Suspiciously quiet for Christmas

Last night was the last Thursday before Christmas, and you know what .... it was suspiciously quiet.
I get the feeling that anybody with money has fled to the country, the office parties are all over, and blokes are more concerned with panic buying last-minute presents than lapdances.

I did alright considering that an old friend randomly popped by, who didn't know that I worked there - they knew I am a dancer though, but while it wasn't totally awkward, it did throw me off a little bit.  Took a while to get my stripper swagger back, if I'm honest...

I'm going to work tonight, in the hope that a Christmas miracle happens, and that I get a nice big fat paycheck just in time for the annual Christmas Eve pub crawl.  If I find any time, I'll pull the odd shift over the holidays, but to be honest, I don't know where I will find the time.....

Hitting a lap dance HOME RUN!!!!!

Tonight all the stars aligned and I got squillions of VIPs in half hourly increments and then hustled myself up a VIP room full of beautiful people and galloons of booze.

• Both the customers I was dancing for and my fellow dancers were seriously off the scale of hotness. Tall 6"foot men from Viking country. Check.  Super sexy teeny weeny swishy haired curvy sexkittens from Romania, Bulgaria and any country in eastern Europe ending in  -ia.....Check.
• Free flowing super chilled booze on tap.  Check.
• Good hair day, no bloat, fresh clean underwear.  Check.
• Great times with no leching, touching or aggro.  Check.
• Made oodles of money very, very easily.  CHECK.

i just wanted to show off a little folks. Its the last few nights in the run-up to Christmas, and I had the night of my dreams..... Charlie Sheen would be proud... 

Sexy Santa Stripper's outfit - good or bad this year?

Any stripper worth her salt loves dressing up and the holiday season is, for me, the really exciting time when I dust off my furs and ermine and dress as Santa's little helper for as many shifts in December as I can manage.
You might think that with the current financial climate that a lapdancer should play it safe and stick to black lingerie and the LBD.... WRONG!
Guy's love a woman in a decent santa outfit.  They are all out on their annual Christmas do.  These are guys who visit stripclubs but once or twice a year, they have been drinking all day and are  operating in a pack mentality.  Not a violent, sarcastic pack of men trying to get one up on each other, like you get with Saturday nights stag do's.  No, these guys are going to be loud, drunk, but reasonably well behaved - well their boss is with them, overseeing the proceedings after all!  So wearing something in red or white that the guys can chat and joke over is a great conversation starter and dance getter.
A stripping christmas outfit falls in two camps - the Christmas themed teeny weeny bikini versus the fun cover-up dress.  Here's a picture of a girl in Hooter's - she has found a hotpants and bikini set and stuck tinsel on it.  That still making an effort, although a real stripper wouldn't be likely to wear something so scratchy that you can't pull on or off easily.

Thanks to Stinkie Pinkie at Flickr.

Now I've got a fairly good body which is toned and trim most of the time, but I do tend to over-indulge in the winter months.  I have a few similar versions of this outfit - red and white bikini's with a fur trim, that sort of thing.  They look good with lashings of fake tan and body glitter and lots of spangly diamante jewellery.

However, if I've had too many mince pies or want to look less slutty, more glam - say for a midweek crowd, then it's good to have a proper cover-up dress. Of course I am a lapdancer so my version of a cover up would look something like this;

thanks to photognome at Flickr!

This is a cover up as....

• The stripy stockings mean that I could not shave my legs that day.
• The big belt would hide any mince pie bloating
• The little cape would keep me warm and snuggly - perfect in a nippy stripclub, or as a comfort blanket if I'm working through stripper-flu.
• I'd only need to fake tan my top half. 5 minutes till I'm on stage? no problemo...

So to summarise - get your lapdancer's body into a santa's outfit this week! It may be gloomy weather and economic prospects, but that's why there are beautiful girls on this world ready to take their clothes off and spread their festive cheer!

P.S.  Unless, like me, your co-workers are all wearing bloody Santa's little helper outfits. In which case wear the black lingerie - you will stand out more!

Best stripper songs to give a lap dance too

A stripper song is a piece of music which is either instantly associated with the art of lap-dancing, or has so many booty shaking references in it's lyrics/music video/ title - or a combination of all three.  They may not be the sexiest songs, sound wise, but they will make you take your clothes off.

The classic stripper song is naturally this brass-filled joy from David Rose in 1957;



However, in reality, this is often played at the end of the night as the final song, or perhaps as the backing music when a promotional offer is on.  I've given out branded items, such as DVD's or baseball caps, in the past, to scores of lucky guys.  If the stripclub offers a stag party stage show, this is the tune that they'll play as the poor man gets dragged up on stage to be whipped, pummelled and humiliated by several blood-thirty strippers.  It's the official Spearmint Rhino song for promos and stag parties, but the next song is famed for being Peter Stringfellow's free dance tune of choice;



If you venture into Stringfellows around midnight and this baby from Motley Crue starts up, grab a seat quick - it's topless teaser time!  The video is filled with gyrating exotic dancers on poles, the lyrics and title "Girls, Girls, Girls", are pretty self explanatory, and so simple that even the most drunken hillbilly can sing along to them.  It's also a short song, at barely over four minutes, which is great news for a strip club, as the average stripclub DJ will try and keep songs around the three and a half to four (ish) mark if possible.  Thats why that twenty pound went so quickly guys!!!

This song took over stripclubs all over the world when it came out a few years back.  "My girlfriend is a dancer - Titty dancer" by Dan Diamond - a punchy house music tune with a beat to grind to. It was the exotic dancers Marmite - you either loved it or hated it.  The lyrics rang true - we lie, we go on stage like a porn star, we count our money when we are on the phone - but giving head frequently? We don't do that in VIP!  Or do we.....?



If you hear this song come on whilst you are in a gentleman's club, take a look at the surrounding lapdancer's faces - some will be pulling faces, suddenly coming over like affronted feminists.  Others will be laughing and singing along like demented teenagers, banging their heels in time to the beat and jiggling their own big titties to the chorus line of "she's a dancer...a titty dancer".

A more heartfelt song of yearning for a lapdancer is T-Pain's "I'm in love with a stripper".  If the girls are having a bad night, this is a great song to hear, as it makes a woman feel really good - it goes on about how beautiful she is, her fantastic 'popping and locking skillz' (that's dancing skills sweethearts if you are from this side of the pond), and of course, it's a LOVE SONG FOR A STRIPPER.  Thereby proving that love is possible even for women who display themselves for money in the more vanilla side of the sex industry.



To finish off - geddit!?! "You can leave your hat on" by Joe Cocker.  Actually, this would make a great song to start a routine too, as everyone finds it funny after it was used in that miners movie, "The Full Monty".


Well that's my list of stripper themed songs to give a lapdance too.  As regular readers will have noted, I've attempted to put the accompanying you tube videos on this post.  This is my first try in two years of writing this blog, so if they don't work, please tell me and I'm deeply sorry.  If you really want to hear them, start frequenting stripclubs more often - they'll get played, I promise.  Another post is planned for great songs to strip too - I've got a few dancing favourites, what are yours?

Check out this post for great songs to give a lapdance or stageshow to....

Get naked a lot? Catch a lot of colds too!

I'm fuming.  I'm lying in bed, snotty rags and mugs of lemsip surrounding me like a germy entourage.  I've watched everything on BBC iPlayer, and all my videos.  My nose is so sore it looks like I have a ten gram a day coke habit, and I swear that the rising of my chest is making my tits sag a little bit more with every raspy cough.

I just got over a cold.  I felt like shit last week, as twitter followers may remember.  So I recuperate, then sashay back into the club three days later, ready to take it slow and push for VIPs rather than bone shaking booty dances.  And whaddya know? It was a shit Tuesday night, and I caught another fricking cold.  Again!  I coughed for the last hour, did the last stage show as a feverish chill ran through my body as it took off the scant nylon layers to stand butt naked in a draughty stripclub.

This cold is different from last weeks.  I'm running a temperature and coughing a lot, like some sick demon is tickling my throat.  I've also got achey muscles, especially in my lower back, which is making my bum hurt. last week was a sniffle - this one is a big nasty ickiness.

I'm fuming with the bad timing of it all.  Here I am, in the run-up to Christmas, a time when I should be hustling my butt off, and all the other girls are off making money while the proverbial sun shines and I'm tucked up in bed like a fleabag broad.

Strippers catch lots of colds.  Its the all-nighters we pull, the daily drinks, the proximity to hundreds of different guys every week, and the cavernous basement clubs which are freezing until the crowds fill it up.  Oh yeah, and we get naked and filthy unwashed hands try and touch us - a lot.  Guys and girls are always lunging in to slap my butt, brush against my thighs, play with my hair, and stroke my face.  I really don't care that customers get a little excited, I just wish that it could be handled without spreading germs all over me.  It would have been nice to work the fortnight before Christmas and create a little nest egg.

