by Lacey Lane
Confessions of a Stripper
Tales from The VIP room
by Lacey Lane
Huntington Press
* * *
Las Vegas Nevada
Confessions of a Stripper
Published by
Huntington Press
3665 Procyon Street
Las Vegas, NV 89103
Phone (702) 252-0655
e-mail: [email protected]
Copyright© 2004, Lacey Lane
ISBN: 978-0-929712-59-8
Cover Photo ©Mark Peterson/CORBIS
Cover Design: Bethany Coffey Rihel
Interior Design & Production: Bethany Coffey Rihel
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be translated, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the copyright owner.
Dedication
To all the girls baring their bodies and their souls. show it while you’ve got it, make it while you can, and never be ashamed of your profession.
Acknowledgements
I’m indebted to my publisher, Anthony Curtis and Huntington Press, for giving my project a home. To my editor extraordinaire, Deke Castleman, for giving my manuscript clarity and direction. And to my husband, Adam, for giving me love, support, and understanding.
Contents
Introduction
Part One: Confessions of a Stripper
1. Welcome to the Show
2. The Psyche of a Topless Dancer
3. Look and Learn
4. Starting Out
5. Sink or Swim
6. Regulars
7. Special Events
8. Lessons Learned
9. More Bang for Your Bucks
Part Two: Tales From the VIP Room
10. The VIP Room
11. The “Pit” Boss
12. The Exterminator
13. Sweet Feet
14. The Love Glove
15. You Snooze, You Lose!
16. The Collector
17. The Piggy Bank
18. The Private Dancer
19. XXX Files
20. Doc hygiene
21. Dirty Dancing
22. Mama’s Boy
23. Trust Fund Kid
24. The Jerker
25. Lickity Spit
26. Domo Arigato
27. Victor’s Secret
28. Bond, James Bond
29. The Cheese Wiz
30. Hot Air
31. Lounge Lizard
32. Bored Games
33. King for a Day
34. The Tape Worm
35. Trick or Treat
36. The Abusee
37. Old McDonald
38. Human Viagra
39. Ride ’em Cowboy
40. Squeeze Play
41. Mr. Personality
42. Veteran Treatment
43. All Amped Up
44. The Matchmaker
And Even More VIP Room Adventures
Afterword
Introduction
My name is Lacey Lane and I take off my clothes for a living. At least, I used to. I retired my g-string awhile back and said goodbye to the stripping scene. During my seven years of topless tenure, I performed at a plethora of strip clubs, bikini bars, and exotic entertainment establishments throughout the country, using more aliases than any ten participants in the federal government’s Witness Protection Program. As you can probably imagine, I met thousands of interesting and unusual people along the way—heavy stress on unusual—and the stories I took with me deserve to be chronicled, if only for their entertainment value. Those who have had the pleasure of watching me strut my stuff already got more than their money’s worth.
This book is full of outlandish tales from my time in the peek-a-booty biz, but it’s more than that. It’s a Strip Club 101 of sorts; not only will my accumulated wisdom furnish you with a little extra insight into the world of the topless dancer, but it should help you get more bang for your buck the next time you visit your favorite skin palace. While it’s no secret that all you macho hairy-chested testicle owners rule the modern world (although Oprah Winfrey and others are clawing their way into serious contention), when you step inside a strip club, the roles are immediately reversed. Here, the dancers are the hunters and the men are the prey. So trust me when I tell you, you need all the help you can get.
Tales from the VIP Room isn’t a scathing tell-all or some tawdry tabloid-esque exposé, so all names and places have been changed to protect the innocent—or the guilty, depending on how you look at it. But don’t think for a second that this account is any less accurate or entertaining. Quite the contrary, actually. Omitting true identities has actually afforded me the literary freedom to serve you my memories on the half-shell. In essence, raw and untainted.
Somewhere between inanimate smut magazines and full service prostitution is the niche occupied by strip clubs. This fascinating industry, an equal mixture of endless fantasy and hardcore reality, is different for all those involved in it—be it for business or pleasure. For me, it was a combination of both. And so, without further ado, I give you Confessions of a Stripper: Tales from the VIP Room. Enjoy!
Part One
Confessions of a Stripper
Welcome to the Show
A close friend of mine once said that there are more strip clubs in America than Chinese restaurants.
I believe he’s correct. But as you might expect, no two are alike.
Some strip clubs are posh megabuck establishments routinely frequented by superstar athletes and major celebrities from the music, television, and film worlds. Other clubs are sleazy skank fests, little more than fronts for nickel-and-dime prostitution, which appeal to the minimum-wage set. Some are architectural marvels with elaborate décor. Others seem to have been thrown together overnight, haphazardly furnished courtesy of a bargain-basement yard sale. Some have world-class menus with cuisine that rivals four- and five-star restaurants. Others serve grub far beneath the standards of what you’d expect to find at a decrepit service station along a seldom-used roadway. Some are chock full of beautiful and talented dancers, women you could easily find on the pages of Playboy and Penthouse. Others offer up scary-looking hags who conjure up spells and ride on broomsticks. But regardless of their differences, all strip clubs have at least one thing in common: They’re recognized throughout the world by men (and women) as locales where fantasies can be indulged, legally.
