Roadwarrior

by Nick Molloy

  The next time I met Canadian Shagpile was a couple of years later on my return from Dubai. He turned up at a show I had in Southampton. He wasn’t booked, I was doing the show with another stripper called Carpetburn. Canadian Shagpile was based on the South Coast so it was his local haunt. The first thing he did when he entered was to start verbally excreting all over Carpet Burn about how he’d already done four shows that night for £125 apiece. He was so great he could command that sort of a fee and earn £500 on a regular basis !.

  To my absolute amazement he then suggested to the drag queen that he do another show, here and now. The drag told him there was no budget, but there was no stopping him. He gathered a pint glass and collected £9 as a whip round from the girls. After I had gone on and finished, Canadian Shagpile went on and did a show for £9 ! Far be it from me to suggest that his ego needed the affirmative boost from a female audience or to suggest that the four shows he had done earlier that evening were in fact fictional.

  The same drag queen at that show once offered me a job in Plymouth which I couldn’t attend because I was already booked. As it was so far, he was offering to drive and save me the petrol. He later told me that as I couldn’t attend, he booked Canadian Shagpile. I enquired whether that was wise. The drag replied ‘Bloody not. Not only did he twitter on about how great he was all the way there, I then couldn’t get rid of him ! I let him stay at my flat that night and all he did was burst into tears and go on about his girlfriend. Then, he asked to borrow some money. Next day we literally had to throw him out. NEVER AGAIN !’ ‘I could have told you so,’ I replied sardonically. ‘WELL WHY DIDN’T YOU’ he screamed as I fell off my chair laughing.

  The next time I met Canadian Shagpile again was at a Christmas show in a Watford nightclub. What ensued was the stuff of pure comedy. The club asked us to play to their music rather than our own. It was a bit strange, but as a stripper we often have to ad lib. I was going on first and I told the compering drag queen that I would give him a wink when I’d finished as there was no musical cue. Before I’d even started wanking, Shagpile told me he was tied off. I told him he wouldn’t be on for about 40 minutes yet ! ‘I’ve been doing this a long time, I know what I’m doing’. I can only assume that his dick no longer has any feeling left in it !

  Anyway, I did my show and then Canadian Shagpile was introduced. The music was the sort that might be played at a rave. That is, very dance oriented. A series of railings across the stage separated the stripper from the crowd. When Shagpile got down to his underwear he climbed the railings like a WWF wrestler climbs the turnbuckle and began waving his arms in the air, gesticulating to the crowd. A couple of minutes later he was naked and the drag tried to bring him off, but he was having none of it. He kept climbing the railings and gesticulating like he had just won some major sports title (best stripper over 40 perhaps?).

  I must admit it was quite an atmosphere. Shagpile had clearly got drunk on the fumes and was on a high that he clearly wasn’t going to come down from in a hurry. After a couple of more attempted interruptions from the drag, Canadian Shagpile was eventually led away from the stage. Somebody really should have covered his head with a blanket and put him in the back of a van. I was both open mouthed and giggly at what I had just watched.

  Everywhere he goes, Canadian Shagpile’s reputation is legendary. I write this whilst I am currently on a stripping assignment in Cyprus. The owners of the club where I am performing have also got personal experience of the legend. In a repeat of what happened with the Drag Queen, Nick and Bill had to eject him from their house and have vowed ‘Never Again’.

  Anyway, I digress. Back to lap dancing in Streatham. After K2 had read the riot act and the strippers had ceased injecting steroids, telling each other how great they were, had shaved off their body hair, strutted up and down like peacocks and pontificated some more, we were ready to begin. Nathan the Arrogant did a mini show to start the evening and then we all lined up like prostitutes in an attempt to procure a client. The girls would buy tokens which they would ‘buy’ us with and we could exchange these tokens for real money at the end of the evening. I was wearing my one and only boxing costume, which admittedly was perhaps not the best outfit in that sort of arena. Women undoubtedly go for uniforms and all the regular ones were worn by the other strippers (policeman, soldier, white naval and fireman).

  Nevertheless, it wasn’t long before an attractive young girl, wearing a white veil (presumably soon to be married) was thrust forward by her mates and I was handed some tokens. The deal was that I would then take her upstairs and perform a lap-dance for one or two tracks only. I would then thank her, escort her back down stairs, get dressed and return to my soliciting.

  I must confess to being a little nervous and unsure at this point. Attempts at interrogating the other strippers as to what was expected had come to nought. They were too busy reassuring themselves of their own greatness. I was no dancer. In fact I can’t dance to save my life. Performing a routine to music is very different to ‘dancing’. I was therefore going to have to blag my way through it.

  The first time I did it I was the epitome of professionalism. I stole a few things from my regular routine, did a fair bit of grinding up against her, didn’t allow her to touch me (thereby sticking to the rules) and generally did as I was told. The ‘private’ area upstairs was nothing of the sort. It was a huge room with seating around all the walls. Strippers sat their clients down and performed in the nearest available space. Any client who paid their fiver or tenner, could easily view all the other strippers performing for other clients as well as the stripper that they had personally bought. It certainly provided little incentive for the girls to repeat buy. Buy one stripper and you would certainly see more than one in action.

