Confessions of a Stripper: Tales from the VIP Room

by Lacey Lane

  That night, I gave the idea of working as a topless dancer a lot of serious deliberation. It was something I’d never even considered before—not even remotely—but the thought of potentially working out some problems and making some decent money along the way certainly had its merits. I began to envision all the fantastic things I would buy myself—after my student loans were paid off, of course. The more I considered it, the more it seemed like a good idea (bleeding ulcers and broken noses aside). But I still wasn’t wholly convinced. So I decided to do some more research.

  Look and Learn

  Over the next week and a half, I visited eight different strip clubs, all within 40 miles of my apartment. Not once did I have to pay a cover charge. I dressed down for my research, trying not to attract too much attention. After all, I was there only to pick up tidbits of information, not to get picked up by anyone. After a quick perusal of an establishment, I would order a drink at the bar, then slink off to a back table, trying to blend into the shadows where I could watch the action without being disturbed. In most cases, no one bothered me—the gloomier the lighting, the easier it was to remain anonymous. Occasionally, a dancer sought me out and hit me up for a lap dance. A few times I indulged—for research purposes only.

  After one lap dance, the stripper asked me for my phone number. I guess she figured if I was there, alone, I had to be trolling for a companion. I turned her down politely, telling her that I was flattered, but already involved. She scribbled her number on the drink napkin with my lipstick and told me to call her if I changed my mind. I remember spitting my gum into the napkin later that night.

  In regard to the lap dances, they provided me with a host of up-close-and-personal visuals. Though a few were a tad unsettling, the girls unknowingly gave me some excellent pointers. I filed them away as I noticed them (more on these later) and went on with my research.

  At one club, I was pestered constantly—this time, by customers. The men must have felt that any woman at a strip club who didn’t work there must either be easy or bisexual or (lucky them!) both. I was neither and I turned them down like a counterfeit bill at a casino cage. It was at this club that I had my first experience with the inside of a VIP Room.

  I was looking for the bathroom. At the back of the club was a long hallway lined with doors. Strangely, they were marked with silver numbers and each had a small colored lightbulb above it. I assumed they were like airplane lavatories, the light bulbs indicating whether or not they were occupied. The first few doors were closed and the bulbs above them were on. Farther down the hall, I found one door that was ajar, the bulb above it out, so I went inside. Surprisingly, there was no toilet or sink, but wall-to-wall mirrors and two oversized pastel loveseats, arranged caddycorner. Both looked as if they belonged on the set of the old “Miami Vice” TV show. A small glass cocktail table completed the furnishings. Realizing my mistake, I turned around to leave—just as two dancers were entering, leading two male customers by their hands.

  I apologized for being in their way and tried to squeeze by, but the guys wouldn’t have any of it. Mid-40s, deeply tanned and dressed in expensive suits, they weren’t the most handsome of individuals, but you could tell they had money. In fact, they exuded cash. I’d seen a few flashy exotic cars in the parking lot—in the roped-off valet section—when I entered the club and I wouldn’t have been surprised if these two players were the owners. Rather than seem annoyed by my presence, both men quickly invited me to stay. However, it was painfully obvious that the two dancers didn’t share their sentiments. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the strippers flashing each other angry looks—but I knew the experience would be too good to pass up, regardless of any animosity it may have caused. Turning on the charm, I grabbed both men by the arms and told them I’d be delighted. My pee-pee break would just have to wait.

  We remained in the VIP Room for a few drinks and a total of six songs. Apparently, in these back rooms, much closer contact between dancer and customer was allowed. Either that, or the strippers were seriously committed to upstaging my presence. But I noticed it was always the dancers who initiated the contact. Guys had to stay put and keep their hands to themselves. At least, that’s how it was in theory (but more on that later).

  That night, one of the girls really went over the line, thrusting every part of her body in both of the guys’ faces. At one point, she even climbed up on the loveseats, pulled her G-string aside and rubbed her bare coochie against their foreheads. Nasty! The guys didn’t seem to mind, however. I was pretty sickened by what I saw and wished to God I’d passed on the backroom invite. On the other hand, I was glad to have been present for the labia tango. If that’s what girls commonly did in the VIP Rooms, I wanted no part of it.

