Confessions of a Stripper: Tales from the VIP Room

by Lacey Lane

  I got him a nice seat by the stage and told the bartender to comp him for a couple of rounds. The guy was dying. What could it hurt to be a little charitable? Then I went back to work and forgot all about him. A few hours later, I noticed he was gone. Strangely, nobody remembered seeing him go. And it wasn’t like this guy would have moved at light speed.

  Two weeks later to the day, Pops was back, looking as miserable as ever. I found him seated at the same dark corner table where I’d originally noticed him. In the middle of a break, I sat down and asked him how he was.

  Terrible, he said, explaining that the doctors had given him another two weeks to live. I thought that was good news, but he explained that he’d already made his peace with this world and now he just wanted his suffering to end. He made it quite clear that he was ready to move on. That’s when he asked me if I could give him just one more lap dance—“one more reason to smile.” He even took out what little money he had left—a whopping three bucks—and said he’d gladly give it to me.

  How I kept from crying, I haven’t a clue. I’ve always been a real softy and this guy seemed as pitiful as they came. According to him he had no family, all of his friends had long since passed away, and he’d gotten so sick of sitting inside his tiny house—which didn’t even have a TV—that he just had to get out.

  It never occurred to me to ask Pops how it was that he managed to get his bony ass to the strip club; I was too caught up in his terminal story. So, sucker that I am, I spent the last ten minutes of my break dancing for Pops for three bucks.

  Well, wouldn’t you know, two weeks later old Pops was back, explaining how the doctors were all stupefied; some minor miracle must have taken place. The cancer that had ravaged his insides from head to toe was now completely gone, like it never existed. But Pops knew the true identity of this miracle cure: Me! The only catch was the doctors feared that if this cycle were interrupted, the cancer could come back in a flash and take him. Hence, I’d have to keep performing for him—for free, of course!

  Now, I may have been born in the daytime, but I wasn’t born yester-daytime. I resigned myself to the fact that I’d already been suckered twice by this guy; he certainly wasn’t going to get the hat trick. At least not from me. With hands on hips, I tore into Pops, berating him savagely for preying on my emotions like he had. I told him I thought his actions were cruel and mean and downright sinister.

  And you know what he did?

  The old sonofabitch smiled, shrugged, stood up, and waltzed out like he owned the joint. Not long after afterward, I found out that he could have owned the joint if he wanted to. Apparently, he was one of the wealthiest men around, not to mention one of the cheapest. Getting things for free wasn’t just a game for him—it was a lifelong obsession, one that he’d obviously mastered. I found out that he pulled the same routine in various strip clubs, restaurants, and bars throughout the city.

  P.T. Barnum said there was a sucker born every minute. Well, as much as I hate to admit it, this one time I proved he was right.

  Ride ’em Cowboy

  Every year in early December, the National Finals Rodeo comes to Las Vegas. And with it comes a truck load of tough-as-nails and handsome cowboys—along with a whole lot of money. After these guys are done busting broncs, riding bulls, and roping calves, they come out to party like madmen and blow some of their hard-earned cash. Nearly all the strippers make serious bank during the NFR, but one night, a dancer named Becky made something better than money—she made a statement.

  A group of seven cowboys had been at the club for more than an hour. They drank beer like it was water and spent money like it grew on trees. Up until that point, all of their time was spent at a table beside the main stage. Now, liquored up and rarin’ to go, they asked Becky and me to accompany them back to the VIP Room. Seeing that their wallets were still way too heavy, we eagerly accepted.

  For the first few songs it was business as usual. They paid, we danced. A couple of them got a bit handsy at times, but it wasn’t anything we couldn’t handle. Then for some reason, the conversation turned to women in the rodeo—cowgirls. Turns out these seven guys were the biggest male chauvinists in Sin City—perhaps on the planet.

  Now Becky is a tomboy in the truest sense of the word. She grew up with five brothers. She tried out for the boy’s football team in high school at a time when girls just didn’t do that, and she made the team, too, only to quit a few days after. She claimed she’d only done it to prove a point. In short, she knew how to handle herself.