Every now and then, a strip club comes under fire for some violation or another—owners and employees have been indicted for everything from drugs and prostitution to racketeering and extortion—but for the most part, the laws are obeyed and the clubs remain in business. Legal issues aside, the people who work at the strip clubs have been branded by many as perverted and loathsome denizens of debauchery. The truth is, those descriptions can be appropriately applied to anyone—from jobless vagrants to members of Congress and everyone in between. It simply depends on the specific individual. At one point, William Jefferson Clinton was said to be perverted, loathsome, and debauched, along with a host of even more critical adjectives, and at the time he was the leader of the free world!
Prior to my submersion into the world of topless dancing, I, too, bought into the “badge of dishonor” stigma that most strippers and their associates are forced to wear. But my ignorance quickly gave way to enlightenment when I saw with my own eyes what really happens on the inside. Still, certain generalizations surrounding the positions within the top
less industry, and the people who fill them, are strangely accurate. And due to these consistencies, I often wondered if there were established criteria for a club’s personnel. For example, strip club managers almost always seem to fit that Guido-esque image: Tony Soprano wanna-bes long before The Sopranos hit the small screen. Maybe it’s the aura of power and respect that goes hand in hand with those who are, or claim to be, mobbed-up, but whatever the reasoning, I was amazed by how many club bosses shared the modern gangster persona. One club manager who was as Italian as Woody Allen went so far as to speak with an obviously adopted “fuhged-daboudit” lilt and came off sounding like a bad version of a Budweiser commercial.
Those club managers who didn’t play at being wiseguys usually looked as if they belonged in a circus sideshow. With elaborate tattoos that would make sci-fi animators envious, eyebrow and lip piercings that caused problems with airport security, and a dress code that Marilyn Manson would shy away from, these creatures of the night would never be found in the boardroom of a Fortune 500 company—unless they were there to collect a tab that some executive flaked out on. Ironically, some of the sweetest strip club managers in the business, those I dealt with, at any rate, are of the freak show variety.
Generally speaking, a club’s clientele determines what the owner/manager looks like. If there are a lot of expensive cars in the valet lot, I’d bet a week’s worth of tips that the man making the decisions wears a loose-fitting gold watch and a thick gold chain around his neck with some kind of oversized gaudy pendant. Also, his thinning hair is probably slicked back and he perpetually chomps on a $20 cigar. However, show me a club with a “Nude Girls” sign out front and a self parking lot filled with beater cars and broken bottles, and 99 times out of 100 the boss is someone who always looks like he’s dressed for Halloween.
When it comes to bartenders, the strip clubs certainly get their fair share of characters. The majority of those I encountered were always yammering about some elaborate get-rich-quick scheme, usually involving real estate, and when they finally made it, they’d come back and take me away from all this, as if I were some damsel in distress needing to be rescued. Bartenders across the board are known for constantly perusing the Help Wanted ads, looking for better gigs. Strip club drink-slingers are no exception, except there’s just as good a chance that they’re looking in the sports section for a spread on an upcoming game; most of the bartenders I knew were always betting on something. And every bartender had his special little trick, a well-rehearsed move he performed for you right before asking you out, thinking that it would improve his chances of getting the date. Over the years, I witnessed many. One had a bottle juggling routine that would have put the antics in Cocktail to shame. Another regaled you with obscure facts, a la the mailman from Cheers, while mixing your drink. But the best was the bartender who doused his thumb with grenadine, then lit it on fire so he could showily light your cigarette. If I remember correctly, he was missing part of an eyebrow! Those guys would use the same moves—and the same pickup lines—on all the dancers. For the record, I never dated a mixologist from a club I was working at. From my experience, bartenders were the biggest “trophy-date” hunters out there, far worse than the customers. And they weren’t even paying for the privilege!
Bouncers—notoriously big and dumb—were always complaining about that one major injury that kept them from reaching the pros. I’m sad to say it, but in all my ass shaking years, not once did I meet a doorman who could carry on a meaningful conversation for more than a few minutes. Too bad, really, because many of those guys were major hunks—chiseled facial features with bodies to match. A shame that they had the intelligence of lampposts. That’s not to say their imposing size and strength weren’t greatly appreciated. Dancers depend on the presence of these dimwit gorillas to keep them safe. Every now and then a customer (usually a drunk) gets unruly and an example has to be made. You don’t guard Fort Knox with water pistols. Well, the dancers are a strip club’s gold bars and keeping them safe requires an effective means of protection.
