The Dark Side of Stripping


One night last week, a man with an obvious erection chased me down the stairs.  It was pretty scary.  This is how it started.  As I was making my way around the bar, a man in a striped shirt started calling out to me.  “Come here!”  I looked in his direction.  “Yeah, you.  Come here!”

He cocked his head back and examined me up and down thoroughly with hungry eyes.  “I’m in the middle of something”, I told him.  “I’ll come see you in a bit.”  I was lying.  There was something about the way he looked at me.  Or maybe it was his overall demeanor that put me off.  Either way, I had no plans to come back to him.

Toward the end of the night, the man and I crossed paths again.  “Come here.  Come out with me.”  He moved in close to me, right over my personal boundary line.  I started inching my way down the stairs that led to the dressing room, reclaiming my personal space.  “What do you got going on here tonight?  What can I get?” he asked.

I started rattling off the prices for the private rooms while planning my escape.  He wouldn’t be the first scary man whom I’d promised a lap dance to and ran off in the other direction.  “Interested?” I asked, still inching away from him.

“I got whatever you want, babe.  Everything.  Powder, weed, crack, anything.”

“Oh, cool”, I bluffed.  Let me think about it.”

“Actually… I only got crack and weed on me tonight.”

“You have crack on you, right now?”

“Yeah.  Crack and weed.”

“And that’s it?”

“I sold everything else before I got here”.

“Well… Crack’s not my thing.  But hey, I have to go see my manager now” I started down the stairs.

“Where you goin’?” the man followed.  “You might wanna pay me for that room!  Feel this dick!” he commanded.  I caught a glimpse of the rocket sized bump in his pants and sped down the stairs as fast as my seven inch heels would let me.  The man was not deterred.

Luckily, to my advantage, one of our heavily tattooed male staff members started making his way up the stairs.  I gave an awkward grin as I maneuvered around his frame, pounding my heels down the stairs without looking back.

This is, what I call, the Dark Side of Stripping.  Some might argue that being a stripper is a job full of self-degradation and forced self-debasement.  I personally don’t feel that way.  However, at the same time, I realize that maybe I am guilty of over-glamourizing the trade.

I chronicle my adventures as just that: adventures.  I enjoy what I do.  I make a living out of it and I have fun.  I should be honest, though, and say that it does have its dark moments.

Back in the days before telephone booths had all been completely done away with, I worked at a club that had one of the last of them on the side of the building.  I was not there that night, but a couple of the girls told me about the terrifying night when a man took all of his clothes off, and hid in the phone booth one Valentine’s day, waiting for the women to get out of work at closing time.  How on Earth he braved the frigid weather and what happened to him after he was caught, I have no idea.  But he is the reason I pay the bouncer to walk me directly to my car every night.

People who have never set foot inside a strip club often think that the dancers are all bleach blonde babes with fake tits and the customers are all a bunch of sleazy perverts who sit in the shadows, tossing ones while eying up the chicks on stage.  The truth is, everyone is different.  The men who patronize the establishment vary just as much as the women do.

I’d say that most of the men are nothing like they’re stereotyped to be.  In fact, I see a lot of myself in the kind of guys who come into a place like this.  I’m a girl with a big broken heart, often misunderstood, just looking for someone to pay attention to me, to show me some understanding… and of course give me money because my wallet is broke too!  However, I have seen my fair share of very scary men!

One very cold, winter night, I met a man, probably in his early fifties, with gray stubble on his face and a long, tan jacket.  He had seemed okay at first, other than the fact that he was pretty drunk.  He’d asked about the private room after doing a couple couch dances.  I brought him up to the room to meet the hostess and see the rooms.  “I get to fuck you in here, right?” he asked, when the hostess had left us to talk about what we were going to do.

“Not exactly…”  I explained that the room is for private time together to have drinks to get to know each other, to dance without having to count songs.  But not for sex.

“I really want to fuck you” the man said.  “I just don’t have the cash for this room, but I’ll tell you what…” he paused.  “I have some money in a shoe box at my house.  I’ll walk home and get it, then bring it back here.”

I explained again that the room wasn’t for sex.  The man didn’t seem to understand or care to.  He seemed to genuinely think that if he had enough money for the room, he would get sex.  “How about we just do some more couch dances?” I asked him.

‘I’ll go get the money.  I have eight hundred and fifty dollars at home and I’m going to bring it back here so we can make love.”

I honestly didn’t think the guy would make it back.  It was below freezing outside.  You couldn’t have paid me enough money to walk anywhere in that frigid weather that night.  I bid the man farewell and went back to working the floor.

About an hour later, I was summoned to the champagne room.  The hostess pulled me aside and said, “There’s man looking for you.  He wants to do a private room with you.”

“Is he the same guy who was here an hour ago?”

“Yes.  It’s him.”

“OMG!  Tell him I left!  Please!”  I begged her.

“You don’t want to make the money he’ll spend?”

“No!  He thinks it’s a sex room!”

“Ok, then” she said.  I can only assume that she sent him on his way because he and I never crossed paths again that night.

That’s what I do when I meet a truly scary man.  I try saying something to shut down the interaction at first.  Then, if that doesn’t work, I run and hide.

It kind of reminds me of something that happened to a girlfriend and me when we were in high school.  We had taken a walk one night to go see some of our friends who used to hang out at the basketball court not far from my house.  On our way home that dark night, we encountered a man not much older than us.  He was, however, much bigger and had a very, very deep voice.  He smiled at us, then looked my friend in the eye and said, in the scariest voice I’ve ever heard, “CAN I EAT YOUR PUSSY?!”  We ran like two scared little girls because that’s basically what we were.

I never forgot the sound of that guy’s voice.  When a man in the club towers over me and says something like that in a big, scary voice, I do the same thing.  I run like Hell.


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