Customers that I’m chatting up usually ask if I have any plans for my life after I can’t strip anymore, so when I tell them I already finished college it usually earns me a look of surprise. I suppose it’s appropriate to wonder why a stripper with a degree would be grinding her pussy on men for $25 a song. I’ve learned to laugh and say, “Oh, I was an English major.” In that sentence I’ve solved the mystery, and most laugh too. For the record, I didn’t start stripping or drinking until after college. Through a stripper acquaintance I learned I could have $500 nights for being naked instead of sifting through endless piles of submissions from writers trying to get published while I’m trying to be a writer getting published.
It’s three years later, and after a drunken shift at the club I currently work at, and the night cap afterwards at the local dive bar, I got this bright idea to ask if I could write articles for these Tasteless Gentlemen. The next day I remembered asking when I read the reply that I should send along some writing samples. I decided during my hangover I’d give it a try, and to give a collection of my dealings with the random and regular members of pervert row.
I suppose it’s appropriate to wonder why a stripper with a degree would be grinding her pussy on men for $25 a song.
Male customers can be divided into two main categories: those who just want the happy hour drink prices while watching tits flop about the stage, and those who don’t mind shelling out the cash to do a little touching. My current club is nothing like my previous one because the customer pool is much smaller, and the rules are drastically different. It was a tough change for me in regards to what’s allowed to happen at the bar or the stage while you’re still convincing a customer that they want a lap dance. That first month I was still pushing hands off my thighs for fear of the DJ’s voice raging at me over the speakers about contact on the floor, and all the while the dancer next to me had her top off and was twerking her ass on the crotch of some guy’s pants. I was not popular.