by Lacey Lane
But that doesn’t mean we aren’t grossed or weirded out by some of the fetishes proposed by our all-too-eager-to-pay customers. I mean, let’s face it, some of these people are just downright freaky!
One regular I’ll never forget definitely made my Top Ten list of taco-short-of-a-combo-plate individuals. It was during my tenure at a Southern California club—no surprise here, as the West Coast seems to house an awful lot of nuts and wackos—that I came to know a man I nicknamed Doc Hygiene.
Tall, handsome, muscular, Doc Hygiene reminded me a lot of Tom Selleck, but with black hair and no mustache. He said he was a dentist and by the way he talked about teeth, the other dancers and I believed him.
Doc Hygiene came in once a month, always on a Friday or Saturday, regular as clockwork, and picked three or four of us to go back to the VIP Room with him. Then, he popped on a pair of thin rubber gloves and proceeded to give us each a dental check-up, one at a time, while the other girls danced.
Ironically, I was a registered dental hygienist by this time—something I never confessed to him—and I could tell by his actions that he was, indeed, a dentist. And he was very good at what he did, too. Doc Hygiene even went so far as to bring a set of dental picks, in a sterile bag, to remove any tartar build-up we’d accumulated between visits.
Now I know what you’re thinking: Who in her right mind would allow some stranger claiming to be a dentist to put a bunch of foreign metal objects in her mouth in the back room of a strip joint, especially with AIDS and all the other diseases floating around these days? To that, all I can say is: He was handsome as hell, drove a new Porsche Turbo, wore a Rolex Presidential with more diamonds than they had at Tiffany’s, and a few of the girls had been to his office to have cavities filled and so forth, so we trusted the guy. And thanks to his skills, the girls he selected always had the whitest cleanest teeth in the club.
So what’s so weird about a friendly neighborhood dentist providing his oral-hygiene services in the back room of a strip club, you ask? Well, nothing really—unless you consider the fact that this guy would floss his own teeth with the very same pieces of dental floss he used on us!
I kid you not. After he got done flossing one of the dancers, he took that exact same piece of floss, now grimy and frayed, and ran it between his own chompers. And he repeated the procedure with each girl, using a new piece of floss for each dancer. I used to joke with some of the other girls that his antics constituted some form of oral sex.
Now, I know from my studies that the human mouth contains a truck-load of germs, a fact Doc Hygiene was undoubtedly aware of. And some of the strippers—myself not included—jeez, who knows what they put into their mouths? Hell, I’ve heard some of the things that come out of them and clean ain’t the word for it!
But Doc Hygiene seemed to enjoy his little fetish and so long as he was paying us for our time, over and above the free check-ups and cleanings, we weren’t about to complain.
However, his little perversion—harmless as it was—kept myself and the other girls at a social distance. Good-looking, wealthy, drives a Porsche … all qualities any sane woman would want in a man. But throw in his little tooth-scraping hobby and it shouldn’t be hard to imagine why none of the girls ever considered accepting one of his many invitations for drinks and dinner after work.
Dirty Dancing
No, Patrick Swayze was not one of my customers. Ditto for Jennifer Grey. However, I have been to the Catskills—although I never danced there. At least, you can’t prove that I danced there. Anyway, people come to strip clubs for a multitude of reasons. But not in a million years did I ever expect anyone to come looking for stripping lessons, though, while working at a club in Las Vegas, that’s exactly what happened.
It was early in my shift when a young couple—early 20s, at most—strolled in and took a seat at one of the tables farthest from the stage. They struck me as a quiet bashful pair and, judging by their appearance—blue jeans and T-shirts; the guy was wearing a baseball cap—and oh-so-innocent demeanor, I guessed they were from somewhere in the Midwest.
For some reason, I found myself watching this couple. Like fish out of water, their uncomfortable body language suggested they really didn’t want to be there. So, being the congenial people-person that I am, I walked over and took a seat at their table. This aggressive action shocked them at first—and obviously made them even more uncomfortable than they already were—but after I introduced myself, lit up a cigarette, and offered each of them a smoke, they settled down. Amazing what a little nicotine can do, huh?