  During the songs, I carried on polite small talk with the guys, but all three of us were more interested in the dancers’ antics—them for their reasons and me for mine. When the last song was over, the guys paid up—$200 apiece for the dances, plus a $100 tip for each. I couldn’t believe my eyes. In less than 30 minutes, each of those girls had made $300! I was mesmerized by the quick cash, but the brief episode of extreme contact still had me wondering.

  On the way out of the room, the guys asked me for my number. Not wanting to appear ungrateful for the drinks and, uh, entertainment, I shelled out a phone number—but it definitely wasn’t mine. We said our goodbyes in the hallway and the guys walked off. However, the two girls blockaded me before I could enter back into the club. Oh shit, I thought, here it comes. I was certain that I was about to get my ass kicked by two jealous topless dancers. But rather than start a fight or curse me out, they thanked me. They admitted that, at the beginning of the session, they absolutely hated the idea of me being back there with them, fearing it was going to cut into their tips. But as it turned out, both strippers believed that my presence kept them from having to fend off the guys’ overly aggressive advances.

  Bunny, a brunette, the taller of the two girls, said they’d danced for those two guys numerous times before. Apparently, each time it was the same—a six-song session for $300. But on all the other occasions—more than a dozen—both men were extremely handsy. This time, other than for a few minor pets and pats, they were perfect gentlemen.

  Nikki, the shorter dancer with the bigger boobs, went so far as to invite me for a cup of coffee. She said she and Bunny were done for the night—thanks to the last two guys, they had each cleared the $800 mark. Not too shabby for a night’s work. Hoping to fill in the blanks for some, if not all, of my remaining questions about the exotic entertainment industry, I readily accepted.

  The girls changed and we went to a nearby coffeehouse. For the first 15 minutes of our cappuccino and conversation, I thought Bunny and Nikki might be lesbians looking for a third chica to add to their fluff-party. But as the evening progressed, I learned that wasn’t the case at all; these two were actually just nice girls—a rarity, I later discovered, in the topless biz.

  First, they confessed their real names. Nikki—5’2”, 101 aerobics-toned pounds with big firm boobs that she said were natural—was really Jennifer, a student at a nearby community college. In her mid-20s, she’d been dancing for 18 months. Bunny, the tall “coochie rubber” with the body of a ballerina, was actually Rebecca. She’d been dancing for nine years and had turned 32 three weeks prior. She owned her car outright—a sporty red BMW convertible—and had just put a sizable down payment on a house, all courtesy of her tits and ass, and the men who paid to see them.

  For Rebecca, the profession was a by-product of what she really wanted to do—become a theatrical dancer on Broadway. She’d studied for years to achieve her dream, but chronic knee problems, and two surgeries, eventually caused her to abandon the chase. Unable to get dancing completely out of her system, Rebecca began working as a dancer in a bikini bar, but when a friend told her how much money she was making at a full-fledged topless joint, Rebecca quickly made the switch.

  “As you can see, I’m pretty flat up top,” Rebe
cca said. “Showing them off isn’t that big of a deal.”

  That’s when I questioned her about the baring of her privates. Even Jennifer was curious about that maneuver. Rebecca laughed, putting her head in her hands.

  “I’ve never done anything like that before,” she said with a giggle. “But tonight I had two really good reasons. First, I wanted to completely skeeve you out.” I told her she definitely had. “But the second and real reason I did it was because I had the worst itch on the edge of my pussy lip.”

  Both Jennifer and I broke up laughing, nearly spitting up our lattés in the process. When we got our breath back, I asked Jennifer how she got started in the topless biz. Her answer totally blew me away.

  “I was super shy all through high school. Never even had a date until the prom, and even then, I went with my cousin. I was geeky-looking, too. Big framed glasses, braces, bad skin … the works. Needless to say, my self-image sucked. Then one night I saw a movie and it had a scene with topless dancers in it, with tons of guys fighting for their attention, and it really stuck in my mind. So the next semester, I skipped the regular classes and registered for two dance classes, an aerobics class and a martial-arts class. I was determined to get in shape and learn some moves—moves that would help me while I was dancing and help me if some guy acted up and I needed to kick the shit out of him. Anyway, at the end of the semester, I felt great, looked even better, and figured it was now or never. So I went to the club, danced for the boss, and he hired me on the spot.”

