by Lacey Lane
Thinking it was just the alcohol talking, I laughed it off, but he explained that he wanted to take impressions of my feet using some type of plaster.
The whole idea weirded me out, but he went on to explain that he could do it in the club—in the VIP Room. Of course, he would pay me for my time. He added that he didn’t ask to buy just any girl’s feet—only those that he deemed exceptional. So I agreed. He got all excited, hugged me with all the strength he could muster, and gave me an extra $50 tip.
Sure enough, the guy came back the next day. But the bouncer—an overprotective monstrous big brother-type—almost didn’t let him in due to the small gym bag he carried. Customers aren’t allowed to bring duffels, backpacks, or other bags into the club for obvious reasons—even if they’re searched. But I smoothed things over with a $20. (I knew the foot freak would reimburse me big time.)
So Foot-Man came inside and, giddy as a sumo wrestler at an all-you-can-eat buffet, took my hand and led me back to the VIP Room. He sat me down, got down on his knees as if he were a shoe salesman, took off my heels, and proceeded to clean every last inch of my dogs with baby wipes. When they were clean enough to eat off of, he reached into his gym bag and removed a pair of Tupperware-like rectangular trays. He dumped a bag of yellowish-white powder into each tray and produced a gallon jug of distilled water, which he poured into one of the trays, stopping when it was half full. Slowly and methodically, he mixed the concoction until it began to thicken, looking vaguely similar to wet cement with an eggshell hue. If the Mafia was looking for a new cement shoemaker, this guy should be first on their list!
Gently, he guided my right foot into the mixture and, softly but firmly, held my ankle so that my foot didn’t touch the bottom of the tray. The goo felt like cool wet rubber and was not altogether unpleasant—although it did feel weird between my toes. (I remember thinking that, when he was finished, I could have the jelly-licker come in and suck off the residue, thereby earning myself some extra cash!)
After about fifteen minutes, the substance had hardened enough so that I could remove my foot without damaging the impression. Once again, he cleaned my foot thoroughly with baby wipes, even though there was nothing clinging to it. Then, he repeated the process with my left foot. The whole procedure took about forty minutes, netting me $350 (10 songs at $25 per, plus a $100 tip) for sitting up to my ankles in goo.
After he’d packed up his gear and put away the impressions, he delicately kissed each of my feet on the sole, helped me back into my heels, and bid me a fond farewell.
About a month went by and in walked my little bowtie-wearing friend. I took him by the arm and started to lead him to the VIP Room, but he told me he couldn’t stay. He said he only came by to show me something. He whipped out a color photo of the interior of his home—and his collection.
What I saw shocked me, but I had to give him credit for his artistic panache, even though it was sort of funky. More than fifty pairs of feet filled his living room: on the shelves, on the end tables, hanging from lamps, on the walls … You name the place and there were feet galore! And he’d taken the time to paint each foot in a litany of colors, doing incredible justice, I might add, to the toenails. His work was so impressive, I was thinking of hiring him the next time I needed a pedicure.
Then he pointed to one specific pair. Mine. Painted in solid metallic gold, with fire-engine-red toenails, they were sitting on a small stand next to the front door.
“Your feet are the first things I want my guests to see when they come over,” he said. “They’re my favorite pair and I’ll cherish them forever.”
Sadly, he didn’t let me keep the picture, stating that his collection was way too personal to be shared by anyone other than his closest friends. But he went on to say that, perhaps one day in the near future, he would come back and, if I was willing, do another cast.
“I’m considering moving up to legs,” he said sincerely. But I never saw him again.
The Piggy Bank
Men aren’t the only ones who frequent strip clubs. Women go all the time. Some go because they’re thinking of dancing and they want to size up the competition. Some go with their boyfriends or girlfriends. And some go just because they enjoy looking at women’s bodies. But I’ll never forget one woman—a mid-40s, pleasant-looking, unassuming mother of three—who went for an entirely different reason.
