots (They were ‘Last chance to buy’ so I had to really) I should have saved my money for a rainy day.
But I know what I’m like. I’m a rich person trapped in a poor person’s body. Sometimes I think I’m too young to be responsible for the money I earn on good nights. I’m greedy and act like a brat. It’s when I’m sat smoking a dry rolly that it reminds me of my student days, how did I ever survive?
Stripping is a lucrative job, it’s not a long term career but it provides quick cash.
I thought I would only be doing this job for a month, but the money dragged me in. I promised it wouldn’t become addictive, but it’s hard to apply for other jobs at £16,000 a year, when I can earn that in a few months.
Days like today make me want to move on. Get a proper job, a career, wear a suit, keep my knickers on.
I know it will happen soon, it has to. Money isn’t everything and I need to stop being so greedy (and mainly stop shopping).
So tomorrow is a new day. I will start appreciating the meaning of money. Yes I will.
Just after I charge an ASOS dress to my credit card.