Ah well, there's always next year....  sniffle...

Stripped - too right there!

So I've been pouring over the recent book by `Jennifer Hayashi Dann & Sandrine Levique'
on the UK lapdancing industry- and its ties with the sex industry in the UK in general.
As I mentioned a few posts ago, I was worried it may be harrowing stuff which put me off my profession, and you know what? It is.

Score of women have rolled up to give their two bob bit and I empathise with so many elements of their problems its scary. I'll be posting a review later this week, but so far? It's scarily food for thought....
I already feel worried enough turning up to strip - what if a manager or co-worker found out I had this blog? Would I be seen as a bad influence - a whistle blower? Would I get sacked? I don't know if I am prepared to lose my job for a few scribbled down words.  As regular readers will know, I don't shit-stir, I don't name-drop, I don't moan in explicit detail about my nights at work, the guys I get naked for, the girls I do it for or the managers I tip out each night.  I just generally try and use this as an outlet for my little pieces on the stripclub industry - hell, the sex industry in London in general - I am classed as a sex worker by the government after their ruling a few year back now - anyway, I just like to write on what it is like to be a stripper in London and my thoughts on London's sex industry.
Still, the book Stripped: The Bare Reality of Lap Dancing
paints such a negative picture of exotic dancers and the attitudes that they are faced with that I am glad I have this blog, because in its own miniscule way I can be a voice for all the lap dancers out there who enjoy their jobs, who work in nice clubs, and feel that they are doing a service to mankind itself.
There, I've said it.  I'm a girl providing a service of full-blown, 5 star entertainment.  I'm a stripper. I get your rocks off.  For money. So there.
Just please, if you are my boss, don't figure out who I am and sack me.  I'm not a dancer with a malicious bone in her body - my bones are rather flexible, and tanned and trim at that.  I'm just a girl, who like anybody else, has days where she loves her profession pathway, days where she hates her job, but please don't get scared by my stripper diary.
It's as harmless as a single lapdance..... you can always have one... no1 will notice....

My Stripper blog's twin sister

Today I'm quiet excited.  I am off to visit a friend who promises me to use his geekerific magic and turn the ugly duckling of my blog, which I brutally disfigured a few days ago, into a fantastic swan.  It will be easier to read, easier to get around, more interactive and maybe even have a few photographs in there.  Lucky readers...
I've been doing some research into lap dancing blogs to see how other dancers do theres and found an interesting doppelganger - in blog format.  A ex-dancer in Australia must be as ditzy as me as she has produced a blog in the identical colour combo's and two bar look as mine - all black and pink.  I thank her for the compliment, and you can see it here
More lapdancing blogs like mine are springing up over the web all the time, and some of them make a great read.  Favourite lap dancing blogs of mine can be found on me links page of stripper blogs worth a tip which is basically a list of blogs from exotic dancers, stripclub industry blogs, escort blogs and lapdancing blogs, full of stripclub musings, and stripper thoughts.  I also love Peter Tips blog, who shows the lap dancing industry from a punters view.
For balance whilst I'm at it, here is a blog by a strip club researcher who is against lap dancing venues on her street.  Fair point I guess, unless they are in the town or city center, which are usually full of nightlife venues anyway.  To me, a nightlife venue is a nightlife venue, whether it does karaoke or go-go girls and boys. (There is actually a stripaoke night in the US run by one of my fave exotic dancing bloggers Rocket, see here)
Funny entries spring up on pole dancing especially - this article compares pole dancing to blogging, there are lots of websites on poledancing and poledancers, that sell instructional pole dancing videos and give pole dancing tips.

I'm always surfing the web to find lap dancing writings, or funny lap dancer stories - whether its an evening at a stripclub or the stripping industry in general. My favourite is Tits and Sass, which is written by sex workers.  It's beautiful, funny and when I see my computing genius pal later, I'll be using their site as inspiration!

ARGH! I've messed up my blogg

I'm really, really shite at computers - in fact, painfully so.

So I apologise for this NEW LOOK BLOG - I was messing around after a few reader comments to brighten up the damn thing, and I've royally fucked it.  I dunno how to get it back to how it was before, which is a big big shame.

I will try and get it back to its usual self asap, or I will sod it and get someone who knows what they are doing to make it look pretty again.

Its kinda like when you go to the hairdressers and are not happy with  the cut they give you, so you go home and try and try it yourself - except that it ends up TEN TIMES WORSE!!!

Lap Dancing jobs - are they really proper employment?

"So what do you do for your day job?"
One of the most common questions I get asked - or a variation thereof;

"What are you going to do in the future? After this? When you can't do this anymore?"
"What field do you work in when you are not here?"
"You can't be a stripper forever you know..."

I'm sorry. You ask me that question, night after night, and quite frankly, I find it insulting.  Lap dancing is proper employment.  I have to pull an 8 hour shift - its a full 9 to 5, give or take the clocking in times, and I am potentially rostered to work every day of the week in many of the big London clubs - thats right, Monday thru to Sunday, ad infinitum.  What other industries have the crazy working hours that a stripper can? Frontline frickin services matey.... Lap dancing venues are often open seven days a week, from lunchtime till the early hours of the morning - Secrets is open till an eyeball bursting 6am! If you are ever desperate for naked women in the middle of the night, they have venues all over goddamn town (see here)

I got asked this today, when I was soooo tired - and thats just from doing a weeks work at my strip club. I've worked every night apart from Sunday and the Strike action yesterday till the sun came up.  yeah, so some nights I've been home by 4am, but mostly I have shut my eyes as the birds were crowing and the traffic was building.
I've been reading that book that was published recently by Danns and Sandrine, and its full of women complaining that their hard work and long hours are not recognised as valid by society, even though 'raunch culture' is encouraged (you can see a really interesting review of it here by a feminist book reviewer)

Well look everybody.  Whilst I might say to your face that I am studying/caring/being a PA - that being an exotic dancer is just a stepping stone to new and bigger things -  I'm telling you now, I'm in this for the long term.  As I've said a million times boefore, I like my job, I like lapdancing, I think it is a great profession if you approach it with the right attitude.  No job is perfect, and neither are there perfect customers. Besides, with the economy as it is, the job market sluggish, and youth and graduate un-employment rising, why not capitalise on my strong sales skills and good looks by providing a second to none service?

Besides, if my contemporaries can't get a job, wouldn't it be greedy of me to take up two or more???

Getting the right stripper look for each stripclub

An exotic dancer's job is based on looks.  Yeah, sales and attitude come into it, but the right look is key.  That doesn't mean that a girl needs a boobjob, or fake tan, or locks as blonde as Rapunzel.  But it's important to realise that you need the right look - the right look for the night, the right look for the guys coming in, the guys you want to attract, and for the club itself.

Firstly, if you don't have the right look for the club then they won't hire you, or they'll perhaps tell you to sharpen up before your inaugural shift.  That's what happened to me in my first dancing job - I was being hired as a hostess but they said I looked too young.  It's true - I looked proper jailbait at 18/19 years old.

Secondly, it's nice to fit in.  The girls in any club will always look at you a bit funny when you first start - but that's the same as anyplace, right? New school, new office, new pub...  Well whilst it's nice to stand out and look special - perhaps be the only redhead, have the biggest breasts, the shakiest arse, the longest, thickest hair - you still have to make sure that you rock the look which is THE LOOK for you.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, what works for someone - or somewhere - or sometime - else, may not work all the time.  If you are auditioning for an upmarket club, then make sure you look like you take care of yourself.  You have to be immaculate.  No visible roots on those highlights.  Some nice shiny diamante jewellery.  

Your clients will be expecting girls to have a certain look - if its a busy club full of lads on the lash, channel a lads mag pin-up and throw in a few fantasy outfits for good measure.  If its busy midweek attracting business clients, then look groomed - the girlfriend that got away, the supermodel they lust after on billboards, that cute girl from the front desk.  A little black dress, stockings, whoosh those GHDs over your hair.  Turning up on a Tuesday looking like a streetwalker with patent boots and pillarbox red lips may sound like it will make you money, but in reality many men will just be scared off.

