Confessions of a Stripper: Tales from the VIP Room by Lane Lacey

Author:Lane, Lacey [Lane, Lacey]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Huntington Press
Published: 2009-01-22T05:00:00+00:00

You Snooze, You Lose!

Customers should treat topless dancers with respect. Those who don’t would be much better off staying home with a bottle of their favorite intoxicant and an adult video. Here’s a story about a man who could’ve used this advice.

I was working at a club in Los Angeles, dancing in the VIP Room for a bald fat guy with more chins than a Chinese phone book. I was midway through the first song when he uttered the first of his nasty comments. Apparently, he thought I wasn’t “glittery” enough. Many of the other dancers had sequins or sparkles in their outfits; that night, I was wearing black leather.

“Hey, you picked me,” I replied. “If you want someone else, have at it.”

“No,” he said. “I’ll keep you. You look a little sleazy and I like that. It reminds me of my ex-wife.”

Now, dancers hear all kinds of comments from their customers—some flattering, some disgusting, and some downright insulting. Usually, we take everything in stride. Most of the guys are just unwinding or drunk or both, so I let this remark slide, chalking it up to booze and a bad day. But a few moments later, he lashed out again.

“Those are the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen,” he laughed.

My immediate response was to ask that fat bastard when was the last time he saw his own shoes, but I held my tongue. Booze and a bad day, I said to myself. Still, his insult really pissed me off. I was wearing a pair of $150 Pradas and I know they looked good. What the hell did he know about fashion? Had he been talking about food, I would have taken his word for it, but designer heels, no friggin’ way!

By the end of the second song—and his third Long Island Iced Tea—he was really starting to get belligerent, finding fault with just about everything I did. I was considering grabbing a bouncer and having him tossed out of the club when his karma came back to bite him.

Somehow, Mr. Bald & Fat nodded off. The loud music playing in the background apparently made no difference—he was counting sheep like a shepherd. Now I was really pissed! How the hell could anyone—even a drunk—fall asleep during one of my performances?

I walked over and was about to rouse him from his slumber when I changed my mind. Instead, I vicked one of his cigarettes, sat down on the couch, and took a break. Of course, his meter was still running like a high-priced taxi waiting on its fare. When the cocktail waitress came in to fetch him another round, I ordered a glass of wine for me—on him, of course.

This scenario continued for the next six songs. And since his platinum Visa was already imprinted at the bar, porky Rip van Winkle unknowingly treated almost half of the girls working that night to a cocktail or two.

Eventually, I decided he’d been punished enough, although he probably wouldn’t learn anything from the experience, having slept through it.

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