How to VIP with a Dutchman

Last night I had a VIP experience with a Dutch guy.
To put it into context, the Dutch are from Holland which has the infamous Amsterdam city; a red light district and general national attitude of progressive and liberal attitudes to sex.

I last had a VIP with a Dutch guy a year ago, and it was hell.  He just couldn't get his head round the idea that he had paid several hundred pounds to spend an hour with me that didn't include sex, touching, head or kissing.  I remember having to use all my feminine wiles to keep him in there without demanding his money back, and keep the situation upbeat and sexy without having a bouncer storm in and haul me out for breaking every rule in the book.

So when this guy said he was from Holland, alarm bells started ringing in my head.

But this man was different.  He said I was an English rose, that he had been waiting all night for an English blonde to come up and say hello but all he had got was a steady stream of Eastern Europeans.  Apparently his wife is Eastern European and he wanted a different experience to the girl he had at home, thank you very much.  In a twist of fate, his friend had been approached by a sexy English girl with a sweet little Cameron Diaz style blonde look and had hung onto her all night.  The poor guy (lets call him Dutchie) had sat there secretly fuming and gradually getting more and more exasperated that he was in a busy club with 70 women and none of them made the mark.

So when I bounced up, Dutchie was delighted beyond belief!  It was the easiest VIP I'd ever sold, and I was gutted that I hadn't charged more for the hour as he whipped out his card so quickly.  Stupidly, I hadn't pushed for an hour and a half either, but the other girl had.  Thats what happens when you haven't worked together before - your so busy convincing the guy that its hard to turn to a complete stranger of a girl and say - 'what are we doing? Lets work together on this and charge this for that long and in that room'  Something almost always gets lost in translation.

In the end we both only got an hour as it was my guy Dutchie who was paying for it all and his card wouldn't take that kind of hit.  As we went into VIP, Dutchie was still singing my praises.  However, as soon as he realised that this was it - the 'room' and 'VIP experience' English style obviously falling short of the Dutch one, his tune did begin to change somewhat.  He wasn't so happy. And then the fiasco started - 3 different waitresses, a shot girl and a manager to approve the transaction were coming in, then out, then in again, for the whole fucking hour.  And I swear they had turned the lights up and the music down that night, because VIP was like a quiet but bright doctor's waiting room that showed up every imperfection on my body.  I like at least some soft lighting for chrissakes or else the guys will spot that my lashes are coming off, my fake tan is smeared, and that a bruise is coming up from an earlier pole trick.  Oh, and that my tummy is still bloated from my midnight carb binge in the changing room where I stuffed a whole bag of doritos into my face before reapplying the lippy and going on stage to fart and burp where no-one can hear me as they are too far away and are totally distracted as my tits are out. So yeah, bright lights are NOT good when you have a full hour, face to face, in intimate surroundings and you can't get away.

However, in a minor miracle, I was not at fault!  Oh no, it was the clubs fault for their stupid room, the waitresses fault for confusing him with multiple tabs, the lights were too bright.  I've never seen a man blame everything else to the extend he did, all the whilst backing it up with protestations that I was the most perfect little thing in the world, a total English rose, a little lady adrift in this nightlife world and could never do any wrong.  (If there is a God, then it would be nice if it happened more often).

It turned sour at the end as the time ran out but hadn't been used wisely (ie: nice sexy alone in the VIP time). I was angling for more time but we had spent most of the hour squabbling over card payments for the multiple tabs running for his VIP with me, his friends VIP & girl, bar drinks, VIP drinks - I have no idea how or why tabs can be so complicated, but there you go.  I guess it depends on the waitress et al involved - I prefer the ones with a bit of experience that work with you, not against you.  No customer is happy if they get presented with a bill and don't understand what it's for - especially very, very drunk businessmen.  Unfortunately the waitress got a bit shirty and exasperated and stormed out to cool off and come back later.  Of course, this meant that Dutchie thought he had already paid/sorted it out and didn't understand why she reappeared again ten minutes later.  'Paperwork!' he shouted, "Always paperwork! When am I going to get my dance?"
Quite right too, as if simple things have to be repeated then they are eating into the 60 minutes of VIP that he's paid for, and its bloody hard to convince him to stay and pay for longer - well would you?

Coastal Lapdancing - A Weekend in Bournemouth

Whenever summer comes, London clubs are seriously empty, so it can seem like a good idea to pack up and head down the coast to where all the stag parties are.
I spent last weekend in Bournemouth, the stag and hen capital of Britain, hoping to make some juicy cash from the inebreaited masses.
It was a complete and utter ball ache from start to finish.
The club required you to be on the floor at 9 and finished at 6am, so it was going to be a long shift, in a strange club, with different rules, policy and layout.  Eeek...
After a 4 hour drive from London in a car filled with 4 fellow strippers, I was hot, sweaty and late.  We didn't even have time to go to the hotel, so I did my makeup in the car and did the rest in the club.
It was a real labyrinth, with more staircases than you can shake a stick at. The main floor was three flights away from the changing room, and the dance booths were a double flight of stairs from the main floor and bar.  By the end of the night, my feet were swollen and bleeding from dragging guys up and down the stairs.  Even worse, as it was stag party central, the dances were generally one at a time - few guys stayed for more than one or two, as they wanted to try lots of different girls, or were too cheap, or were too scared of the letters 'VIP'.