  Becky wasn’t pretty, but she was attractive. She was tall, about 5’9” or so, and a bit on the stocky side. One of those big-boned farm girls. She was also big on top—double-Ds, all natural. But despite her size, there really wasn’t much fat on her. She worked out every day, taught a few aerobics classes, and even had a black belt in judo. Straight up, the girl was tough. So when the guys started ragging on all the women in their sport, Becky got extremely defensive. That’s when she made the ludicrous statement that if the guys thought they were so tough, and women were so weak, why didn’t one of them try to ride her.

  At first, the cowboys took her challenge as a sexual come-on, but she explained that she’d pretend she was a bull. One of them would get on her back and, if he could stay on her for the full eight seconds, just like they did in real bull riding, he’d win. She’d apologize and shut up from then on. She also thought they should bet on it—a night of free lap dances against $1,000. At first, the cowboys thought she was bluffing—and so did I—but Becky was as serious as a snakebite. She got down on all fours to prove it.

  When the drunken cowboys realized she wasn’t playing around, they huddled up and discussed the situation. After a few moments, one of the dudes took off his Stetson and the cowboys filled it with money until it totaled the aforementioned thousand. Then the biggest cowboy of the bunch came forward. His belt buckle was nearly the size of my face.

  He said, “Little lady, I’ve ridden all sorts of creatures. But riding you is gonna be one of the greatest pleasures of my life.” It sounded so corny, so affected, I’ll remember it forever. And with that, he threw a leg over her back and sat down.

  Becky smiled wide. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said. She looked at one of his buddies. “Use your watch to time it, although I don’t expect it to last very long.”

  The cowboy on her back jabbed her with his boot heels. “We’ll see about that, missy,” he said.

  Becky glared. I’d seen that look on her before. Once, a guy had intentionally grabbed her boob as she climbed down off the stage. She bent his wrist back so far, I thought she was going to snap it off. After he sank to his knees in obvious pain, she kicked him square in the face, knocking him out cold. Well, Becky had that look in her eyes again and I felt really sorry for the cowboy. He was in serious trouble, he just didn’t know it yet.

  Then the cowboy with the chronograph watch yelled: “Go.”

  Everything happened real quick, but it seemed like slow motion to me: The cowboy on Becky’s back grabbed a fistful of her hair with his left hand, threw his right hand up in the air, and began to simulate a bull ride. Becky gritted her teeth, hunkered down, then reared up and to the side in one spectacular motion, ending the cowboy’s ride in just over a second.

  The cowboy flew through the air, taking a chunk of Becky’s hair with him, caromed off the wall like a pinball, and dropped to the floor, dazed.

  Becky was on her feet in a flash, standing over the semi-conscious cowboy, who had rolled over onto his back. “Keep the hair as a souvenir,” she said before turning her back on him and snatching the cash-filled cowboy hat from one of his friends. Without losing a single bill, she flipped the Stetson up onto her head, tugged at its brim, gave the cowboys a wink, and walked out of the VIP Room. The rest of the group just stared for a long moment before going to the aid of their downed buddy. After they helped him to his feet, I took that as my cue to leave. Becky and I took the rest of the night off and went to the bar
at the MGM Grand to celebrate.

  Squeeze Play

  Madison was tall, blonde, and had a great body.

  From a distance she resembled Darryl Hannah and that’s where her stage name came from. Madison was the name of the mermaid Darryl Hannah played in Splash.

  Madison had one of the most beautiful snakes I’ve ever seen: Some kind of rare albino python, Burmese she said. It was this incredible combination of pale yellow and white, something you’d see in a movie. And it was big, too. Not terribly fat, maybe a little thicker than a Pringles potato chip can, but slightly longer than seven feet. Madison went on stage with the snake—its name was RJ—coiled around her body, covering her upper torso just enough to hide her breasts, so wearing a top was unnecessary. When it was time to expose her tits, she repositioned the snake and RJ always cooperated. It was a pretty cool show to watch.