Within a few moments, I learned that they were, in fact, from the Midwest—a small town in Kansas, to be precise. When she told me her name was Dorothy I almost peed my pants. His name was Bud.
“As in Buddy?” I asked him.“No, Budweiser,” he replied. Hops on the brain, I figured, but it seemed to suit him.
They’d been married less than 24 hours ago at one of Sin City’s drive-through wedding chapels—and even paid a few extra dollars to have an Elvis impersonator in the ceremony.
When I pressed them for their reasons for visiting the strip club, they were embarrassed at first, but Dorothy—who, upon closer inspection, didn’t even look old enough to vote, let alone drink—explained in no uncertain terms that she didn’t know how to be sexy. She was hoping to learn by seeing how the girls dressed, walked, and danced.
That’s when her groom proposed a better idea. He wanted me to give his new bride stripping lessons for her wedding present. (Actually, the present was for him!) I could tell by the sinking of her eyes—almost entirely into her skull—that she was less than thrilled by his suggestion. But he was convinced. When he asked me what it would cost, I tried to get the girl off the hook by hitting him with a figure that would quickly make him forget the idea.
“One hundred per song,” I said, figuring this couple to be the shallow-pocket variety. “With a three-song minimum.”
I figured wrong.
Bud reached into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of crumpled bills, so soiled and ratty it looked like they’d been buried in the ground behind the family farm. Then again, maybe they had. Maybe the town they came from was so small it didn’t even have a bank.
“I’ve been saving up for this trip, honey,” Bud said, giving his new wife a loving squeeze. “And this will be hard earned money well spent.” He counted out three hundred yucky bucks, pushed them across the table to me, and smiled. “Make my wife a freak,” he said hungrily.
Unable to control myself, I cracked up. Dorothy did, too. After a moment, so did Bud. But the laughter didn’t change the fact that young Bud still wanted me to teach his wife how to get her groove on, and his in the process. He started rubbing her neck, telling her it was what he really wanted, and after a few moments she caved in. So long as she was willing, I was game. After all, money is money. And besides, the way I saw it, I would be helping to improve their marital relations.
For dance number one, Dorothy was pathetic. She was so bad, she would’ve been tossed out of a strip club for the blind during Amateur Night. No matter what I did, she just couldn’t seem to copy it; I think her nerves were just overpowering her. So I ordered us a round of Kamikaze shots—on Bud, of course—and waited for the liquor to do its thing.
For dance number two, the improvement was staggering. She had loosened up considerably. The booze definitely helped, but I think she was becoming more comfortable with me, as well. By the end of the song, she was actually dancing pretty well—in a rednecky sort of way. The Clampetts would have definitely invited her to their next hoe-down!
Finally, dance number three was her coming-out party. Little farm-girl Dorothy was now Dot the Slut. And judging by her wiggles and gyrations, she was loving every minute of it. Bud was beside himself. By the end of the song, he was drooling. If they hadn’t rushed out when they did, I thought they might’ve started bumping uglies right there in the VIP Room—and Bud definitely hadn’t paid me enough to witness that. Fortunately,
Vegas has hotels and motels approximately every five feet. I’d be willing to bet a week’s worth of tips that they hit the first place they saw.
Mama’s Boy
Everyone likes special treatment, especially the customers who go to strip clubs and spend most of their time (and money) in the VIP Room. They want something extra and they’re more than willing to pay for it. Gordon was no exception, although his idea of “special treatment” bordered on the bizarre, then exceeded it.
When Gordon first started coming to the club, he seemed like a regular guy. Not particularly handsome, but certainly not ugly, he had dark hair and a cherubic face. He kind of reminded me of an older Potsie from Happy Days. He told me he was a foreign-car mechanic—Jaguars, I think—but his fingernails were never dirty and his hands looked way too smooth to belong to a grease monkey. He liked to drink White Russians, talk about his two kids, and watch me dance to soft music. Not once did he try to touch me inappropriately and he tipped pretty well, too. All in all, my time spent in the VIP Room with ol’ Gordo was rather enjoyable. But after about two months, things started to change. I mean really change.