If you are feeling downbeat, make your look safe.  Lock-up any outfits which look cheap, hold bad associations, or feel tatty.  Bring out those old favourites, and perhaps cheer yourself up with some new jewellery or expensive lingerie.  A pair of stockings from Walford can be bought from Selfridges for £20, a fancy diamante ring that makes you smile every time you look at it costs under a tenner from anywhere on the high street.

if you are on stage a lot, invest in the ultimate stripper thong.  Yes you read that right - THE ULTIMATE LAP DANCER G-STRING, the kind which blows all those other butts on stage away.  AWAY!  In picking a thong, you have several considerations;

• BRIGHT ; make your thong so bright that it shines from 50 yards away - because that's how far from your naked booty your customer is sitting.  Get your dancer pal to order a drink form the bar and watch you on stage. If she is not blinded, the thong is wrong. Flouro or crystals need to be maxed.
• DIAMANTE - Look, crystals catch the light, and you will be standing in lots and lots of spot lights when you are on stage, so ignore the chafe and Swarovski your arse. Your spangly crotch will thank you for it once those notes start getting shoved in the elastic...
• CURVES I really don't understand all these thong coming onto the market that go straight across your bum. It makes even the most well toned exotic dancer look flabby and fat. Buy the dental floss that curves up, or for the very least, pull it up across your butt cheeks.
• BUM BUM BUM I've given a million lap dances, and men fall into two camps with me.  They are either an ass or a tit man.  So why so many lapdancers pay no attention to their pants is beyond me.  Pay attention to your pants! If you are tired, bored, need to pick your nose, cough, yawn, or all of the above, you will need to turn around and wiggle your butt. So make your arse a joy to see. 
• PROLONGING LAP DANCES Look, this is easy-peasy - the longer it takes for you to strip, the bigger likelihood that you will get a 2nd or more lap dance.  Thats another 20 in your pocket. So play with those panties.
• LABELS Please for the love of Bacchus (God of Debauchery), pretty please, cut the bloody labels out of your pants.  Stripper pants have a lot of wear and tear, and a short shelf life, so if you haven't bought a job lot from the outfit guys that pop up occasionally, a dancer is more likely o wear Primark than La Perla.  Just cut the label out so that the guy who just dropped a grand on you in VIP doesn't think 'CHEAP!'  He wants to stare at your beautiful curves, not the fruits of child labour....

If your look is not working, check out what the top-earners are doing.  And copy it. 

Well they do say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?

Cocky attitude fails him

He said he worked in banking, but had probably only just started, as he had the face of a cheeky teenage boy. besides, is equities really banking, or is more one of the prolifigate spank-shops based around the city of London's Square Mile? They are all filled with similar in-your-face city boys, shiny suits over a candy-striped TM Lewin shirt.
He talked back with endless questions and snorts of derision - he knew it all, my efforts at friendly banter was pure bullshit in his eyes. I made saucy comments back and became abrasive myself before turning the conversation to Essex nightlife. He was from somewhere beginning with B. Brentwood or Buckhurst Hill, it's all TOWIE land - a far fetched reality TV show of loud personalities and preening image obsessed Essex lifestylers.
Ironically enough, the first words out of his mouth were about how much he hated his infamous local territory - Sugar Hut and Faces were filled with annoying clubbers, even though they all share the same attitude and upbringing, they are 'too cool' to admit an association.
Just when I'd finally found some common ground to talk about, he changed direction by demanding a dance. I was so pleased that the ordeal was almost over - I could stop focusing on the minefield of words and instead play with my curves in their raunchy new lingerie set.
He passed me a couple of twenties as soon as we got to the booth, and I started slowly undressing, with lots of eye to eye contact and playful winks to keep the guys attention. He had been so easily distracted at the bar I was surprised when he settled down like a meek little choirboy, hypnotized by my tits. His hands were not so well behaved though, brushing up my thighs and making repeat efforts to caress my bum. He'd touch me, id brush his hands off teasingly, he'd try and touch me again, I'd move back, he'd beckon me closer - it was an endlessly repeating dance within a dance.
We stayed for the original two songs and then for one more. I must have been a very sexy little girl to keep him so interested that he became forgetful. His cocksure attitude failed him at the last hurdle - he handed me three twenty pound notes as he left the booth, obviously forgetting that he had already paid me £40.

I like it when that happens - but just in case he realised his mistake, I scurried off in the opposite direction afterwards....

Are Strippers Self-Employed? Landmark Court Case

Stripping has been in the news again this week, with more publicity highlighting that its not always a glamorous and rosy picture after all.  A former stripper is in the process of suing Stringfellows after she was 'unfairly dismissed'.  According to reports if she wins it could set a legal precedent for dancers in the adult entertainment industry, and give the dancing girls of Britain legal rights.  Our rights as lapdancers are pretty murky, even though the obligations that we have to the club are set in stone, and we are often fined, suspended or sacked if we break them.
The Guardian did a great piece on the case in their legal section, find it here.  If you prefer a more sensationalist tabloid view, the Daily Mail wrote about it here and the Sun here.
At the moment lapdancing is pretty one sided - heavily weighted in the clubs favour.  There will always be more girls willing to take a dancers place after all, especially in these desperate times.  A girl can be here today, gone tomorrow, even if she has been at the club for 6 months - even 6 years!  It's a real pack your bags and F**k off mentality, and whilst some clubs operate a three strikes and your out system, with a written record of any misdemeanours, quite often its a case of bullying, personality clashes and a show of power.
If she wins, the Guardian's legal affairs correspondant says that we could get the same legal rights as other employees.  I'm a bit unsure what else it could mean for us lapdancers as, unsurprisingly, all the articles focus on the kind of questions I get endlessly asked myself - How much did she earn, what was her biggest night, who did she dance for, did she get naked etc. 
But I'm going to keep an eye on this breaking news story because if she wins, I know by experience that it will probably result in two things; all the dancers will be called in for a house meeting, compulsory attendance or get fined (I've had to pay £50 before!), and the management will probably use it as an excuse to deduct more from our wages, ie: if you miss a shift you will get fined, house fee price will rise, some glorified bouncer with nil team management skills will devise a new shift/fine system with out consulting any lapdancers to see what would work.  You may read this and think I'm complaining, but I'm not - generally speaking exotic dancers get treated by the management and clubs the same way motorists often are - as cash cows, with a myriad range of deductions and heavy penalties levied on them.  So I'll be watching this, and will make space in my diary for the inevitable meeting and deductions to follow....

Dejected & Rejected

Tonight was such a big knock to my confidence. I walked into the club nice and early with a spring in my step, feeling like a million dollars after the best haircut I've had all year.
But I missed out on several chances.
I also put the time in before getting passed over for another blonde.
There were several awards do's this evening and every stripclub in London was surely filled to the rafters with rich men bursting with party spirit.
I know mine was...
But I missed out, and steadily watched with rising trepidation as VIP booth after VIP booth got filled up with missed chances and their lucky girls. As more dancers got taken off the floor, the number of girls available for stage rotation decreased till the flood turned into a trickle and the same girls - us despondent band of rejects - were called up again and again.
I became one of them.
I couldn't, and still can't, believe it.
I felt impotent to the siren call of the DJ. Everytime I stepped onto a podium I could feel myself being dashed onto the rocks, my goodwill and good nature sacrificed in a suicidal mission to make the place look good to the few remaining losers who skulked the floor. The kind of guys who would be hard pushed for a lapdance, let alone 2.

As the night wore on, my shoe leather & patience wearing thinner with every step, I began to get terribly bored and despondent.
I turned from a sassy lapdancer with a brand new 'do to an unloved and unwanted showpony.
Call me irrational but I'm upset.
Upset at how my high expectations were torn apart so cruelly.
I left as soon as I could tonight and walked the streets of London soaking up the quiet.
Call me irrational but I was upset...
I tore off my fake lashes, falling tears had made the glue unstick. It was easy to rip them off, and it felt good. Like a weird cosmetic self-harm.
I glimpsed my reflection in the shop windows, all dark and closed for business at 3am.
I saw my slim figure, hunched, dwarfed by a bag bulging with so-called sexy gear and lucky pants.
My new blonde locks shined like a beacon under the streetlamps. I felt like tearing the stupid hair out, strand by strand.

I know, I know, you'll all be calling me irrational now, but I fell so far, and so hard, in just a matter of hours.

Dejected, I walked and walked until I found myself at Trafalgar Square. Grand edifices made of Portland stone and marble rose all around me. I lit a cigarette and cried.
The spray off the lion fountains looked like hot steam in the chilled night air.
I realized a haircut was not a panacea.
I resolved to do better.
I dried my eyes and went home.

There's always the next time....

Stripclub Stereotypes #11 ; The Eastern European Stripper

Like most British industries, the stripping world has been hit by an influx of immigrants from the former Soviet Bloc states and other countries in the Eastern Europe diaspora over the past decade or so.  They are easy to spot, as they all have long thick hair untouched and undamaged from years of bleaching and extensions, and look like a catwalk model.  Luckily for this historically crappily accurate (ish) account of how they travelled across Europe just to show you their sweet little pussies,  they didn't all come at once, and certainly don't all look the same....

