Over the course of a lazy sunday night (lazy because who goes to a strip club on sunday?) we hung out in the dressing room with the dancers, who told us their best stories, advice, and tips from working in the industry. He knew he fucked up. Rule number one of a strip club: keep your server on side. Some looking to pick up rich guys, others on a girls’ night out. Business is business, gotta make that cake. A lot of the girls joked about having to be a psychologist as well as a sexy dancer, because the aim was to keep them talking and make them feel that you were really interested in them and their lives, so they would buy more booze and pay for more private dances.
Stripper lapdance fuck. Most also have hearts of gold with a real concern for their girls; but some are just all about the paper. And as i’m dancing on him, he goes, “oh my god, you remind me of my daughter, i’m going to tip you all night. A guy from a seriously third rate team once threw fifty quid at me and told me to “f*ck off!” when i asked if he’d like a drink. Some of them were wealthy guys, but others just had normal jobs and goodness knows how they paid those bills. Decent clubs employ a ‘no touching’ rule, and security are always on hand to turf anyone out who gets too hands-on.
Mad for it!
And more empty kebab boxes, stray hair extensions and a spray-tan booth. But you got to defend the girls before they even come in sometimes. We had one who was lovely, really good at schmoozing rich businessmen, and another who kept the girls in check and balanced the books with a face of stone.