The first four weeks, Gordon came in only on Fridays. He was there at 9 p.m. like clockwork, always at the same table on the far side of the stage. After his second drink, he signaled to me that he was ready to go to the VIP Room, where we spent about an hour—and he dropped a couple hundred bucks. Goodbye was a polite kiss on the cheek, an extra $50 tip, and a walk to the door.
Over the next four weeks, Gordon began coming in on Saturdays, too. Now, he only had one drink before we went into the VIP Room, where we stayed for around two hours. Still, he was always a gentleman, treated me with the utmost respect, and was actually fun to talk with. My tips went up, too—$100 and sometimes $150. If this guy was really a Jaguar mechanic, the Brits must have been building piece-o-shit cars, because he always had tons of cash on him.
Gordon began coming in three days a week, starting with Thursday. Now, he skipped his precursory cocktail and we’d go straight into the VIP Room. This is when he began bringing things with him. The first week it was a baby rattle, which he shook while I danced for him. At first, I thought he was tone-deaf, because he rattled all the time, never to the beat. Another night, he brought a pacifier and sucked on it in between sips of his drinks. It was around that time he began asking me to call him “little Gordon” or “little Gordie” or “baby Gordie.” The whole thing was weird and getting weirder, but the money was steady and he still treated me with respect, so I wasn’t about to look a gift horse— or even a gift pony—in the mouth.
For the next month, Gordon continued his thrice-a-week routine and each time he brought a new baby toy with him. Once it was a rubber hammer that squeaked when you banged it. Another time it was a hanging mobile of colorful fish and turtles that he had me hold above him while he laid on his back and swatted at it. And one time it was a bag of small building blocks that he dumped out on the floor and assembled into little houses. He was also bringing a baby bottle with him now, into which he poured his White Russians. I thought he might have been losing his mind, but one of the other dancers, midway through her second year of medical school, believed a brain tumor was to blame.
Spankings were a major part of Gordon’s next phase and I wanted no part of it. But he pulled out a wad of bills and after a considerable amount of cash-assisted begging, I agreed. However, when he dropped his drawers for one punishment, I made him pull up his underpants. No way was I laying my hand against his bare skin; his rear end was so damn hairy, the only baby he resembled was a baby Bigfoot. I was so repulsed over his wish for a bareback beating that I really tore into his hide. My smacks were so loud that two of the bouncers ran in thinking I was being abused. They laughed their asses off when they saw that I was the one dishing it out, although I had to give them $20 apiece to buy their silence. The boss wasn’t too fond of contact between dancers and customers and this scenario certainly qualified. By the time I was finished, Gordon’s butt must have felt like tenderized meat—rump roast. I’m sure he was glad I made him pull his drawers up.
In addition to the bottle, Gordon began bringing in small jars of baby food and had me feed him. The money he offered was just too good to say no. I even burped him a couple of times, but believe me, he paid for it. Watching him spit up was beyond disgusting, but the cash was keeping me in high style.
The next time Gordon came in to the club, dressed in a sweatsuit, I should have realized it was a sign of trouble. I must have been blinded by his dough not to take his new garb as a warning. He’d always dressed well—slacks and a nice shirt, blue jeans and a sport jacket, etc.—but on that day he wore the kind of easy-off sweatsuit pro basketball players wear, with the snaps going down the sides.
I was in the middle of my second dance when he stood up and ripped off his pants. My eyes nearly popped out of my head—the sonofabitch was wearing a diaper. And it wasn’t even one of the new ones, you know, like Depends. His looked like some funky white sheet folded over and pinned in the front with a gigantic safety pin—the kind those oversized babies in the Saturday morning cartoons used to wear. I was about to say something to Gordon when the smell hit me. An ungodly stench! And there was absolutely no doubt in my mind what it was. Sicko Gordon had pooped in his pants.