  At the time, Madison was dating one of the club’s owners, so naturally she got favorable treatment and special privileges. On the nights she was working, she was allowed to keep RJ in a large glass tank in the third, and smallest, of the club’s three VIP Rooms. This room was pretty shabby and didn’t get much use, so keeping the snake in there didn’t pose a problem. Madison would’ve preferred to keep it in the locker room, but too many of the other girls were afraid. Personally, I didn’t care. RJ was very gentle and, although I’m not the biggest fan of snakes, I wasn’t scared of it in the least. Most of the customers were slimier snakes than RJ.

  Anyway, late one Saturday night about an hour before closing, a horrific male scream ripped through the club, loud enough to be heard above the music. I was on a break at the time, sitting at a table in the back of the club with a few other girls, enjoying a bottle of wine. The scream came from the direction of the VIP Room corridor, almost directly behind where we were seated, so naturally we ran to investigate.

  The two main VIP Rooms weren’t in use at that moment and the doors were open. But the door to the third VIP Room was shut. Suddenly, another scream echoed from behind the door. Then another. And another, followed by a loud THUD! The girls and I didn’t know what to think. And as curious as we were, we were scared of what we would find. That’s when the bouncers showed up and pulled open the door.

  The room was pitch black, except for the heat lamp on top of RJ’s tank—a top that was open. And RJ wasn’t in the tank. The bouncers flicked on the lights and almost immediately burst into laughter.

  A drunk the bartender had cut off a short while earlier was face down on the floor, the snake coiled around his legs, its jaws open and locked on one of his ass cheeks. When the bouncers realized who it was, their laughter turned to anger. Apparently, they’d tossed the guy out not long after the bartender stopped serving him. He’d obviously sneaked in through the back door, which should have been locked. (One of the busboys later admitted to forgetting to relock it after he had returned from a cigarette break; he was fired the next day.)

  Anyway, drunks are more curious than little kids with books of matches, so when this guy mistakenly meandered into the small VIP Room, he couldn’t leave well enough alone and his curiosity came back to bite him in the ass. Literally.

  By now, Madison had gotten to the room and when she saw RJ out of his tank and wrapped around the guy, she freaked. In a flash, she was on the guy’s back, pummeling him on the head and shoulders with one of her stiletto heels, accusing him of trying to steal her snake. The bouncers had a harder time pulling Madison off the drunk than RJ. But they finally got everyone—and everything—separated.

  The drunk, still trembling with fear and reeking of urine (he’d peed in his pants), was threatening to sue. Despite his wobbly legs and slurred speech, he was promising legal action against the club unless he was given “tons of cash” before he left. Madison, holding and caressing RJ as if it were a delicate newborn, launched into a verbal assault against the drunk, cursing more viciously than any sailor, threatening to sue him for traumatizing her snake. Madison moved toward the guy; he jumped behind one of the bouncers.

  After a few more snake-supporting tirades, Madison left the room. She gave the drunk a final glare before exiting, telling us she was going to take her snake for a calming walk. No sooner had she left when the drunk started in again with his threats. In a flash, the bouncer he was hiding behind spun around and clamped his hand down on the back of the guy’s neck like a flesh-covered steel vise, silencing him in mid-sentence, then reminded him that he was trespassing. After all, he’d been thrown out of the club.

  The matter was finally resolved by the club paying for a taxi to take the guy home, along with $20 in cash to get the

  Mr. Personality

  To say I encountered some interesting and unusual characters during my topless career would be like saying Tommy Lee has an average-sized penis. But even if I’d entertained a billion clients over the years, I never would have forgotten Izzy. Correction, Thomas. No, make that Gregg. I mean Big Bob. Or was it Elaine? You see, the person to whom I’m referring went by all of those names. What’s more, he/she had a distinct personality for each. No, he wasn’t a member of some transsexual theater troupe, though if his multiple-personality routine was all a part of some screwball act, to hell with De Niro and Pacino, that guy should be the one winning Oscars. But I’m quite sure his “act” was the real McCoy. Still, Izzy/Thomas/Gregg/Big Bob/Elaine was always polite and respectful and his/her pockets were always deep. Besides, I’d bet a pair of my best pumps that he got more mental therapy out of a night in the strip club than a year at the funny farm.