Only once did I go out on a date with a bouncer I worked with. He had asked me out a few times, but I’d always turned him down. It’s not that I wasn’t attracted to him—I was—but I didn’t like mixing work and play. However, he was persistent and I eventually caved in. Big mistake. He took me to a prime rib buffet, my first indication that it was going to be my last date with him. Not that I’m some prissy missy, but I could have thought of a zillion other places for a solid first impression instead of a $9.99 all-you-can-eat heart disease festival where every patron looked like a stand-in for the Hindenburg.
After watching him devour approximately half a cow (I almost became a vegetarian that night), which he washed down with what seemed like an entire keg of beer, and listening to his endless tales of playing football for a major college in the Midwest and how he should have been drafted in the first round except for some kind of problem with his back, not to mention his falling out with the coaching staff, he suggested we go back to his place to catch the end of the Monday Night Football game and get to know each other better. I quickly chimed in with a better plan: Take me home immediately and never ask me out again.
Finally, there are the dancers, the most important people in any strip club. Without mincing words, dancers always have drama in their lives. I was no exception. But given the nature of the profession, it would be hard to imagine it any other way. Regardless of what you think or what you know or what you think you know, earning a living as an exotic dancer (regardless of how exotic you really are) is no easy mission. It’s hard on the body and hard on the mind, even if you have no problem with showing yourself off to total strangers. When working, dancers are required to always be “on,” like an actor or actress filming a five-hour scene (or longer) without interruption. Ask any of the most respected thespians on the planet and I’m sure they’d agree—such a task would be nearly impossible to pull off, let alone to do effectively. Yet this is precisely what a stripper does on a nightly basis.
There are many reasons women gravitate toward this profession: the lure of big money; the prospect of meeting wealthy men; because they are exhibitionistic in nature; or simply because they can’t see themselves settling into the drudgery of a traditional nine-to-five job. Whatever their reasons, and the varying backgrounds from which they hail, it’s easy to imagine how a few nights a week of portraying flesh-and-blood visual sex toys for what literally amounts to an audience of wallets with heartbeats could create some tension. Perhaps that’s why the turnover rate is so high and why women come and go from the different clubs—and the profession itself—like addicted gamblers from an OTB. Bottom line, it’s a tremendously difficult profession, but one that can be extremely rewarding—for the right individuals.
It certainly was for me.
The Psyche of a Topless Dancer
To truly understand the world of topless dancing and all it entails, you first need to understand—or attempt to understand—the dancers, themselves. I touched on this briefly in the Introduction, but I have no qualms about stating it again: The strippers are the very core of the exotic entertainment business. Without them, the tassels just won’t twirl. Obviously, like the clubs they perform in, no two dancers are ever completely alike. But one commonality shared by the overwhelming majority is their love of money. “Greed is good” is how Gordon Gekko (Michael Douglas in Wall Street) summed it up. In today’s MTV-inspired lingo, “Dollar dollar bill y’all” would be the slang translation. Regardless of how it’s conveyed, the message is the same and cold hard cash was the sole reason I shook my tight toned ass and firm (at that point, natural) boobs at every Tom, Dick, and Harry (and occasionally Jane) four to five nights a week for the better part of seven years.
Although it didn’t start out that way.
Not even close.
Growing up, I had a severe problem with self-esteem.
I was extremely attractive. I had a killer body and tons of friends. And I never once ha
d difficulty getting a date. Forgive my egotistical self-touting, but I had to beat the guys off with a stick. However, self-doubt absolutely consumed me. I had a terrible time making decisions, believing whichever choice I made would be the wrong one, so I opted to have someone else take the reins. I worried a lot, too, about anything and everything. Like chronic depression or some form of addiction, it wasn’t something I could control. For example, I worried about getting bad grades in school, which would get me into trouble at home. Of course, I never did receive those bad grades, but the knots in my stomach were always present, ready to constrict at a moment’s notice. I was also plagued by separation anxiety, but that has just as much to do with being a twin as it does with what I believe is the root of my evils: my abandonment issues.
My mother and father divorced when I was two years old. Six months later he remarried—a woman with two children. Instant family, just add my father. His new family consumed him and, for all intents and purposes, we were completely forgotten. Child-support payments were also forgotten. It was as if to him, we’d never existed. Over the next 11 months, wherever my mother went, my sister and I went with her. The grocery store, the dentist, the bathroom, you name it—we were both total cling-ons. But then my mother started dating again, leaving the house for hours and days at a time, and my feelings of loss and abandonment began to manifest. Now, it wasn’t as if my sister and I were left alone in some dark decrepit basement without food or water. Quite the contrary. We were living with my grandparents at the time, in a luxurious house on Long Island, chock full of maids and attendants, ready to wait on us hand and foot. But that didn’t affect my yearning or quell my feelings of being left behind. Many times I woke up in the middle of the night and went to the stairs or the front door to wait for my mother to return, and that’s where someone would find me in the morning, asleep on the floor.
