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!!!

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....

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!!!

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 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.

Dreams for 2011

Pay off my Uni,credit card and loans
Pay my dealer whilst I'm at it after the Christmas binge
Try to drink one bottle of red wine per day, not two
Find some sparkly stripper shoes that don't give me callouses the next day
Get some more regular customers
Get a decent VIP booking at least once a week; not once a month!!
Find the holy Grail of tooth whitening products
Find my perfect blonde...and dream hairdresser to do it
Do something big, like buy a house, or get a book published, or learn how to drive ...actually what's the point in driving? I live in London for chrissakes and drink every day

So there's my resolutions for this year. I think they sound pretty doable, hey?