The first wave were the Poles - tall, blonde & blue-eyed young ladies from Poland. As their nationality would suggest, the Poles made very good strippers as they looked excellent draped around a pole, your lap, or each other.  Some even took the jingo reference seriously and became highly-proficient feature dancers with acrobatic pole-work shows.
A few years later, the Estonians and Latvians showed up, I think - a various hotch-potch of countries, bringing with them a kaleidoscope of varying languages and womanhood.  Changing-rooms across the country were suddenly mini United Nations, and the women now on offer were of all sorts of beauty.  Brunette, blondes, mousy, eyes of baize green, icy blues and deep russet browns. they smoked funny cigarettes, such as thin Vogues, and mostly came in pairs or cliques, chattering away in conversations peppered with gutteral pronunciations and the odd designer label 'Mulberry', 'Dolce' & of course, 'Primarni' as the big store on Oxford Street was freshly opened and was - and still is - a mecca for a girl looking for some cheap underwear.
Most recently, the Romanians have ventured onto British shores.  The Romanian girls pushed a whole new kind of meaning to pushy and ridiculousy sexy.  These girls are usually so drop-dead gorgeous you would think they were the underworlds harem.  I've never seen such long, luscious hair, deep black with thick waves and curls.  Eyes are a deep black, wide and open, and fix men with a hypnotic stare.

As a stripclub stereotype, the Eastern European Stripper (and I know that this is a broad bunch and that this post is a very broad generalisation), anyway, the Eastern European strippers can be said to be intoxicatingly beautiful, with willowy figures to die for, full breasts, and a work ethic that puts the average homegrown British stripper to shame.  Imagine you are a customer.  You go for a dance with a charming, pretty little girl from Devon, and you will probably spend £20-60 on her.  It's easier to say no, somehow.  However, go for your next dance with an Eastern European stripper, and you will blow double that.  Go with a Romanian that puts the exotic into exotic dancer, and you won't even have dances - she will lead you straight into VIP, and avail you of at least £150.  I truly wish I knew what they said, and how they did this, as I could then be writing this post from a nice beach-hut in the Caribbean.  I suspect that the enduring fascination with Eastern European strippers is that so many of their kindred feature prominently in porn movies, so bits of them look erringly similar to what the average bloke jacked off to when he was younger, or even last night's secretive fumble whilst the missus was putting the kids to bed.....

where's my copy?! 'Stripped; The Bare Reality of Lap dancing'

Ooohhh, there is a new book out on stripping, and I'm eager to get a copy. But damnnit! Amazon has sold out.  This means that it's probably massively popular already, which is great news for me as I'm currently scribbling away on a lapdancing novel of my own.  Ahhh, how I dream of a major retailer selling out of my own silly scribblings....
So, the new book out is;


'Stripped; The Bare reality of Lap Dancing' by Jennifer Hayashi Danns & Leveque Sandrine and here's an Amazon link


I first heard about it after a Twitter follower (thankyou honey!) alerted me to a review in the Guardian.  I read and reread the piece with some interest as the views purported seem to be the exact opposite of mine - Jennifer worked for two years as a lapdancer and she didn't like it.  At all.


The review said that she drank daily, daily meaning before, whilst prepping and during work.  Lots of girls took cocaine or drank-drived home.  I agree that a lot of women in the stripping profession turn to drink or drugs, but so do many women nowadays in their twenties - drinking and drugtaking are so normalised into social culture and practices that I am more suprised if somebody doesn't drink or dab in a little coke now and then.


But I really emphasised with her stories, collected from various dancers in conjunction with a campaigning co-author, Leveque Sandrine.  God, they make them sound so nasty - and I suppose a lot of them are.  Guys making you feel like shit, whether it's through the levying of pointless fines by a misogynistic management or customers making degrading comments, which get increasingly tiring as they stack up though the night.


The books main thrust, as far as I can tell from the review, is that lapdancing is psychologically damaging.  (I'm really hoping that this isn't true, as I've been in the business for so long now, and would hate to turn out as a crackpot)  But seriously, I think that stripping is harmful for many girls.  In my experiences, their ability to deal with it centers on just a few aspects; the average customers attitude, the level of contact, and how strong a base the dancer has herself.  A girl away from home for the first time at university may find it very difficult.  A journeying dancer - a stripper on tour - in a different bedsit/friends couch/club every week, may find that she gets more worn out and snappy, more introspective.  A girl who is falling in and out of love shouldn't be working till she becomes steady Eddie once more.  A girl who has failed to budget properly, and then work turns quiet, and she doesn't get that windfall she was counting on, well they always say that desperation leads to drink and drugs and ruin.


Yeah, we all have bad days at work.  But if you are a lapdancer without a strong mental barrier to block it all out a bad shift or comment can linger and fester, as Dann notes;  
"While you are dancing you don't talk about it – because if you are not going to stop, what possible value is there in letting [those thoughts] fester? That's why I would question research which only talks to people who are still working."


The book is clearly written with an agenda - a moralistic, anti-stripping one.  I'm a bit scared actually that it will be so full of depressing stories which strike a chord with me that I will go slightly loopy. I started this blog as a way to filter out a lot of the bad comments and soul-destroying evenings - writing has always been a cleansing and cathartic experience for me.  My first blog, the stripper bride, was often written when I was in a bad place, and many of my shifts did make me unhappy.  Even more petrifying is the knowledge that many of their arguments will be heavily researched, and coming from all directions - political, psychological and sociological - directions which I have studied myself.  What if through reading, I am turned away from my profession; "Danns hopes her book will persuade others that this industry harms men and women alike. "There's something uncomfortable and unbalanced in a fully clothed man paying a woman to strip naked."


Anyways, I'm not going to form a valid opinion until I read the book, which I will probably read with a good bottle of red, just to make the nasty truth medicine go down a little better. 

stripping for squaddies & war vets

Eleventh day of the Eleventh month in the Eleventh year of the Second Millennium

It's Rememberance Day today

I've been giving lapdances to lots of injured soldiers this week as London has been full of war veteran memorial dinners and parties.  Most stripclubs are 'squaddie friendly' - they will let men in a uniform in for free, particuarly those who were hurt in battle.  More than I can say for many of the drinking dens in London - shame on you for not letting them in to let off steam!

I always give a little extra to the war veterans, whether I spend more time than usual talking to them, am even more upbeat and flirty than usual, or give them 2 for 1 lapdances.  Basically I give a shit when they meet me as an exotic dancer. And they look really hot in their uniforms!

This week I've done lots of dances and its been really hard for me.  last night I cried all the way home - I just had to release after acting so happy and upbeat on the outside but inside I was thinking - 'your legs been blown off! You have badly burnt hands!' Poor sods.

So today, I remember you guys - and remember, I'm always happy to take my clothes off for my country!

Stock-Pick Heroics

I've been encouraged to dip my manicured toes into the murky world of stocks and shares.  Well, I meet enough boys from the city - why not try playing them at their own game?

Once again, Simon English from the Evening Standard has been in touch, and in what must be the ideal dinner party dream, I found myself sat at a table with a City analyst, a journalist, and a PR guy.  Naturally I was the only blonde present, and thought that I added a certain flair to the proceedings.  Simon asked that I dressed 'demure' as it was a 'business lunch in Kensington'. Keeping true to my sexy stripping self, I wore heels and a russet-orange bodycon dress.  Well, a girl has to look good for lunch, right?

I'm now a competitor playing with ten thousand pounds, and rather than spending it in Selfridge's shoe hall, I'm investing it in glitzy, glamorous shares.  With Christmas coming up I don't see how I could go wrong!

I'm dropping two grand on;

Gold - a bit tacky with my colouring, but the rest of the world drape themselves in it.  Especially rich Arabs, who surely control the stockmarket/world economy/stuff.

Silver - a gorgeous seductive precious metal, like me.  

Diamonds - a girl's best friend, especially when they come in a Tiffany's blue box.  Stripper's love a twinkle too - spangly thongs & chandelier earrings!

LVMH - because I love champagne & fancy Salma Hayek

Burberry - because I am a proud Londoner & it's run by girls.

My competitor's are Jeremy the Stockbroker (a charming man) Harry the Hedge-Fund, Whiskers the Cat and Mickey the Mattress.  For some reason I've been called Lisa the Lapdancer - I think I preferred Lucy as in my previous article, but whats a few more stagenames?!?

The competition is running over the next three months - you can read all about it here

Wish me luck!!!

