Worst Lapdance of the Week; The Swiss One

He looked kindly and sweet when I saw him at the bar.  A little man in a suit, with a round face and fluffy balding hair - a cuddly Donald Trump.  He offered to buy me a gin and tonic, and as I sat on the bar stool he pulled his closer, so that our knees were touching.  

"I'm Swiss," he replied in answer to my question, grabbing my hand in his own chubby fingers.  

"We should go drink these somewhere else... somewhere more private."

He nodded like a keen St. Bernard doggie, and hurried with a waddling gait to the booth. With his fluffy hair and careful placing of fat paws on the ground, I wouldn't have been surprised if he had been an Alpine rescue dog with a barrel of whisky round his neck.  My hustling heart soared - after a bad night this man was definitely going to book me in for a VIP - there was only just over an hour left and my money wrap lay limp and thin even after six hours hustling.

with thanks to the State Library of New South Wales at Flickr

We sat down and discussed spending the rest of the night together - stripclub terminology for 'pay me till the club closes, then it's Sayonara sweetheart'.  But as his fingers crept up my thigh like fat caterpillars he insisted that he just wanted a dance to start.  

"Fine, let's do that then," I agreed grudgingly, figuring that I could at least get the horny little bugger for a multiple hit of £60, £100, even if a full hour was out of the question. 

I manoeuvred around him carefully, being careful of his hands.  They were slipping and sliding everywhere - stroking the edge of my thigh, trying to crawl towards my knickers, quivering inches from my bottom as I shook and span it around.

"No touching - naughty." I giggled playfully.  Not my rules, it's the law - and they are strictly enforcing it in London at the moment what with a vice and regulations round-up in advance of the Olympics.

"No touching!" Once again, more insistent this time, and I backed away to the opposite end of the booth so that he would get the idea.

"Yes, sorry, so sorry." He looked at me pleadingly, his eyes large in the folds of his puffy face. He place his hands back at his sides. 

I moved closer.

And closer.

Looking straight at him, watching where his fingers were about to move.  But he didn't move an iota, they barely twitched.

Feeling confident now, I asked winkingly if he wanted another.

He nodded. Of course.

I moved closer, almost on top of him now, my hips snaking from side to side, my hands rubbing my neck, hair tossed to the beat of the sultry house music.  I closed my eyes - I could almost be on a beach in Ibiza, on a sunlit terrace, dancing in my own little world, totally alone.

Till a long soggy feeling erupted over my bottom.

Opening my eyes, and spinning around quicksharp, I almost hurled.

My little Swiss man was licking my bottom, with a pink outstretched tongue like an overexcited Spaniel's penis.  Raspberry pink, wet, throbbing and refusing to go back inside where it belongs.  Leaving trails of slobber all over my beautiful, toned, tanned, moisturised and perfumed derrière.

He looked up sheepishly like a little kid who has been caught licking the icing off a chocolate gateaux, and I couldn't find it in my heart to berate the sleazebag.  Even if it did mean I would have to disinfect the area later.  

Who realised that a country famed for it's neutrality could hold such perverts?

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....

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. 

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....

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.

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.