Janice was sitting in the front row by the stage, looking rather embarrassed, as if she truly didn’t want to be there. Being the congenial and hospitable person that I am, I walked over to her and introduced myself. We talked for a few moments, then she asked me if there was somewhere more private we could go so that she could ask me a personal question. When she offered to pay me for my time—the magic words in any strip club—I accepted.
Although I had no idea what she was leading up to, I didn’t get a bad vibe from her. I’ve always been a good judge of character and Janice struck me as a nice lady, nothing more. So I agreed to lend her my ear and led her into the VIP Room where we could chat more privately.
It took her a moment to work up the courage to pose her question. When she finally did, my jaw nearly hit the floor.
“Would you mind if I looked at your pussy?” Janice asked matter of factly.
After the initial shock wore off, I took a step back from her, still trying to contemplate exactly what she wanted from me—other than a peek at my snatch. Noticing my confusion, she immediately elaborated on her question.
“Oh no, not in a sexual way,” she was quick to point out. “I like men. A lot. But I’m contemplating cosmetic surgery.” She paused for a moment, then continued. “Uh, you know, down there,” she said, motioning to her crotch. “After three kids, my area isn’t what it used to be. And I want to get an idea of what nice sexy vaginas look like.”
Yeesh! The V-word. It affected me the same as someone raking his fingernails down a chalkboard. I almost think I’d rather hear the word cunt.
Before I could read too much into her query, she proceeded to give me some color commentary about her own genitalia that I really didn’t need to hear. The kind of information that can spoil your dinner—for a lifetime!
Uneasy with her proposition, innocent as it sounded, I suggested she buy a few issues of Playboy, Penthouse, or some of the more sleazy publications. But she countered that she’d already done that and, while informative, she really wanted to see some “good ones” up close and personal.
By now it was pretty obvious that she wasn’t just trying to get her kicks, because little beads of sweat were rolling down her brow. So, feeling sympathetic to her cause, I told her to sit tight—no pun intended—for a moment and left the VIP Room.
I returned a few moments later, took her by the hand, and led her back into the dressing room where a few of the other girls whom I briefed were waiting, more than happy to oblige.
One by one, Janice inspected each of the dancers’ coochies—without touching them, of course—then asked a slew of questions on elasticity, sagginess, flexibility, even color.
Janice opened up to us—again, no pun intended—and explained that her sex life had been pathetic since the birth of her last child a few years ago. She said her husband complained once that she had “loosened up” considerably. And so, with his fiftieth birthday approaching, she’d decided to do a little “nip and tuck” and surprise him.
Anyway, Janice saw all the cooter she could possibly handle, and even wrote notes on a small pad to bring to her doctor. As we were all more than happy to help strengthen her relationship with her hubby, we never charged her for the info and the pudenda peep show.
About three months later, Janice and her husband came into the club. They were both beaming. She said that, thanks to us, her life—and her husband’s—had changed dramatically. Now, they were making love at least once a day, sometimes twice! Go Janice!
Then she pulled out a photograph—what is it with me and photographs?—and showed me what her snatch had looked like before the
surgery. Ugh! Thank God I hadn’t seen it in living color when she came into the club the first time. It looked like the opening of an oversized piggy bank. Before I knew what was happening, she took me by the hand, led me back to the dressing room, hiked up her skirt, and said: “Look! Look!”
Okay, I felt a little funny taking a gander at some stranger’s crotch, but I have to admit, I was curious. So I looked. Wouldn’t you know it, her pussy looked better than mine! Needless to say, I took down her surgeon’s number—just in case. But it’ll be a while before I need him. My coochie is still damn nice to look at.
The Private Dancer
Many people fantasize about being an exotic dancer. But it takes more than just a hot body to strut your stuff in front of the masses—and earn a living doing it. It also takes rhythm, talent, stamina, sex appeal, personality, intelligence, and a hell of a lot of nerve. Strippers come and go from the profession all the time. It’s a never-ending cycle. But I give credit to those who try—and a lot of credit to those who stay.