No fighting on the floor

It's been a slow couple of weeks in London's lapdancing industry what with Halloween and Guy Fawkes both taking up the weekends, not to mention half term. Whose gonna end their night at a stripclub if you are carting your family around dressed as a Vampire?
Stripclubs aren't as catty as you might expect - it's a glorified sales floor after all, but when the going gets tough, us girls get our claws out...

Firstly, it's the powerful mixture of money, booze, and large groups of competing women. Most dancers will have a drink or two to warm them up at the beginning of their shift at say, 8 or 9 o'clock, and if there are no customers to talk to they will keep on slowly sipping away. Stripclubs are renowned for big double measures too...

Throw desperation into the mix and shit gets nasty. It's simple striponomics - every night a large number of girls do badly, but they still need to pay their rent, so they come in the next night too. Thus the amount of strippers increases till you get twice the normal amount on even the usually quiet Sunday,Monday,Tuesday shifts. That's a lot of girls hungry to hustle whoever walks through the door....

So I've seen a fair number of bitch fights recently. The scramble when a guy comes in has escalated into an Olympic sprint across the club, pushing & shoving is a daily occurrence, and everyone's complaining to the management that so-and-so is a greedy slapper.

It's quite amusing really. If you like the idea of half-naked wrestling girls, visit your local stripclub and wave a few pound notes into the air. You big tease!

Monday moon in aries

Ohhh apparently the moon is in Aries, my star sign, and this fills me full of energy and awesomeness.

I'm going to use it to my advantage by jumping in the shower and thinking positive thoughts as I scrub the fading tan from my body.
I'll then be a nice moonlight White which I can set off with lashings of perfumed cream till I glisten like a star.
I'm then gonna meditate for a few minutes on my goals for this week. I like to do this on a Monday as otherwise I can be do scatty that I get terribly distracted by gin, tonic, or a combination of the two.
I'm then going to grab my new Italian lacy number which is in a lovely pearly white and strip all night like the moon maiden I am.

Isn't it great when strippers spend too much time alone and go slightly dotty? I think that must be the moons effects too....

P.S. I'll keep you updated on how cosmic this week goes....

Getting motivation is exhausting

I've been in a slump recently.
Filled from tip to toe with ennui till even my nipples could burst from boredom.
It's because I've been trying to do a writing project the fear of which has been making me run away from it.
Kinda like a literary suicide...

I've always been one for shooting myself in the pedicured foot, purposefully putting it off or giving up.

In many ways, that's why lapdancing is such a good job for me. I can put it off in so many facets;

Should I work tonight - or not?
Should I approach him - or them, or wait for another?
Should I do pole work, or just lie languidly?
Should I mention VIP or just grab a dance first in case he's scared off by the sums involved?
Should I be late or get in early?

Lapdancing is all about choices - but when you have too many options, you often end up doing nothing at all...

Time for a Body Overhaul

Well I'm back from my little sojourn in Italy, and whilst I had a fantastic time, I am now faced with several problems....

Flickr by KWDesigns

• Carb overload.  I'm not stupid, I knew that this would happen in the land of pizza and pasta.  Luckily for me, I find it very difficult to put weight on, and even if I do pile on a few pounds, they usually pad out my tummy or tits, never the hips.  So after five days stuffing my face with mozzarella in all it's incarnations (creamy burrata, heavy smoked scamorza, melted and gooey mozzarella that stretches from mouth to plate - you get the idea), anyhow, even after five days of munching my body still looks ok.  Not perfect, but still a size 8, except that now with a bit more cleavedge and a little pot belly.  Nothing that a bit of fake tan can't sculpt...
• Patchy tan.   I didn't top myself up whilst I was away, so my usual layer of terracotta gloop has rubbed off.  It was also in the pleasant twenties so I even caught a bit of sun, especially whilst walking around the glaring ruins of Pompeii.  Again, it's nothing that careful application of fake tan can't fill in....
• Dodgy knee  Partying by night & sightseeing by day has left me with a swollen knee.  It's the first time my knee's given out through over-use, and I'm pretty worried about it as I'm usually in such good flexible shape.  I'll be calling my masseuse to pound out any stiffness in my joints and muscles, but will also have to find a decent physio to take a look at what could turn into a lingering problem which would be disasterous for my career. (And no, I don't get sick pay guys!)
• Red Wine Teeth  I drank a lot.  I think I damaged my kidneys too as I had a lower back ache for a good 24 hours.
• BUT THE GOOD NEWS IS.....  I had a well-deserved holiday, got to see some beautiful sights both ancient and modern, got trashed with old friends and made lovely new ones.  I also spoilt myself to a lovely lingerie slip in Italian silk and lace that will be perfect for work, and several traditional devil's horn good luck charms, so hopefully they will manifest in lot's of lucky VIP's and multiple lapdances.......

That 70's vajazzle show

Like most people, I dream about work every now and then.  Seeing as I work in a stripclub in London, these dreams could seem quite vividly sexually bizarre to the Freudian crowd, or they are just another night at work, done in a surreal dreamlike way????

"The musical intro to that '70s show came on, and I was walking through a wood, beautifully dappled with sunshine and greenery.  I met a large family - kinda like the one from the show, but they were all dressed as woodland hippies. They invited me into tehir hut for something to eat, but before I'd had a bite of the delicious fruits and food on the table, the young middle sister grabbed me in a fit of jealousy, holding a blunt knife to my throat.  I screamed, but the others, seeing that the knife was blunt, figured I couldn't really get hurt and watched to see what happened.  The girl and I began to wrestle, I grabbed her hands and flung her to the floor.  Mid-tustle I remember thinking - "this is very un-like me to be so violent, but it's kinda fun", and a rush of adrenaline ran through me as I had the power and upper hand, now sitting astride the struggling girl.  Having managed to free myself from her grip and the knife, I ran away from the little woodland cottage, running faster as I realised I was by now very late for work.
I reached a Roman temple, which in my dream was my club, and promptly met a lovely smiling litle guy who wanted to go to VIP with me.  The VIP booths were down a maze of corridors, and were done Roman style, with flowing chiffon drapes hanging on the walls, and low banquettes and chaise lounges to sit and dance on.  We did half an hour, laughing talking and giggling about my nakedness.  Then his mate came along with another dancer, and joined our party.  When the half hour was up, we wanted to stay - my guy said it was the best time of his life, but the other man wanted to go and tried convincing his friend to leave with him.  
I looked down, and realied that my glittery vajazzle had slid across my body from all that fighting and dancing, and was now stuck like a sparkly chain motif around the left half of my waist. I looked at the twinkling sparkles on my skin, and woke up" 

When the going gets tough, the tough get going

It's half term here in England, the first half term of the school year, and in the strange world of the West End, it's always the quietest week.
The parents are at home, struggling to cope with the reality of having the kids around all day, every day, and the masses without responsibilities stay in too; Halloween is days away, and next to Christmas & the August Bank Holiday, it's a HUGE party weekender.  Plus no-one has got used to the cold and rain yet, and it will take until mid-November till people ignore the weather and go out regardless.

Of course, just coz the punters stop coming in doesn't mean that us exotic dancers stay at home too.

Nah, we still turn up in droves....

if you go to a stripclub in London this week you will have your pick, there will be ten beautiful girls to your one man (or woman!)

I'd say go down and support a stripper, but I'm getting the hell out of dodge and going on an impromptu holiday to Italy to see the sights and a few friends.  It's been a crappy week moneywise and rather than losing my curves to stress I'm gonna go eat hot steaming plates of creamy carbs, drink red wine till it dribbles down my chin and remember how sensitive my teeth are sucking on my gelato ( teeth whitening - you need pearly gnashers to be a smily stripper but that bleach makes them as sensitive as an octogenarians)

As they say in Italy, ciao!

Update on my butchered pussy

Thanks for all the kind messages written by those twittering readers who, grimacing in sympathy pains, read my post on an extremely painful waxing a few days ago.  I've been watching my lady garden heal and it's been an interesting set of developments....

Firstly, I've taken every night since off from work, because;

• The skin is red raw, and doesn't look paticuarly attractive.
• Little weeping spots and tiny scabs where a layer of skin got whipped off mean that I don't want to run the risk of infection from covering it with make-up or fake tan.
• The thought of chaffing as I pull my G-string up and down multiple times in the night makes me wince.  Lace panties would run the risk of getting snagged, nylon seems too sweaty, and big cotton granny pants are out of the fucking question for various obvious reasons.

I've even had to change my usual food, as I am a big fan of spices and chilli, but its been all salt and no pepper as the bum area has naturally been feeling a bit sensitive too.  You feel like a baby getting her nappy changed when the therapist hoists your legs into the air so that she can wax your crack.  My arse isn't a ring of fire, unlike my snatch, but it's still a bit tender from her manhandling and over-enthusiatic hot molten wax application, so best to err on the side of caution and eat plain fare.