  The first time I performed I was sneaking glances at what all the other guys were up to, just to make sure I was in the same ball park. It was pretty obvious that not everybody was adhering to the no touching rule. They were cleverly hiding errant hands behind large flags.

  After finishing the dance, I took my girl back downstairs, dressed hurriedly and hurried some more to get back down stairs so that I could continue my red light act. To my surprise most of the guys were entertaining for far longer than a couple of tracks. Business was slow, but it wasn’t long before the same girl was approaching me again to be taken upstairs. She must fancy me I concluded – most flattering.

  As I started to entertain, I was again watching the other strippers with their non adherence to protocol. I was also aware that this girl had hired me again, presumably for a reason. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a flag, or any other screening device for that matter. It was painfully obvious to me that the no touching rule was not being enforced. A female bouncer was watching our every move and she was either very stupid or deliberately ignoring what was going on behind the flags. On that basis I decided to proceed by also ignoring the no touching rule.

  I started much as I did the first time pulling bits from the routine and grinding. When fully naked, I increased the level of grinding and found this to be to her pleasure. As this was meeting with her approval, I let my grinding crutch rise up her body and when my dick reached her open neck top, I started lowering it into the space between her bra cleavage. This was met by an increasing broad smile and a little squeal, which I again concluded was a sign of approval. My dick was no longer pointing straight down.

  I grabbed her hand, ran it over my chest and down towards my nether regions. She offered no resistance, hungrily grabbed by dick and began slowly tugging on it. She steadily increased the tempo in direct correlation to the stiffness so that when I was fully primed her hand was going like a motorized piston.

  I’d be lying if I said that this was not a pleasurable experience and despite all the action going on around us I was in a completely different place. My tranquil dream state was shattered by a rather exasperated and concerned looking Chico, who came running over in a bit of a tizzy.

  ‘It’s no touching’
he said

  Both I and the girl stared at him blankly, she carried on her pistonized action obviously intent on me spunking in her face.

  ‘No touching’ he protested again.

  ‘There’s no touching going on over there behind that flag. Go and have a word with them and come back in a minute’ was my response.

  ‘No touching’ he pleaded robotically

  ‘Go away, we’re busy’ I whispered.

  At which point Chico leaned forward and slapped the wrist of the girl (gently) with another ‘no touching – naughty’ thrown in for good measure. This had the effect of damaging the pistons and Chico began wittering on about regulations and getting him in trouble. I just groaned my displeasure whilst the girl looked on both sheepishly and cheekily.

  I covered up my aching boner and escorted her downstairs. She skipped back into the crowd giving me a final naughty glance before she disappeared. In passing, one of the other strippers added ‘it didn’t take you long’.

  The rest of the night passed fairly uneventfully. After the initial rush of girls wanting to buy dances, it all died down and I spent most of my time in the red light area with little success. There were only another couple of dances in the entire evening. Two very young girls just giggled all the way through, but were very complimentary at the end. Although I wasn’t their first choice for looks, I was the least sleazy and had offered the best routine.

  Nathan the ego filled balloon had been telling everybody how one punter had offered him £7000 to take him home, but he had turned her down. No doubt this was an every day occurrence in his world. I had spent most of my time touting for business, whilst everybody else seemed to be securing business upstairs. I must confess to having been being a bit flummoxed and was searching for what I had done wrong. I concluded it must have been my choice of uniform. All the others had popular girly themes.

  At the end of the night we went to cash up our tokens and I was standing there with Fireman Sam (aka Glyn). Glyn was the only other stripper I had took to on the night and wasn’t full to bursting with his own ego. He had been upstairs a lot compared to my constant soliciting without much success downstairs. I had put much of his success down to his fireman’s uniform. Glyn, whilst being quite stocky was balding and had the look of a bodybuilder in the off-season. That is to say, he looked a little bloated and chubby from steroid usage. He didn’t have the best physique in the building, so I had concluded, something else must have been adding to his allure.

  As we were cashing up I was stunned to discover that I had actually earned more money than he had.

  ‘Glyn……’ I stuttered with amazement

  ‘What’

  ‘You were upstairs all night, where’s all your cash’ I said scraping my jaw off the floor

  ‘Oh, we were doing them all for free mate, it’s a good laugh getting your knob played with all night’

  I visited Ceasar’s in Streatham once more and attempted to earn money from lap dancing. I had even bought myself a white naval uniform to see if the uniform made any difference at all to earnings. It didn’t I was plus £10 compared to the boxer. A combination of strippers offering dick-sucks for dances and a non private playing area meant that it was never going to be a money earner.

