I arrived at work just a little before seven thirty. I chose a red and black outfit with a black mini-dress over top. As I was trying to choose between my maryjane style stilettos and my lace up black, patent leather boots, I heard my phone ding.
One new message from Man Bitch, my phone read. I swiped my finger across the screen and opened the message. “My wife took all my money and my phone too but I’m back. Can you own me?”
Black boots, it is, I thought. I quickly typed, “Yes!” and hit send. I sprayed on some perfume, grabbed my whip from the cluttered abyss that is my locker, and ran out toward the bar.
There he was, his curly blonde hair combed back, his freshly pressed shirt buttoned up, a red tie around his neck. My slave.
We had a drink at the bar to catch up on small talk. When the time felt right, I told him I was ready for a private room. “Yes, Goddess”. I gave him a wry grin and a wink before grabbing his tie and pulling him toward the private room area. “I have no choice but to follow you.”
“You belong to me now.” I reaffirmed.
My heart was racing with excitement. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, smiling ear to ear as I led this submissive gentleman down the corridor. Is it wrong that this makes me happy? I thought. Looking at my reflection, I realized, that in my haste, I had forgotten to put on earrings and my lipstick was smudged on unevenly. I had been so excited that I’d neglected to touch it up.
“Sit down” I commanded. He sat down on the floor. “No, on the couch. He scrambled to get from the floor to the couch as quickly as he could. I sat in his lap and leaned backwards, rubbing my butt on his crotch. When I felt his fingers begin caressing my back and shoulders, I snapped, “You didn’t ask!”
“I’m so sorry. May I?”
I truly do love this. Although it’s just not in my nature to be cold and mean to someone and tell him he’s worthless, I thoroughly enjoy this activity anyway. I’m honored to get to participate in his fantasy so I just get into character and enjoy the role playing.
“I better not see one dirty spot” I warned as he ran his tongue all over the surface of my patent leather lace-up boots. “I want them spotless.”
“Queen Brittney. Call me Queen.”
“Yes, Queen Brittney.”
Relationships are difficult for me. Part of the reason is the fact that I’m a free spirited, head-strong individual. “The stripper thing” doesn’t seem to help either. It’s something about me that guys just don’t really understand and they often feel threatened by it.
I think keeping a boyfriend would be easier for me if I went to work and cried every night when I got home. It’s not so much the fact that I do this for a living, but rather, the fact that I like it.
“I feel like I’m watching you cheat on me” a boyfriend (now ex) told me.
“Lap dances aren’t cheating”
“But you’re sitting in the laps of other men and smiling and laughing. You like it.”
I never could come up with a response that would justify it or make him feel better. I broke his heart one lap dance at a time.
Guys ask me all the time, “what’s your boyfriend think of you working here?” I roll my eyes and shrug off their question, or try to change the subject.
I’d like to tell them, “I come here to forget about him, just like you probably come here to forget about your wife.” Of course I never say that, I only think it. And I’m not being bitter. Relationships are just hard for me.
“You’re a bad girlfriend”, my ex used to say, in a playful voice with a serious undertone.
I’m not a bad girlfriend. I just like being a stripper. I mean, it’s not always fun. The late hours suck and some nights, despite what everyone thinks, we really don’t make any money because sometimes, the club is just dead or full of cheap customers. Sometimes we get a creepy guy in the couch room or have an otherwise unfavorable experience. But few things brighten my mood as much as a chance to engage in some sort of deviant fetish role play with some under-sexed stranger.
I love all things sex and sexuality. I hate that so many people try to run from that side of our own humanity and pretend it doesn’t exist. Just the other day, I was driving in traffic and watched a middle aged man in bright red shorts run out of a naughty bookstore with a huge crate of what I can only presume to be porn or sex toys. He ran across the road through the traffic, swiftly hurdled over the median and crossed to the other side. He disappeared into the development behind the trees within seconds. I squealed happily at his boldness and dedication.
When I was a little girl, my Mom used to take my sisters and me to the dollar store to buy prizes like sticker books or little plastic baby dolls. It was in a long strip mall that had a walkway that led off into a dark parking lot behind the stores. “Never go there” my Mom told us. She explained that there was a movie theatre behind there that showed movies where the actors didn’t wear any clothes. It’s not like my mother ever let us out of her sight, but she was being extra cautious, taking the don’t-talk-to-strangers talk a little further.
Every time we shopped in that shopping center, my eyes always found their way down that dark walkway. I wondered what kind of people went to see that type of movie and what I might find if I walked a little farther. Of course, I didn’t dare. But it made me aware, at a young age, that society always had this hidden underbelly of unbridled sexuality.
As an adult, I accept this and I embrace it. We are all, in some ways, like that eager adult bookstore customer running across the road with his new play things. It’s just a matter of whether we choose to be ashamed of it or embrace it.
Strip clubs are not brothels. I’m not having sex with these guys. Or blowing them. I am, however, engaging in sexual oriented intimate play. And I like it.
The strip club is a playground for my own deviant thoughts. I like so many aspects of my job. I like the chase, the game. The primal way that we as the females push our breasts up in our bras, bat our eyes, and make flirtatious glances at the men who attend our establishment. We are like the male peacocks, flashing his shiny, beautiful, multicolored feathers as if to say, “Look at me”.
I like the way the men lean back in their chairs and size us up. They try to win our attention by flashing us a smile, holding our gaze for a long time, or throwing money. They are drawn to us by the shape of our bodies, the scent our skin, or maybe the look in our sparkling eyes.
I like the way a man whispers to me “I’m wearing a pair of women’s panties under my clothes”. I like that I am trusted with such secrets and I’m honored to participate in this fantasy play. I’m not just a stripper, I’m a fantasy counselor.
In my locker, I keep a small assortment of fantasy tools. It includes a whip, scarves, handcuffs, and a smooth round brush with a hard handle, for spanking purposes. I did have a pair of nipple clamps with Christmas bells at the ends, but I was a bit overzealous with them and broke them off on the first guy who let me use them on him.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the fetishes, but I also enjoy the conventional or typical encounters as well. I like getting guys hot and watching them unravel before my eyes. I like the sweat and the sexual tension. I like the way he breathes “One more dance, Brittney, keep going” into my ear.
I know a lot of people think that I’m only doing this because I have to right now. Most of the guys I have dated wanted to believe that was the case, but it’s not.
“Maybe when I get the promotion, you won’t have to dance anymore” my last boyfriend told me. I had stared at him blankly, searching for something I could say to change the subject or avoid the conversation. He stared back. “You said you didn’t want to do this forever. Remember?”
Actually, I don’t remember saying that. I’m pretty sure I let him read my diary a long time ago and in that particular volume of my personal thoughts was a poem called, “Sometimes life is better upside down” complete with an illustration of me swinging from a pole upside down.
“I didn’t say I don’t want to…I said I can’t do this forever…meaning…I’m not going to do this when I’m seventy, obviously…but for now… I think it’s a good fit.”
That conversation never goes over well. I like shiny patent leather and the smell of cheap perfume. I like being part of an industry that caters to human sexuality. I like being a “sex worker”. And frankly, I love having a job that is never boring. I’d love to have a partner who understands this about me and loves me for who I am. I’m not ashamed of what I do for a living and I’d like a partner who doesn’t expect me to be.
Maybe one day, I’ll have that. But for now, accepting and loving myself for who I am makes me happy enough.