The vajazzle is intact, but as the skin around it is so irritated it's taking real willpower not to pick all the gems off in a furious scratching frenzy.  The previous times I got vajazzled, I wore sexy and alluring underwear non-stop as I was so inwardly proud of my dazzling cunt that twinkled when I took a tinkle.  However, this time I have been slopping around in silk french knickers and cotton briefs from M & S and slobbing around the sofa in trackie pants and Thai fisherman's trousers.   The only dancing I've done in the past 72 hours was a dance for joy when I discovered my silk pajama's with a fleecy lining at the back of my wardrobe.  The epitome of comfort.... 

All-in-all, what should have been a standard beauty procedure to turn me into a smooth porno goddess has wrenched my bits apart till I am a hobbling feral-cat that scratches herself on the sofa more often than an ITV ad-break.  The only equipment I'm letting within a five foot radius of my poor frazzled pussy is a hot water bottle.  But I've discovered a solution.  It's friday, I've called in sick and the local pub doesn't mind if I wear the same trackie suit all weekend.  Alcohol is also a much better pain reliever than aspirin, paticuarly for butchered pussies (true- the ships cat's of old loved a tot of rum when on the high seas).  

I'm off for a pint....

Does waxing hurt more after sex?

Hobbling out of the salon with tears in my eyes, I have to ask - does waxing hurt MORE if you've just had sex?

I'd be inclined to say that it really, really does, as I remember the waxes I've had in far more vivid details than most of the sex I've had.  This waxing session will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I'd had a little shag and a nice orgasm in the morning, then popped out for lunch, and stupidly decided to see if my local salons had any walk-in's available.  I'd noticed that they had started doing vajazzling last time I was in there, and was really keen to get another one - I'm not a vajazzle virgin anymore, so have the chutzpah to make gungho decisions like walking into a salon and getting her bits ripped apart after a nice burger and chips lunch.

The hair was too short to grip to the wax properly - OWCH

Wax is also very hot - OWCH

She had to rewax some areas more than once as hairs failed to come out - OWCH

Any left-over hairs were threaded out - bits of cotton pulling at individual hairs - OWCH

The got out the tweezers once the threading had reduced me to tears - OWCH

Finally, she rewaxed with the cream wax to clean it up - OWCH

...Before pressing down hard on the vajazzle sticker to make it stick - OWCH OWCH OWCH

My skin has literally been flayed, my poor, poor little pussy is swollen, with angry looking bumps all over it that will probably cause some nasty spots and ingrowing hairs in the future.

The vajazzle sticker isn't even in quite the right place, it's more thigh than vaj, and the twinkles it gives off are bouncing of the red raw skin.  Even the crystals don't look right as they are not sitting on an enticing trimmed lady garden, but balanced precariously on a ferocious undulating tide of angry growler.

I'm sure that because my bits had been excited a few hours previously - lets say three - that it reacted with a vengeance once I put it through so much pain.  My poor pussy was probably all snuggled in the dark womb of my comfy French knickers, enjoying having been licked and loved, safe in the knowledge that I wouldn't be getting her out again till nighttime, where she would be squeezed into some sticky, stretchy nylon G-string, with a dental floss behind which sweated up my ass crack.  I'm sure she was very happy - that is until my brain randomly came up with the crappest idea of the century AKA hot wax, hair pulling, extra-strength glue and not a minute's warning.

No wonder my faithful friend is now sulking right royally, and will probably develop an itchy rash once the swelling, burning sensation has subsided, just to really make sure that I get taught a lesson here.

Doppelganger Stripper

I met my doppelganger last night.  She was a girl I hadn't spoken to before, but we got talking to a customer at the bar together, and over the course of the three-way conversation I knew straight away that we had a lot in common.

Some dancer's are like chalk and cheese, but the two of us were eerily similar - blonde, English, educated.  We both had long blonde hair, styled with a slight curl.  We were both wearing 50's style make-up last night - a smear of bright red lippie to set off our pearly whites, a thick flick of eyeliner and long lashes - but not heavy, more seperated and spidery.  It's the kind of make-up I like to wear on the slower nights - it's easy to do, you look beautiful but approachable, and make's a great impact on the older or more classy clientele.

I did notice however that her lashes were real, whilst I wore fakes at the outside corners - this gives a really natural looking effect, and, really really annoyingly, her teeth were far whiter than mine.  My teeth are white, but not that white - in fact they aren't even that white either, now that I'm looking at them in the mirror - getting stoned and drinking lots of red wine over the summer has stained my teeth quite a bit.  Best book up that dental hygenist again....

On the positive side, my tits were better.  So there.  Nobody's perfect, hey?

But don't think that I was silently bitching and scheming about my doppelganger - quite the opposite in fact.  I was really happy to meet a stunner who shared my style, and - big tick in the box here - was also English and could hold a decent conversation on lot's of interesting topics.  So happy in fact that when I saw her later I grabbed her for a double dance with another guy I'd been talking to, which is the ultimate stripper seal of approval.  Nothing say's 'nice to meet you - let's be friends' than a crisp 20 that someone else did the hustling for.  It's like money for free.

Doppelganger and I had a little goodbye chat at the end of the night too, and even checked what shifts we would be sharing next.  It's nice to make new friends in this industry, especially when they are pretty and pleasant!!!

I turn smokin' hot for Chicago

Drinking is the norm in UK stripclubs - this is one way that we are ahead of the States, as we allow full nudity flashing and gallons of booze in our tittie bars....
So there I was in a VIP a few days back - before I caught the stripper flu which has plagued me all week - with a couple of guys who were over from Chicago, USA, and two hot Eastern europeans.  We were discussing the differences between US and UK stripclubs, and how this one in London compared in particular.  The general consensus from the Americans was that the girls were hotter here, the club looked a lot nicer than some of the dives they'd been to in the US, although there were similar palaces of pussy plushness in the big cities, and finally, the UK was a lot stricter when it came to touching, and laxer when it came to drinking.

Now us girls are pro's, and whilst we are happy to discuss the differences, we are not going to concentrate on the bad points like 'no-touching-at-least-not-that-much-and-definately-not-my-bits-mister'.  So we all started praising about the drinks on the table and the drinks available and the Eastern European girls, true to form, started to yell for something stronger - shots in fact.

A round of shots, nice and clear in their little fluted shot glasses, appear  as if by magic and are shoved on to the table in between the champagne bucket and assorted glasses, packets of fags (smoked outside only), mood-light lamp and a rogue G-string.

The two Eastern-Euro's take charge.  Now these girls resemble the Tsar's sister's, with long straight sweeps of dark chocolate hair, Pocahonta's style, and big dark almond eyes - they look like a pair of beautiful slim Russian ballerina's, although I recall they were from one of the satellite's - Estonia, or Lithuania.  But don't be fooled by their dainty frame - these girl's can knock back the hard stuff, as they were eager to demonstrate.

"Letch drink wiv no hands, yezzz?!?" said the first prima-ballerina.

The Chicago guys whooped and hollered as she artfully pulled her long tresses out of the way, crossed her hands behind her, and gracefully bent down - no crouching here - and grabbed the glass in her mouth, pulling herself back up in a graceful flick as she knocked the shot back.

"Ummm, yummy" squealed the first prima ballerina in pleasure.

"Ohh, yez, itz my turn, yez?!?" said the second prima ballerina in her husky accent, and she was the epitome of grace as her long lean body leant down and gobbled up the shot, all legs and no-hands, flashing a dazzling smile in the lamplight as she did so.

The Chicago guys were very impressed - hell, so was I - and whooped and hollered for me to perform a similar trick myself.  The two prima ballerina's had made it look so easy that I was sure I could also drink a shot with both hands behind my back, so I bent over, lowered myself onto the shot glass, grabbed it with my teeth, and knocked it back..... Ta Da!!!!

However, as I came back up the two prima's were screaming and the Chicago guys were whooping and hollering and now waving their arms in the air and I could smell burning .... burning hair in fact.....

My hair!

As I'd leant down over the table my uber-flammable bleached tresses had got too close to the lamp, which unbeknownst to me hid a lit candle.  Whoosh! Like a tinderbox bits of blonde went up in Elnett flames.

One of the guys grabbed the cloth wrapped around the champagne bottle and doused it in the ice before applying it to my head.  Luckily it smelt worse than it was, and only a relatively tiny strand of clip-in extensions had been set alight, so my real hair was un-touched.