  My second night followed a similar format to the first. Chico was doing his best attempting to sing, strippers were pontificating, giving away their wares for nothing and nobody was earning any money (except the venue). Chico was actually quite helpful in dispensing a few stripping tips and I distinctly remember him telling me to discard the jacket because it was ‘making me look small’ and hiding my physique. This was the first bit of useful constructive criticism anybody had really given me since I had started stripping. At the end of the night, he was upstairs attempting to get himself sucked with the rest of the boys.

  If ever I have performed lap dancing again (it isn’t often), it has always been after a show where I have already been paid a fee. Getting one’s dick sucked by nubile young ladies is always nice, but, it isn’t the reason why I do this. Not all strippers can honestly say that….

  Chapter 8 – Money’s Too Tight to Mention

  It was autumn 2002 and I had just got back from a brief climbing holiday in Ireland. Whilst going up Carrauntoohill (Ireland’s highest mountain) I had been engrossed in conversation with a fellow climber/walker. We enjoyed each other’s company for a couple of hours. He told me how he’d not had a proper job for nearly 20 years, was something of social outcast but had recently fallen for a girl and was having cold sweats about the prospect of returning to ‘normal’ life. In those 20 years he’d done a fair bit of travelling.

  I explained my current predicament and how I was bit disillusioned with the way business operates in the UK, how I too had recently dropped out of society and started a fledgling career as a stripper. He suggested that two areas I should look at moving to were Dubai and Vancouver. Both, he reckoned, offered an interesting lifestyle with plenty of opportunity.

  By coincidence, when I arrived back from Ireland, there was an e-mail waiting for me from somebody I used to work with. He was now the financial director for a leading recruitment company. They were looking for a dynamic go-getter to open up an operation for them in Dubai and they would like to talk to me. Although, I have never been superstitious or believed in fate it was one of those strange ‘It’s a sign’ moments.

  I decided to go and talk to them. After all, I had just lost a stack of cash on the failed motor racing venture. My asshole had been considerably enlarged by the experience of the last two years and I needed to get some money back. I was really starting to enjoy the stripping, but I was only averaging a little over a job a week at the time. £100 isn’t the easiest income to life on. I still had a few savings, but I was living on borrowed time if things continued at the current rate.

  I had four interviews with BLT. It was clear that one of the four didn’t like me, but the other three were positive, especially the chief executive. As is the way in the modern business world, he would tell the others what to decide and they would agree without an argument. Therefore, it looked like an offer would be forthcoming. I decided to gamble somewhat. I told them that I had two other offers on the table, both offering six figure packages. However, both were in the UK and I was keen to leave the UK. Therefore, if they were prepared to offer something comparable on remuneration I would take their offer ahead of the other two. Yet, I would be unable to hold off the other two offers indefinitely and would need to know their final decision soon.

  Both of the other offers were pure fiction, but the take-away close is a powerful sales technique. In my experience if they were going to say no, they would prolong the agony. By forcing their hand, I was just speeding up their final decision. If they wanted me, they would come up with a written offer. If they wanted someone else, then I was only forcing them to say so ahead of their planned time. Some people may see what I did as a huge risk on my part. However, my tactics demonstrated that I am capable of negotiating difficult situations and people generally want what they can’t have. By telling them that they couldn’t have me if they dithered, they wanted me even more. My tactics worked. An offer arrived and after further minor negotiations, I had a one year deal in Dubai worth nearly £8000/month, tax free.

  Whilst I was wearing a suit during the day to a high flying meeting, unbeknown to my prospective employer I was working as a sleazy stripper by night (at least that’s how they would see it). I would be lying if I said I felt comfortable in a suit back in a business environment. Suits are nothing more than a uniform worn to show conformity to a norm. Some suits work against their will towards a better good, other have had their brains totally washed away.

  To me, the suit felt like a straight jacket. Furthermore, fraternizing with the suits was incredibly difficult for me. The suit wearers are like ants acting out their part in a much larger colony. Some suits take to playing the game better than others. I always thought those that actually wear their suit w
ith pride were weird in the extreme. Whoever invented suits should have been tortured…slowly. They are simultaneously both uncomfortable and dysfunctional.

  By returning to the business game I was putting on an Oscar winning performance. There was no place I would rather not be more. Yet, I needed the money. I had concluded that I needed to pay off my mortgage. I hate being in debt and owing things to people. When I had graduated I took out a loan for £3000. I hated it being there hanging over my head like a cloud and I paid it off as soon as possible. I paid off my credit cards every month. I never took credit except on the mortgage. Despite earning good money, I had concluded that the mortgage was too big to take on. Even if I saved £3500 per month, every month, it would still take well over two years to pay it off. It just seemed too daunting at the time. Besides which, there were every day household items to buy.

  Now however, I had changed my mind. When running the motor-racing project, the mortgage limited my ability to take risks, because I couldn’t afford to risk losing the equity that had accumulated in the house. It needed to be paid every month and now I wanted to kill it – stone dead. The Dubai project would mean that I could kill it in a year. If I lived like a monk and saved everything at the end of the project I’d be mortgage free and with it I would have a lot more personal freedom.