  When she finished her story, I had tears in my eyes. I shared with them my own issues and told them what I was thinking about doing to rectify the situation.

  “You’re definitely not alone,” Jennifer said. “When I started, I thought I was the only one with a confidence problem. Even though they won’t admit it—heck, most of the girls won’t even talk to you, let alone share their innermost feelings—the majority of the dancers out there have problems with self-esteem.”

  “It kind of comes with the territory,” Rebecca added.

  “Too fat, too skinny, boobs too small, teeth not straight enough, smile not white enough, ass too big … You name it, it’s always something, whether it’s true or not.”

  “But you don’t seem to have any problems like that,” I said.

  Rebecca made a show of pretending to be a stuck-up snob, haughty accent and all. “Yes, well,” she began, flipping her hair back and her nose in the air, “I’m just perfect in every respect.”

  We got a good laugh over that one. And then, rather than try to steer me away from the stripping business for fear I would horn in on their customers and their tips, they encouraged me to go for it. What’s more, they told me to come work at their club. In fact, they insisted, telling me I would really disappoint them if I didn’t.

  “But isn’t it horribly competitive?” I asked. “I mean, girls fighting for the same customers?”

  “When it comes to regular customers, especially VIP Roomers with fat bankrolls, yes,” Rebecca concurred. “Then, it’s every girl for herself. And even beyond that, you’ll find that most of the dancers are total cunts. Truth is, there are plenty of guys and plenty of money. And a guy knows what kind of woman he wants to dance for him the second he sees her. I don’t care what any of the other girls say, but some nights it’s the girl with the big boobs and the perfect body who makes all the money and other nights it’s the nastiest fattest cow in the place that breaks the bank. Most of the girls who try to make it competitive are lazy obnoxious bitches who find something to complain about no matter what the situation. Sure, there are exceptions, and a lot of girls socialize with each other because they have to, working conditions and all, but in most cases they just don’t like each other.”

  “Beca’s right,” Jennifer said. “And there’s only one way to deal with girls like that.”

  “How?”

  “Put Visine in their drinks,” she replied matter-of-factly.

  Rebbeca laughed and made a face, as if recalling some previous event. But I was clueless. “Why, what’s that do?” I queried.

  “Have you ever seen someone with explosive diarrhea?” Jennifer asked. “If not, I have only two words for you: Stand back.”

  Rebecca’s laugh grew louder. Jennifer joined her. Even I was laughing and I had no clue why. Toilet humor usually doesn’t appeal to me, but the two of them were so infectious I couldn’t help myself.

  “Visine really does that?” I asked. “How’d you learn about it?”

  “Jen’s dad is a high-school science teacher,” Rebecca said. “I didn’t believe her—until I saw the results first-hand.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “You actually did it to another dancer?”

  “Nope,” Jennifer said with a giggle. “One of the bouncers. Fucking asshole pinched my ass every time I walked by him, which was like fifty times a night. He did it so many times I had a bruise the size of a golf ball.”

  “Not good for business at all,” Rebecca said. “Even a big ass is better than a bruised ass. Guys dig scars and tattoos, but for some reason a bruise has the same effect as a mass of pimples.”

  Just the thought of it nearly made me gag. “So what happened to the bouncer?” I asked, now more than a bit curious.

  “He came in on his night off,” Jennifer continued. “Pinched my ass four or five times within twenty minutes. That was it. I was gonna get that big black motherfucker and I let him know it, too. Well, I was just coming down from my turn on stage and I headed to the bar for a drink when I saw JT heading off to the bathroom. But the stupid ox left his bottle of beer unprotected. So when the bartender wasn’t looking, I grabbed the Visine out of my purse, which I keep behind the bar for cigarette breaks, and squeezed in a ton of drops. Good thing JT was already pretty drunk or else he might have tasted it. Anyway, about fifteen minutes later there was a commotion up at the bar. When I got there, I wished I hadn’t.”