“I’ll give you five hundred bucks to change me,” he said with a disgusting smile.
Speechless, I fought back the waves of vomit boiling up inside me, raced out of the VIP Room, and made a beeline to the front door. I told the bouncers—Ben and Joe, the same two guys who’d walked in on my spanking—what had gone down, literally. These guys relished every chance they got to toss someone from the club and they raced back to the VIP Room like Olympic sprinters. Unbelievably, Gordon hadn’t put his sweatpants back on. He was lying on his back, holding his diapered butt off the ground, still waiting to be changed.
The bouncers grabbed him on either side, beneath the arms, and hoisted him into the air. Judging by Gordon’s facial color, which instantly turned whiter than the sheetdiaper (or is that shit-diaper?) he was wearing, I think he now knew that the only change he’d be receiving was one of venue. Forcibly.
Ben, the larger of the two bouncers (this monster was like 6’8” and 300 pounds to Joe’s smallish 6’2” and 250), looked Gordon dead in the eyes, like a cobra sizing up a mouse, and snarled: “Where’s your cash?”
Gordon was deeply afraid. (If these guys had you hoisted up in the air, you would be, too.) “In my wallet, in the back pocket of my pants,” he said fearfully.
“Take what he owes you,” Ben stated emphatically. “Plus an extra fifty for each of us.” He turned to Gordon, legs dangling in the air. “That’s okay with you, right?” Ben said between clenched teeth. It was a statement, not a question.
Gordon gulped air. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”
I took the money, put the wallet back in the pocket, and handed Gordon his pants.
“Do you want him to come back again?” Joe asked me.
I thought about it for a moment. The money was good, but this guy had obviously snapped. Who knew what he was capable of? I decided to quit while I was ahead. “No,” I said. “I’m through with him.”
“You heard her,” Joe said icily. “Set foot in this club again and we’ll beat the shit out of you.”
Gordon kind of whimpered and hung his head, but he didn’t say a word. Joe and Ben carried him off and dropped him at his car—once again, literally. Gordon heeded the warning and never came back.
Trust Fund Kid
Some people have more money than they know what to do with. But some loaded individuals know exactly what to do with their fortunes. While working at a club in Southern California, I met a young man who embodied the expression: “You can’t take it with you.”
He arrived alone via stretch limo, and were it not for his driver’s license and two corroborating picture IDs, he never would have been let into the club, that’s how much of a baby face he had. Bu
t his IDs passed muster with the bone-crushers out front and they admitted him—but not before checking his backpack thoroughly.
Any time a customer brings a bag or package of any type, it’s picked through with a fine-tooth comb, as if it belongs to an irate Arab entering a synagogue. There are a lot of freaks out there, and they try to pull all kinds of stunts. Topless clubs seem to attract their fair share, like Anna Nicole Smith attracts wealthy senior citizens. But this guy only had books, so they gave him the okay. I’m sure he tipped them, as well.
The young man went straight to the bar, ordered two bottles of Dom (personally, I prefer Bollinger or Cristal), then picked the four prettiest girls in the club. In his eyes, I was one of them. The five of us went back into the VIP Room.
This club’s VIP Room had a big comfy couch and a couple of plush chairs. It was also mirrored, soundproofed, and had its own stereo. “Richie Rich” plopped himself down in the center of the couch, pulled out a gangster’s roll—a fat wad of hundreds secured with a thick rubberband—and peeled off three crisp bills for each of us.
“Let me know when that runs out,” he said. This cute kid with the Scott Baio smile was getting cuter by the second.
He introduced himself as Brett (never gave us a last name) and asked us to take off our tops, which we did. He took a moment to check us out and complimented each of us. Unlike most men, he actually sounded sincere. Then he removed a CD from his backpack and asked me to put it on—a mix of classical arrangements. Certainly not my first choice for dance music, but it was relaxing and a nice change from the tunes we usually boogied to. That’s when we found out that we wouldn’t be dancing—at least not for a couple of hours.