After thanking everyone, who were all in fits of giggles at my klutziness, I scuttled backstage and cut out the offending extensions, which stank of champagne and burnt hair.  Once these were gone & I'd sprayed some perfume on I was thankfully back to normal, and rejoined the merry party in the VIP booth, where we all got another few hours!  Hurrah!

I'm glad that I fucked up and maimed my fake hair in front of American's, who always have a good sense of humour for incidents like this, but I've learnt my lesson - don't enter into a space-race with Russian stripper's - I've got too much to lose, not least my fake blonde tresses! 

Stripper's all over Snoop Dogg

I went to see his Dogginess himself, Snoop Dogg, yesterday for some Friday night fun at the O2 arena.  (I'm not a big fan of the huge, soulless venue which stipulates that the show ends at 11pm precisely with no encore exceptions, as I'm more into dive bars and sweaty clubs when it comes to watching live music).  But the show was a fab suprise, as I hadn't realised how many songs were his - even though I was still battling my stripper-flu, I was waggling my little bottom on the terraces for a good hour and twenty!
Snoop Dogg is synonymous with strippers, biatches, ho's, and general gyrating hotty-botty's of the female persuasion.  I hear his songs at least once a night at any stripclub I've ever worked at, whether it's his old 90's stuff or the more recent bass-thumping crowd pleasers.  He even met a bunch of my friends when he launched his new album 'Doggumentary' at Platinum Lace last May.  I loved the pictures of him surrounded by sexy dancing pals in black spandex romper suits whilst he smiled, full row of gnashers gleaming, and sat on his trademark throne.
I was planning to go to work after, but then when the concert finished at 11pm I realised that I was too late even for the late late shift, and that my stripper flu was still hanging around, like a man in a dirty mac who is nursing the last drops of beer so he can drivel at the titties on stage.  I've spoken to lots of people who have similar symptoms of exhaustion and horrible hacking coughs full of green flem, so I guess something is going around ol'London town now that the heatwave has gone and the weather is changing back to it's usual drizzly English self.
So I guess I'll just have to keep my tiny toned arse sitting on the sofa for another night till my stripper flu subsides, and if I miss the club, I'll just recreate last night with some Snoop Dogg tunage...

Stripper does Geek - badly

Oops! As if more proof was needed that I am not the world's most technically efficient blogger, I haven't posted on my blog because I forgot my password....

Well technically I changed it because some nasty idiot had hacked into my email account and was spamming everyone, so I got advised to change my passwords by a tec-savvy regular who is not only my favourite customer but is also great when my computer explodes (figurativelly speaking - I haven't blown up my laptop - not yet anyhow).

Anyways, I thought it would be a good idea to change the passwords on ALL of my accounts, which I did,  making them all really difficult ones with $$$ and £££ signs and numbers in no paticular order and non-stripping related estoric words like 'aubergine' or 'rammification'.  I wrote down my new passwords on a bright yellow post-it note - so bright that I would never lose it - and went to sleep.

The next day I logged in ok and tapped the keys merrily, feeling pleased that I had thwarted the spammers, but of course after a few days the post-it has been lost under piles of washed underwear that I need to put away, some empty mugs of tea, a copy of Vogue and those library books I need to bring back.

So apologies for that, especially to the reader 'wasjustboredandcurious' whose comments have been sitting in my moderation box for ages.

However, in the meantime I did 6 shifts at the club, got a VIP at 5 of them, caught a cold from a customer and singed my hair whilst downing a shot.  Blonde highlights are obviously extremely flammable and I will take more care in the future.....

When a stripclub feels like the Door to Hell

Last night my stripclub, where I have worked on and off for several years, felt strange and alien to me.  The mood, usually filled with jovial first-timer's and plenty of testosterone stag's 'n' lad's, was bitter and misogynistic.  Everyone was leering, ready to spend their pocket money on the plucked and plumed piece of meat which strutted around the club in their skimpy fantasy outfits.  The club was full of guys, and there were only about 50 girls on the floor (during the week you can get up to 70, or even 100).  So theoretically we all should have got along together swimmingly, with everyone earning money and having a good time. The guys would have a chance to enjoy their night out and catch up with their pals without being constantly hassled by hungry women, whilst the girls would have enough chaff to wade through and not much waiting around to do between dances.

Except last night, something wasn't right.

There was a build-up of pressure gradually throughout the night.  The guys weren't biting as per usual - dance here, two more there - and the girls were beginning to get desperate after the chorus of knock-backs.  But that can happen anytime, any night.

The crowd wasn't just stag parties of mainly white commuter 9 - 5ers, but was much more varied than usual.  There were several large groups of black guys, swaddled in bling and loud shirts, nursing bottles of Couvousier, and several more of Asian & Indian guys, who are usually a mixture of clean cut, ironed creases in their button down shirts, and hairy types with funny beards and ponytails.  I'm afraid to say that many stripper's don't like this.  Hmm, how to explain....  Firstly they don't tend to spend as much as their white counterparts, and secondly, well - a lot of stripper's in London are from previously isolated regions of Eastern Europe, or countries without a large ethnic population, and don't like some types of people, and.... I find it really hard to write that some stripper's are racist, as it make's me just as judgemental as them, but I'm afraid it's pretty darn true, goddammit!  So anyway, this was pissing off many of the dancer's, as they couldn't approach as many people as freely as they would like without  compromising themselves, and the guys were really peeved at being ignored by many dancers whilst the remaining gave them a sneer and a super-quick lapdance.

But I think what really freaked me out last night was the music.  It was deep, heavy, and minimal - fine for a rave when I am surrounded by happy gurners who want a cuddle and a lollipop to go with their warm pint, but horrible when you are approaching lot's of strange faces in a dark room and then trying to turn them on by showing them all the crevasses of your naked flesh.  A bit of happy disco or some sing-a-long rock can really help me turn on the charm, and lyrics give the customer's something to relate too.

I remember staring at the mirror thinking 'who am I?' as my mood darkened to the point where my beautiful Mac red lips with extra Lancome gloss seemed to turn into a leer from a child-bride in a clown's outfit.  I got even more sketched out when a really drunk guy who had spent all his money on another girl in VIP early on in the night began to follow me around the club, hovering nearby as I talked to another customer and even trying to join me on stage and at tables.  Thankfully, before the carnival atmosphere got too much and I fell into a complete and utter stripper meltdown, I met an Indian guy who  gave me a couple of hundred over an hour or so.  He was nice to talk to, there was a nice bottle of Bollinger at his table that I could help myself too, and he left a good hour before closing.

As the club was still filled with a weird, menacing vibe, I didn't even bother with my customary tour of the place.  I'd only had a couple of dances apart from the Indian guy, so after tip-out and taxi fare I'd scraped half of what I would consider a usual Saturday night, but I'm not greedy.  I know that when the most familiar stripclub in the world feels like the doorway to Hell, it's not good for my stripper psyche to hang about.

Achey-Breaky lapdancer

As work has been slow I've had to pull a lot of shift's in and run - nay, sprint - around the club pouncing on customer's as soon as they walk through the doors.  I am now feeling very achey-breaky indeed, not a nubile and lithe lapdancer who has made pots of money very easily and can get daily massages by horny Chinese women in back alley parlours.

Boys and Men, you are not helping me with my achey-breaky predicament.  On Tuesday and Wednesday, I got asked repeatedly to bend over whilst giving a lapdance.  I know you want to see my pussy - hell, I know you paid to see it - but do I really have to bend over at your say so just so that you can all have a look?  Whilst pussy's are very interesting and pretty, my spine is not liking this up and down bendy thing, especially as I have also been battering it in bouts of extreme Bikram yoga.

My spine has written a formal letter of complaint, which is currently written in pain all over my shoulders.  Like most letter's of complaint, I am going to ignore it for now, as I have a Friday and Saturday night to get through, and the drunken louts who come in on the weekends will be raring to see girls who are bendier, flexier and more willing than their wives and girlfriends at home, who are quite rightly probably holding all forms of sexy time back, and are not willing to pander to all their dirty fantasies when there is washing up to be done.

After these Olympian feats of prowess I am now one achey-breaky lapdancer, and feel like singing Father William "Oh, alas, my bone's are old, my knees are weak"

Luckily for my tired ol' bone's, I have a lovely freestanding bath which as I write is filling itself with bubbles and steaming hot water.  I am going to jump in it right now, and transform from achey-breaky lapdancer to my usual sexy, sassy little self.

My stripping buddy returns!

I'm very, very excited.

My stripping buddy, my favourite partner in crime, the girl that I just seem to make hustling magic happen with - IS BACK!!!!

Whoop!

She has spent the summer in Ibiza, which I'm sure must have been really difficult for her.  You know, the best nightclubs in the world, beautiful people on the beach, beautiful people in villa's, beautiful people getting wrecked......