  The first time he came in, he said his name was Izzy. Tall (in the six-foot range), late-30s or early-40s, he was average looking with an average build. In short, forgettable. He was also timid and didn’t say much during my two-dance VIP Room set. He was so shy, in fact, that I even had to pry his own name out of him. The only thing about him I recognized when he came back in a few days later was his necktie. It was a rainbow of colors, imprinted with the faces of numerous types of dogs. A Chow, a Malamute, a Boston Terrier, and so many more, he looked like the PR guy for the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.

  Anyway, once I recognize someone that I’ve previously met, I’m usually pretty good at recalling the name. It was a trick that helped me in the stripping biz—customers love to be remembered. However, something was weird: I remembered his hair as being straight. Now it was curly, and he wore a black Porsche-logo baseball cap. Things got weirder when he took me by the hand, kissed it, and introduced himself as Thomas. I figured it was simply a case of necktie coincidence. Though his face looked extremely familiar, I might have been tired on the previous occasion and hell, I’ve had stints where every customer looked the same.

  So Thomas and I went back to the VIP Room and I did a pair of dances for him. After that, we sat and talked for a spell. Nice guy, very friendly, excellent conversationalist. If he’d been a little better looking, he would’ve been fun to date—if I’d known him outside the club, that is. Even though I wasn’t physically attracted to him, I let him give me a peck on the cheek goodnight. He tipped me big, so he deserved it.

  The very next night, just as I finished my turn on stage and was stepping down, I noticed Thomas, the man I had danced for the night before, sitting at a table by himself, drinking a beer. Naturally, I walked over, gave him a playful kiss on the cheek, and asked him if he’d like me to dance for him in the VIP Room again.

  “Again?” he asked curiously.

  “Just like last night,” I replied.

  That’s when he told me that I was mistaken, that he hadn’t been there the night before. He went on to say that this was the first time he’d ever been to this club. I figured he was playing some kind of game with me. Sometimes, guys are either nervous or just terrible at making conversation and play all types of silly games to make themselves seem charming or funny. After a couple of minutes of back-and-forth banter, I ruled out the game and figured he didn’t want to hurt my feelings by turning down my VIP Room invitation, either becau
se he wanted another girl to dance for him or he felt guilty for spending so much the night before. Whatever the case, when I started to leave, he asked me to sit and join him for a drink.

  Now I was really confused. This was definitely the guy from last night. No question about it. Why he was saying he’d never been to the club previously, and never met me, was a total mystery. But I figured, screw it, and sat down at his table.

  He introduced himself as Gregg—with two Gs, adamant about the two Gs—and said he owned a catering company. I was certain he’d told me he was in automobile sales the night before. Whoever he was or whatever he did for a living notwithstanding, we went back into the VIP Room after the drink. He stayed for three dances and gave me a decent tip when I was finished. Then I sat with him and talked as he had another drink, and he gave me another tip for the conversation before he left.

  About a week passed before I saw Izzy/Thomas/Gregg again. This time he was dressed to the nines in a black suit and black turtleneck. He had on Oliver Peoples’ glasses and, get this, his head was cleanly shaved. Had he been a shade better looking, he could have been a model for sure.

  Anyway, he selected me and another girl, flashed a hefty wad of cash, and paid for both of us to dance for him in the VIP Room. Five songs apiece individually, and two together. During our conversation, he made it known that he was the general manager of a popular nearby hotel, although he never said the name. But he did tell us his name—and it wasn’t Gregg or Thomas or Izzy. Big Bob is what he wanted us to call him.

  Being the curious person that I am, I had to bring up Gregg.

  “Who?” he replied, looking at me as if I had a dick growing out of the side of my neck.

  “Never mind,” I said, and wondered how he got out of the straitjacket. Then, he left.