Randall wanted to be an exotic dancer in the worst way. Sadly, he had no rhythm, no talent, an okay personality, and a body type that, had commercial casting directors been looking for a replacement, the Pillsbury Doughboy’s job would have been in serious jeopardy.
But one thing Randall did have going for him was money. I mean, the guy was seriously loaded. I think he was an investment banker, some kind of well-to-do mucky-muck in the financial world.
Anyway, I was dancing for Randall in the VIP Room, finishing up the first song, when he asked if I’d object to being a spectator. Now, I’d danced for him on two prior occasions and had seen him in the club a number of times. He was a big spender and always tipped well, but I was a little leery about what he wanted to pay me to watch him do.
Quickly, he eased my jitters by explaining that he had a fantasy about dancing for a beautiful young woman. And apparently, that fantasy could only be fulfilled by dancing in a strip club. He told me he’d hired prostitutes and danced for them in the privacy of his own home, but it just wasn’t the same. The atmosphere wasn’t right or something. I thought about it for a minute and, seeing as how I didn’t want to stand in the way of his dreams, I stepped aside and gave him the floor.
Because I could get in trouble for allowing a customer to remove his clothing, he agreed to pay me triple what my dances usually cost him. Basically, I’d be making $75 a song for sitting on my ass. No complaints by me!
We swapped positions and he handed me a wad of bills—$5s, $10s, and $20s—so I could “tip” him during each song. And as soon as the next tune began, he began busting a move. I mean that literally. A Chippendale he was not. Chipped beef, Chips Ahoy, even Chips-n-Dip, but definitely not a Chippendale.
When this guy shook, it looked like a tub of Jello during the Northridge earthquake. When he changed direction, parts of his body were still going the other way. But through it all, I stifled my laughter, encouraged him, and even gave him pointers, all the while stuffing the bills with which he’d provided me into the mammoth-sized briefs he eventually stripped down to. Sure, his semi-nude body was not the most pleasant thing to look at and the dancers at the male clubs didn’t have to worry about losing their jobs to him any time in the foreseeable future, but I had to give him credit for going for it. And trust me, he really went for it.
Two songs were all he could take before his chest was pounding like a bass drum at a heavy-metal concert and sweat was pouring off him like sea spray flying off a breaching whale. He took the duration of the next song to wipe himself down with cocktail napkins—a sight unto itself—and catch his breath. Then he got dressed and settled back to watch me dance another song for him, as if the preceding events had never taken place.
After paying me for the dances—mine and his—he thanked me for being such a good audience and promised that the next time he danced for me, he would have a few new steps in his repertoire.
Randall came back to the club many times over the next couple of months and usually picked me to dance for him in the VIP Room. Strangely, not only did he never ask to dance for me again, but he never even mentioned the time when he did. I even asked him about it on one occasion and he looked at me as if I had a third eye growing in the center of my forehead. Go figure.
XXX Files
Strange scenarios and strip clubs go hand in hand. One of the strangest encounters I had during my topless tenure took place at a club in Florida. It was nearing the end of my shift when a guy—average looking, nothing special—asked me to dance for him in the VIP Room. More than ready to leave, I glanced at my watch, but decided I had enough time to squeeze in a song or two—and pocket some extra green—before calling it quits for the night.
That was my first mistake.
We went into the VIP Room and, after agreeing on a price, I started dancing. I noticed that this customer wasn’t watching me like the others usually did—he was studying me, like he was trying to look right into me, perhaps sizing me up for something. It really gave me the creeps.
I finished the song without incident and decided to quit while I was ahead—and still had mine attached. Just as I started to put my top back on, the guy nearly broke into tears, begging and pleading for me not to leave just yet. He said he needed to see more, to see if I was her.