She has come back looking gorgeous - tanned, skinny, .... and broke.

She's so hungry for money that she jumped straight on the phone to me to tell me to stop being such a lazy hippy and book into a shift with her.  In fact, when I told her how it had been lately at my stripclub - imagine slow, dead tumbleweed rolling between nests of empty tables, and desperate girls beginning to offer extra's - well, she told me that we should try somewhere else.

I love a bit of occasional stripper migration, so yeah, I might just fly the coop for the winter and tether my G-sring to another pole.  If I do make the leap, I'll be auditioning at a new club tomorrow and will tell you all about how it went in a juicy blog post.  Sorry, but the identity will have to be secret, as par usual....

The great thing about working in a city as big as London is that there are loads of clubs to choose from.  Most of them fully expect girls to move without warning, and there are auditions every week - every day - in a variety of clubs.  If you want, it's possible to switch jobs in 24 hours.

As long as I pass the audition that is......

Lapdance from Hell

Last night I had a lapdance from hell.  It was hellish because as well as taking ages to go have a dance, and continually trying to grope my bottom before we even got in there (attempted groping on the main floor, especially when you are standing mere feet away from where the manager's like to hang out, chat & be king of all they survey, is a BAD idea. if you want to break the no-touching rules, at least do it in the dance booths, as then I'll be getting a little sugar and you won't get told off as it's practically expected there)

Anyway, I digress.  Why was this a lapdance from hell - trust me, I've had many - but this was hellish because.....

he had a huge GROWTH on his face

that was probably CONTAGIOUS..... and he had been trying to put his obviously extremely filthy paws on me.

It was on his lip - well, it was bigger than his lip. It was a good inch across and a half high. It wasn't a cold sore, it wasn't a mole - it looked more like a BOIL.

A big, ready to burst bubble that was brown and purple - the nastiest BOIL ewwww

I hadn't noticed it out on the floor as we had been talking in a shadowed corner, but the dance booth we went to was a brighter than usual one, and so that's when I saw it.

I bet he saw the look of horror cross my face, and I tried my hardest to  dance as far away from his wandering hands as possible.  I didn't want to refuse the dance as it was a slow night and that would be nasty - it's probably not his fault he has the beginnings of an alien form growing in such a prominent on his face, but there was no way I was catching that thing.  End of my career or what?


I washed my hands afterwards a million times.

Really Rosamund? The clubs that strip women of their dignity

I got told by a fellow tweeter last Thursday that there was 'a rather misinformed article compared to the one you were in in the Evening Standard the other week' (thanks @K_Pilch)

I followed her link and found a rather opinionated article on a female journalist's visit to Secret's in Covent Garden.  Read it here

I was surprised by how offensive it was.  The author, Rosamund Unwin, has written very funny and sharp article in the past that I have really enjoyed, but this wasn't clever at all, just nasty with a hint of snobbish bully about it.  She calls herself a 'self-declared strident feminist' but derides a ladies night - the first one the club had held (in that location).  I tried to look at the website to see what 'ladies night' entails but I couldn't find any information.  Nonetheless, a stripclub making an effort to be more attractive to female customers should be applauded.  In America, girls visit lapdancing bars all the time - why not here?  Besides, the lesbian scene in London has been decimated with the closure of Ghetto and Trash Palace, and is now a figure of fun in the sleazy Channel 5 documentary imaginatively titled 'The Candy Bar'.  (I've been there, it's great, and much better than channel 5 portrays it.)

She says that the dance was 'as erotic as taking out the rubbish' and complains about feeling the dancer's 'leg stubble'.  She also says that her female friend was laughing throughout in 'embarrassed hysterics'.  Poor girls - doesn't Rosamund realise that we are not all Dita von Teese, and have to try and be 'erotic' without personalised lighting, special effects, a hair and make-up team, and a chereographer?

I was really pleased to see that the majority of comments were in favour of lapdancers and thought that the piece was 'one-sided' and 'bitter'.  It's certainly very different to the Striponomics article which was based on an interview with yours truly a few months ago.  There are also lots of reader comments on my blog piece on the article

I suppose that it's the job of newspapers to explore professions such as mine from all angles, and that the Evening Standard should be lauded for presenting such different views by such different columnists.  London's sex industry is a huge heaving underground mass and it's great to see insights into the sex industry in London get some press - even if it's a bad review of a lapdancing bar.  Still, it's a shame that Rosamund Unwin complained of lapdancing bars stripping women of their dignity, when she goes on to strip the lapdancers of their dignity in her article.

Why do I have such a big stripper outfit wardrobe?

I have a HUGE suitcase under my bed which is filled with all of my old stripper outfits. Like a perverted hoarder, I just can't seem to throw them away.  (To be fair, I'm still the same UK 6/8  that I was when I started).

The reason why lapdancers will have a lot of outfits - anything between 5 and 50 - is not because we are all stereotypical shopping mad women with a lingerie fetish.  (Quite the opposite in fact.  Many dancers will scrimp on their outfits, wearing the same old favourites until they fall apart, and save their earnings for shopping for clothes to wear in the 'real world'.)  We build-up a selection because the rules for what we are allowed to wear are constantly changing.  Yes you heard right - strippers have rules on what is and isn't acceptable to wear in the workplace!!!  Each club will have it's own 'dress code', which covers everything from the shoes on her manicured feet to the type of thong that clings to her pubis.  These rules will get updated (read changed drastically) every year or so for several reasons;

• The girls stretch the rules so that they can reveal as much as possible.  Show me a girl in a floorlength dress and I'lll show you a dress with slits all over and only the thinnest trail of ribbon touching the floor.  Still floorlength!
• The dressmakers that sell directly in the clubs get the rules changed so that most lapdances are forced to buy a different outfit to adhere to the new regulations.  The managers that changed these rules will probably get a cut of this income.
• The boss will see something he really doesn't like and will change the rules to something more draconian in a knee-jerk reaction.  Stripper lore is that Peter Stringfellow once insisted that all girls wore delicate mesh/lacey underwear, till he saw a girl on stage in such a sheer thong that you could see her bits in perfect clarity.  He immediately banned anything that was sheer, so all of his 70+ dancers had to buy new underwear - difficult in London which at the time had nil stripper supply stores.  Annoyingly, the rules were changed back months later.
• A new house mum/manager will start and blitz the girls dress code in an effort to make it more classy/user friendly/inventive/fantasy.

In addition, most dancers will work at a variety of clubs in their dancing career, and need a selection of tempting outfits to accommodate the variance.

Of course, we are girls, and girls can be extremely picky, so even if we buy a new outfit, if it doesn't 'feel or look right' when we are out on the floor, or if it's a nightmare to dance in and take off, then it will get resigned to the bottom of the heap with all the other rejects....  many strippers wear the same dress night after night, buying an identical replacement when it falls apart, as it's the one which works for them!  

I pulled out my suitcase this morning to go through them and see if there was anything that took my fancy for tonight.  I'm surprised by how much fabric my early dancing outfits used to have.  I've obviously got a lot more confident in showing off my body.  Now I'm happy in a little lingerie set with dental floss knickers.

When a lapdancer doesn't fit the bill

I was sat at a REALLY great table the other day.  It was the table of my dreams.  We all got paid bundles of cash for several hours of VIP.  There were several girls to each man - one had FIVE LAPDANCERS!!! (greedy sod)

But when I went home I felt miffed.  Really miffed.  Why?  I had made good money and had a great night, but..... I was originally sitting with the boss guy, and he told me to go sit  with his friend as he walked in.  In the cab on the way home, I was in agonies as to what had been wrong about me to be palmed off so.  Was it my hair?
My outfit?
Too fat,too slim, too small, too tall?
Was it because I wasn't cool, or pretty, or sexy enough?
My tits were too big?

I compared myself to the girls he kept sitting with him.  Several were part of that elusive cool crowd I've spoken about in previous posts.  It was his first time at the club, but is it that obvious that I am an outsider?  In my drunken state I went over my perceived failings as a lapdancer.  That I was a crap hustler.

Thankfully, the next morning I had slept and sobered up.  Drinking my first cup of tea of the day, I went over last night.  I figured it out.

It wasn't me. It wasn't my hair.  It was my outfit.  It just didn't fit the bill.  I realised with glaring accuracy that all the girls he kept were wearing black stockings and underwear, like they had just stepped from an Agent Provacteur boudoir.  I, on the other hand, was wearing a garish novelty stripper costume.  Men like consistency in their harem - he wanted to look at varying shades of the same classy girls.

I'm glad I figured out that personal crisis.  There is no point in going into work as a lapdancer if you don't feel good enough about yourself.