Partying through the Jubilee weekend

London erupted in a flurry of street parties this weekend and I danced in every single one of them.

I wore a red and white outfit with matching red and white underwear and a glittery tiara on top.
I gobbled down BBQ sticky chicken and licked my fingers clean afterwards.
I took huge bites from fancy cupcakes, icing sticking to my chin.
I danced in the streets as ghettoblasters pumped out tunes - funky house, soulful reggae, singalong favourites.
I flashed smiles and talked to men and introduced myself by my real name to everyone of them.

It felt great, and whilst I'm nursing bruises and a battered bank balance, I'm sat at this computer with a dopey grin on my face, patting myself on the back for ensuring that I had this weekend off.  When I stared at my calender last week, and realised that I was rota'd to spin around a pole and flash my privates to tourists and stag parties on what was the biggest weekend my fair city had hosted in my living memory, I blanched.
I felt scared and worried - I'd been in that position before, when I worked shifts and didn't know any of the girls, felt the pull of celebrations happening elsewhere, and had to make friends for the night with the friendliest looking faces in the club - if there were any that is.
So I bit my lip, took a deep breath, and walked into the manager's office to discuss my schedule.
And promptly got out of it - by hook and by crook.

When I first started dancing, I used to pick the world's worst schedules.

I'd work a tuesday and wednesday night, get really drunk, wake up with a hangover and then drink red wine in front of the telly for a few days.

Then I'd panic as I realised it was the weekend already and I had no money and I'd be forced to work the Saturday night.  I'd stare longingly at my phone as it beeped away with text messages full of the great times my friends were having, as I pounded round the club like an animal in a cage, servicing stag party after stag party with their grabby hands and reeking beer breath.

Every Sunday I would swear to myself that I would work weekdays only and not let my little moments of laziness ruin my weekend.  What's the point in having friends if you can never get to see them?

But my problem was that I had too many friends, and there were always invites to this club night, a birthday house party, drinks after work... I really used to beat myself up over it - was I a perpetual student? How could I ruin my chance at saving the pennies and building a decent future if I couldn't even go earn the pounds?

I can't say that's changed much, but at least now I put myself first.
Most of the time...

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.

Realised a home truth tonight

Stripping is fairly cliquey - well it's a bunch of girls after all - and naturally I've always strived to be part of the 'in-crowd'.
Despite years of trying, I've always been on the sidelines.
I used to think that I wasn't part of the in-crowd because I wasn't pretty enough.
So I changed my look, imitated the cool girls.

That didn't work.

Perhaps it was because I wasn't funny, generous or stylish enough?

I memorised jokes, shared my sushi, carried a monogrammed designer bags, wore boots & juicy couture velour tracksuits.

Still the conversations were just in passing.

But tonight I saw a girl trying soooo hard, and succeeding, with the in-crowd, when it struck me.
I wasn't defunct in some way
It's because I don't make enough money from guys.( I've never been the best hustler, truth be told.)

To them, I'm a liability.