  “Shit everywhere,” Rebecca chimed in. “Stunk to high heaven, too. I heard JT had been to some all-you-can-eat sushi buffet before he got to the club. By the looks of what was on the floor, he got his money’s worth. I guarantee you one thing, that sonofabitch will never leave the house without underwear on again.”

  Jennifer and I both got nauseous. I was about to take a sip of my coffee, but I set the mug down. Now I didn’t even want to look at the brownish-black liquid, let alone put it in my mouth.

  Jennifer finished the details of the story: The bouncer, embarrassed to no end, quit his job and had his final check mailed to him. One of the other bouncers, a good friend of JT’s, said he would never show his face in that club again. She added that the club’s owner deducted a cleaning fee from his final check. Even with the cleaning, she said the smell still lingered for a few days. But the part she was most relieved about was JT’s choice of meals prior to coming to the club. According to the other bouncer, JT was actually thinking of filing a complaint against the sushi bar, believing that it was the cause of his problem. Foul play was never suspected and Jennifer was in the clear.

  I made a mental note to stay on these girls’ good sides—if I started working there, that is. But by that time, I was pretty much convinced. I only hoped I wouldn’t chicken out in the morning.

  Starting Out

  I woke up the next morning eager and excited. Of course, I was extremely nervous, too, but I decided to go for it anyway. Even so, I completely chickened out for two days following my little Q & A with the girls. It was actually three days later that I threw caution to the wind and drove to the club. Yes, I was still wrestling with a few issues. The nudity aspect was my biggest concern. Exactly how would I react when the time to bare all arrived? And how would I feel about being mostly naked on the job, day after day, week after week, month after month? The other issue that gave me pause was the very real possibility that someone I knew would eventually show up at the club and see me dancing in little more than my birthday suit. A friend, a classmate, an ex-boyfriend (I was attending college
in my home state)—discovery by any of those individuals would be more than embarrassing, it would be mortifying.

  But I had already convinced myself that this was something I needed to do. More important, I knew I would regret it immensely if I didn’t go through with it. My only out was the fact that I hadn’t been offered the job yet. Perhaps I would botch the audition completely or totally freeze up under pressure and get turned away like a carnivore at a vegetarian buffet.

  I would find out soon enough.

  When I finally arrived at the club—I stopped more than half a dozen times along the way, considering whether or not to turn around and forget it—it was almost six o’clock. The place wasn’t very busy, but there were customers and the dancers were doing their thing. Originally, my plan was to have a drink and calm my nerves, but when I learned that Nikki and Bunny hadn’t arrived yet, I figured I’d get the audition process over with before they showed up. This way, if I did blow it, I could get out of there and save myself the humiliation of having to retell my sob story.

  So, without any alcohol in my system, I bravely soldiered ahead and asked for the manager, using Bunny and Nikki as references. Like the Lou Albano look-alike I previously encountered, club manager Dave was also short and fat, but he was completely clean-shaven—head, cheeks, and chin. Kojak without the lollipop—or the body or the looks or the charm. But based on his girth, I was certain he didn’t pass up too many sweets. He wore an assortment of large gold rings, a beefy nugget-style gold bracelet, a gold watch that might have been larger than London’s Big Ben, and a Mr. T starter kit around his neck. Many of his gold chains were adorned with various charms, the largest being an Italian horn made of jade. Seated at the bar, he was watching a baseball game on television when I introduced myself and explained that I was interested in dancing there. First, he looked me up and down, as if he were a sculptor searching for imperfections on his newest creation. Then he looked me up and down again, this time lingering on various areas—areas I’d been taught my whole life to keep covered. Had he stared any longer, I might have suggested he take a photograph, but I held my tongue. I knew popping off to the boss would definitely not start my stripping career off on the right foot. After a bit, he took my hand, curling his ring-adorned sausage-like fingers around mine, and invited me to sit down for a bit to tell him about myself. Rebecca and Jennifer had prepared me for this—Dave wants you to feel like he’s your buddy, they’d said—so I obliged him. Without going into too much detail, I told him I was a student, simply looking to pick up some extra cash. Dave turned to the bartender, busy mixing up a cocktail. “What do you think? Can we use another girl?”