What the hell? I looked at him as if he were an alien being that had just stepped out of a spaceship. Something told me it was a look he was extremely familiar with.
The guy reached into his pocket and removed a small color snapshot and a news clipping. The photo was of a young woman, mid-20s, pretty, nice figure, wearing a bikini. The newspaper clipping was a short article about a 26-year-old woman who had apparently committed suicide. The photograph in the article was the same as the one in his color snapshot.
The man told me that the girl who took her own life was his fiancée. He went on to explain that she’d been having family problems brought on by a lack of money and had considered becoming a topless dancer to earn some extra cash. Furious at the thought of his beloved “sharing” her body with other men—even if it was only with their eyes—he broke up with her and completely severed their relationship. He even took back the diamond engagement ring he’d given her. He took the ring out of his pocket to show me, then asked me to try it on—“to see if it fits.”
Now, I had no intention of putting on a ring that once belonged to a woman who I now knew to be dead. Too strange for me. Plus, I still had no idea what the heck was going on and why he was telling me all of this.
That’s when he lowered the boom. From what he told me, I wished Mulder and Scully were there with me—either them or an exorcist!
The guy was convinced that his ex-fiancée had come back from beyond and invaded the soul of a topless dancer. Apparently—if I took him at his word—he’d been searching for the better part of a year to find her. He said he’d been to hundreds of topless clubs across the country and though he was going broke in the process, he was certain that he’d find her one day and he wouldn’t give up until he did.
At each new club, he watched—for hours, if necessary—as the dancers took their turns on stage. He scrutinized each, waiting for one of them to give him “a sign”—to call out to him in some ESP-esque non-conventional way. When that happened, he asked that girl to dance for him privately in the VIP Room, so he could study her more closely, to see if she was, in fact, her.
And on that day, her was me—or so he thought. Why do I get all the weird ones?
He pushed the diamond engagement ring at me again.
“Please, try it on,” he pleaded. “I really think you’re her.”I felt bad for the guy. I really did. He obviously had a lot of guilt over what had transpired. But I’m not a psychiatrist, I’m not a mental health worker, and I’m definitely not his deceased ex-lover. So I figured I’d try on the ring and put an end to his crazy-assed belief.
Mistake number two.
Wouldn’t you know, the damn ring fit perfectly! Not okay. Not p
retty good. Perfect with a capital “P.” His mouth stretched in an ear-to-ear smile as tears started streaming down his cheeks. Then he hugged me as if he had known me for years—and hadn’t seen me in ages.
I was scouring my brain, trying to think of a way to convince this guy that I was not who he thought I was—without hurting his feelings, in which case he might snap. But before I could come up with anything that sounded halfway decent, he broke the embrace, stepped back, and frowned.
“It’s not you,” he said somberly. “You’re not her.”
I was speechless. But before I knew what I was saying, I asked him why. Maybe it was my “subconscious rejection defense” kicking in. Here the guy had just let me off the hook and I was trying to jump back on! What the heck was I thinking?
But he held firm. “No,” he said. “You’re definitely not her.” He went on to explain that he felt no “connection,” no “aura” from me when we hugged. He said that when he finds her, he’ll know it. As for the ring fitting—which I quickly returned to him—he chalked that up to mere coincidence.
No shit.
Without another word, he paid me and thanked me for my time, understanding, and the “possibility of hope”—whatever the hell that meant.
He left, I went home, and I never saw him again.
But I truly hope he finds her—if he hasn’t already.
Doc Hygiene
Everyone has a fetish, something that really gets ’em going. Those who say they don’t probably have more than one, each more twisted than the next. The customers who frequent strip clubs are no exception and often they’re willing to pay—in some cases, mucho dinero—to have their fetish fantasies fulfilled. While they may be strange (and then some!), in most cases the fetishes are completely harmless and a vast majority of the dancers (myself included) are more than willing to deliver the goods and give them what they want—provided the cash is right and no one gets hurt, bugs not included.