Arriving at the hotel at 7am, we were shown to a dingy room that stank of mould. I was sharing with another girl, and we quickly passed out, only to be woken up a few hours later by the concierge.
They had double booked the room, and we had to move ASAP - but the next room wouldn't be ready till 1pm, so we had to keep ourselves busy somewhere else for a few hours.
I packed my stuff and moved into an even crappier room, before passing out for another 2 hours.
The girls and I got to the club for our 2nd night, and it was super busy.  Unfortunately they take such a HUGE commission, I had to march up and down those fucking stairs with a steady succession of drunk stags and their pals for the next 9 hours straight to be in hope of earning anything back.

As I said, it was bachelor party central.  Some were dressed as penguins, with black leggings and colouful jock straps.  One was an ex-Olympic rower who was only interested in sex.  Another stag was dressed as a giant baby, with oversized nappy, bib, cap and a huge dummy swinging awkwardly from his neck.  Several groups had matching T-shrts, caps - one lot were all wearing antlers, which kept on turning up in strange places like the DJ booth, stage and at tip-out time, I swear I saw a pair in the managers office.  Dancer's are like magpies sometimes.

After working a Friday and Saturday night shift, it was time to drive home.  Sunday turned out, helpfully, to be the hottest day of the English year so far, a sweltering 30 degrees, but at least there was no traffic.  As I massaged my swollen feet and burning thighs and swore never to work in a club with stairs again, I counted my crumpled notes.  I'd checked the tip-out list, and I'd actually been in the top 5 of earners on Saturday, but with the commission, I'd lost well over a third of my earnings.  Take out the hotel and petrol money, stress and lack of sleep, and I don't think I will be going down there again for a while.
Unless, of course, the London stripclub scene comes to a standstill..... Then stripping in Bournemouth will suddenly seem an attractive prospect again.....

Dazed and confused

I will always argue that my work persona - the girlwho is the stage name rather than the girlwho hides behind it - does not affect me oin a day to day reality basis.
But then I have a normal night, and the gulf that lies between me and us seems to be a bit more flexible.
I hang out with a load of old pals, for the past decade or so, and yet I feel detached.  My behaviour, my clothing, my points of conversationalreference just seem off .
F***knows why, darlings....
 
The worst thing that this job has ever given me is a serial short term memory.
It's either because;


a)  I want to forget (sorry to convention, but thats just not true.  I long to recall in HD detail)

b) The drinking, the drugs, the partying, the grooving and the talking, endlessly night after night, have rewired my barin till its all one big blur)

So anyway, why do I feel left out?
Even amongst old friends, a shadow of my former self?

I will tell you why,    it's beause, earnings wise, I am simply a shadow.

I am on the breadline compared to the financial freedom I enjoyed until even just a few months ago.

At first I was afraid, I thought it was me - I was too fat, too blonde, my hair was all wrong, my outfits were like a sack of potatoes.

But tonight I shared my problems, and an old, bestest friend of mine pointed out -

"It's not just you - the whole world's in trouble"

So next time you hear me complaining, just remind me of today's post!!

Two last nights in a row!

When it rains, it pours....

There I was, sat in a quiet pub, busily reading in a last minute ditch attempt to finish my book club book 'Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World' by Haruki Murakami, and I was doing really well.

Really, really well....

I'd started the 400 pages exactly tome that lunchtime, and I was already a good half of the way through - right at the intriguing unicorn skull mystery, to be precise.

Then my phone rang - and I ignored it. Who wants to delve into the bottom of a bottomless handbag when they are deeply absorbed by a wonderful piece of fiction?

Then, a minute later, my phone rang again...

Insistent bugger, i thought, may be something important - or fun! or exciting! or my fucking stalker (more on him in another blog post), and wearily reached for my bag.

In fact, the two phone calls, so close together, was just a freak occurrence, as I found out later, but boy! was it worth picking up the phone!

It was only my pal, an ol'lapdancer pal of mine who is now a primary school teacher (I know, how cute...) with a free spare ticket for Mika's last London show - tonight, in an hour and a half. Could I be at Hammersmith Apollo in an hours time?

Course I fuckin' could!!

I jumped out of bed and shoved my hair in hot rollers - the previous nights burlesque antics had got me all vintage. I pulled on one dress - a leopard print rock n roll number, and began mixing up the perfect shade of Bare Essentials mineral foundation - the only thing for non-club wear. My eyebrows were a pain, as most of my proper make-up is in my locker at the club, but I managed to make do, just about. I stared at the time - ten minutes more, max. I stared at me - the wrong dress, it was all wrong. I pulled out another dress from the closet and slipped into a pair of heels, hanging it in front of me. Still the mirror said no. I pulled out another, a little Yellow limited edition number from Kate Mosses first topshop collection ( saw Selma Blair wearing the common white version a few weeks after buying it in a style mag n thought, Ha! mines better, n more unique to boot, so there HOllywood) But that meant changing the bra for a strapless version, and an underskirt to make it puff out, retro style - finally I was bloody dressed. I pulled the rollers out, spritzed the whole thing with hairspray quickly, and shoved a load of kirby grips in my bag - I can do that on the tube. Then I threw some eyeshadows and blusher inmy handbag - Mac, naturallement, and practically ran out of my house. Despite my best efforts, I knew I was still going to be late.

Still I got there, only half hour late and WOW what a show. I knew I loved Mika anyway, as I play his first album, life in cartoon motion, all the time - its such happy music... and it was great to be able to sing along to all the songs like a complete teenage saddo. Or teenage Wannabe now, seeing as I am in my twenties...and take my clothes off for a living...