It’s always been hearsay whether or not there are cameras in the champagne room. There were times when there were, then times when there were not. Most club owners don’t really want to watch footage of every single lap dance that goes on in their building; they just want to make sure that nothing unsafe or illegal is going on.
We went on for what seemed like forever without having to worry about cameras watching our every move. But then we got into a bad rut with girls offering way too much for way too little. This does bring in business. However, the business it brings is bad. This is because it downgrades the entertainment services we offer and forces everyone who doesn’t offer extras to struggle while trying to compete with those who do. And, of course, it’s illegal and unsanitary.
So why should I care whether or not there are cameras in the champagne room? I’m not one of those girls offering extras, so you’d think it wouldn’t matter. But it does.
The idea of an overseeing eye on you at all times is somewhat unnerving. That’s if you know about it. When your boss surprises his staff at the quarterly meeting with the news that there have been cameras in all of the champagne rooms for the past few weeks, now you’ve got some thinking to do.
News of the champagne room cameras led me to reevaluate the entire past month of VIP rooms. What did I do? Was it all kosher? Well, yes, technically. I don’t have sex in the champagne rooms or provide sexual favors. I do allow myself to let loose and have fun with the patrons I entertain.
There was that one time when I brought in the free sex toy that came with the collection of Dillon Harper movies I ordered. (She visited our club a while ago and she was so sweet that I had to support her endeavors by ordering her DVDs! Great artists support one another, right?) It was a cheap plastic vibrator that came with studded detachable pieces with differently textured surfaces.
One of my fellow strippers and I took turns pinching and using the toy to stimulate some guy’s nipples. He pulled our hair and called us filthy sluts. We took turns grinding in his lap and spitting his dirty talk back at him. We grabbed his shirt collar and annihilated his nipples with the toy until one of us broke it into three pieces. To an outsider, we must have looked like savages. There’s nothing wrong with that, but is it really something I want anyone besides the involved parties to see? Not really.
And then there was that time when I peed on that guy… You see, he liked it. He asked for it, and paid well for it. Was that on camera? Haunted by the ghost of lap dances past, I replayed the past month of private rooms in my head. I had to wonder if my boss’s opinion of me would drastically change after watching Brittney TV for a while.
“There aren’t really any cameras” a coworker said to me one night. “They’re just saying that to keep us in line.”
“Yeah, but I saw it” I said. One of the managers showed me the view of the champagne room on the closed circuit TV.
“I’ve never seen them.”
The next night I worked after our boss told us about the cameras, a man greeted me as I walked from my car toward the building. “I’m leaving” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“There’s some new rules here or somethin’? The girls ain’t allowed to do nothing fun anymore.”
“We never were allowed to do that.” I tried. “That doesn’t mean you can’t have any fun. We’re here to show you a great time. We just can’t do anything that would risk your health or ours.”
“I’m not comin back for a while” the man said as he got into his car and drove away.
This is what happens in strip clubs. Managers have to intervene to make sure that the club doesn’t become a brothel. I’m sure brothels were fun back in the day, but STD’s are far more rampant and dangerous today they used to be. Or maybe we just knew less about them back then. Either way, we can’t let our club become a brothel.
It’s easy to find sex you can pay for. But a strip club is a different form of entertainment. A stripper can show you a great time without taking it as far as sex with a price tag. My job is not to get you off but to entertain you.
That’s why I put so much creative energy into showing these guys a good time. Technically, I’m not doing anything wrong. But how I behave with a customer behind a curtain is something I simply don’t want the management team utilizing as downtime entertainment.
On another note, I own a slave. I’ve written about him once or twice before. He is a submissive man who has chosen to serve me, although I must admit he’s not very good at being my slave.
He stops in the club to see me from time to time but he never gives me much notice. He’ll send me a message that says, “I’m on my knees waiting for you.”
I’ll answer it eight minutes later after pulling into the parking lot. “I’ll be right in”, I’ll reply, but he’ll be long gone by time I get in.
“I had to go”
“You suck. You gave me less than ten minutes to respond.”
“I figured you weren’t there anyway”.
This makes me a little angry. I should be a big girl about it like I would with anybody else. But this guy… He proclaimed himself to be my slave, my bitch boy, devoted servant to Goddess Brittney. I expect more of him.
Guys who like being degraded and told what to do call for a different way of interacting. By nature, I’m a kind, caring person. I’m careful with people’s feelings and try to always remember that I’m dealing with a person, not just an income.
But you can’t be nice to guys like him. It’s the last thing they want. Guys like him want to be called pansies and sissies. They want to be told they’re no good and unworthy. It takes a lot for me to mute my manners and pleasantries. This doesn’t mean I don’t still thoroughly enjoy it. I just have to remember to bite my tongue when he buys me a drink. Don’t thank him! Don’t thank him! I tell myself.
Every time I see him, he offers to bring me things. He says, “I can bring you gifts. What do you like?”
“Hmm… Bowls of fruit that you can feed me… Airplane bottles of Jack Daniels… Chocolate strawberries…”
Yet he shows up empty handed. I can’t get mad about it or be mean to him because that’s what he likes. I feel like threatening him, “You better clean up your act or I’m gonna be nice to you!” That might actually give him something to worry about.
But instead, I feed into his game. “You didn’t bring me anything. I’m going to stop seeing you because you’re not a good slave.”
“Oh, I will, next time. I promise!”
As I led him into the champagne room by his necktie the other night, I wondered whether our session would be taped. I resigned to the fact that I just don’t know and I have to be OK with the fact that it might. So I made sure I provided a good show. I put my panties on his face and told him to smell what he can’t have. I whipped him until he was practically begging for more.
When it was over, I made him put my gown back on and scolded him for “fucking it up”. My slave left a happy man that night and my boss, perhaps, has some more Brittney TV to watch. If that’s the case, I’m OK with it because that champagne room session was truly a work of art!