by Lacey Lane
Two hours later, about an hour before closing time, Big Bob came back. Only this time, he had a full head of hair. Straight hair. The very same hair when he said his name was Izzy. And he wore the “Thomas personality” black Porsche cap. Seeing him again that night confirmed the Izzy personality. It wasn’t just some exhaustion-induced memory. It was real, like all the other encounters with this freak. I started wondering if someone at the club might be playing an elaborate joke on me, but this was too weird and, to be honest, nobody at that club was that intelligent or creative.
Sure enough, “Thomas” selected me to dance for him privately in the VIP Room.
“Where have you been?” I asked him en route to the back.
“Real busy,” he said. “Everyone wants a Porsche these days.” He said he was finishing paperwork on all the deals he’d written that week, and that’s why he got there so late.
Yeah, sure, I thought. Definitely a lobby button shy of an elevator.
Still, I did a few dances, he tipped me well, and that was that. I didn’t even bother to ask him about Big Bob; I was sure he’d give me some bullshit “what are you talking about” reply. Truthfully, I was getting fed up and getting the run-around again would just make me more annoyed.
A few nights later, Izzy/Thomas/Gregg/Big Bob returned—dressed as a woman! This time the doormen knew something was afoul. It’s hard not to spot a six-foot-tall man dressed as a woman wearing a wig of long jet-black hair, bright red “fuck me” lipstick, seriously ugly unshaven legs, and ultra-high heels that put him up in Kareem Abdul-Jabaar territory. The prominent Adam’s apple was also a dead giveaway. And if that wasn’t enough, the other two crossdressing freaks that came in with him screamed out in bold neon letters that all was not right in this guy’s world.
As luck would have it, I was among the girls they selected to dance for them in the VIP Room. To their credit, they were polite and excellent tippers. I would have loved to hear their stories, but they kept their chatter pretty much to themselves, conversing while we danced for them. Too bad. I could have given them some good tips on makeup and clothing. I did, at least, get a name from him/her: Elaine.
For the next month, Izzy/Thomas/Gregg/Big Bob/Elaine came in on a fairly regular basis. I became friendly with most of the personalities—Izzy, however, remained shy and distant. There was never any mention of the “other” men or woman.
Just for the record, my “friendliness” was only in the safety of the strip club. Not a snowball’s chance in hell would I have mixed with that guy anywhere else. Sure, he was always nice and respectful toward me, but there’s a first time for everything. I didn’t want to be around when he went off the deep end. I figured someday, he just might.
Eventually, I left that club and moved on to greener pastures. It got to be that Izzy/Thomas/Greg/Big Bob/Elaine wasn’t the weirdest person there any more. In fact, it was one of the dancers, not one the customers, who went a bit mental. It was time to go and I never looked back.
Veteran Treatment
I’ve always had a soft spot for soldiers—actually, all men in uniform, but soldiers especially. The way I see it, anyone who has the courage to lay his life on the line to defend his country deserves some modicum of respect.
For that reason, I’ve always given “special” treatment to our men in the armed forces. Nothing lewd, mind you, just discounted rates on my lap-dancing services. I figure they’ve earned it.
As courteous as I was toward Uncle Sam’s battle virgins, war veterans received even better treatment. If someone told me they’d taken part in any foreign conflict and I believed him, it was my policy to provide one lap dance for free. That should dispel the myth that all I cared about was the almighty dollar. I figured they had in some way contributed to my freedom, so I could therefore return the favor and contribute to their enjoyment. Every now and then, I gave a vet more than one free dance, but only if I really liked the guy.
One time, however, my benevolence got me into hot water. During a VIP Room lap dance, this crusty older man revealed to me that he was, in fact, a veteran. He clearly looked the part, so I told him of my policy and proceeded to give him a dance for free. When that one was completed, he said he was having a great time and told me to do a few more. Just so there wouldn’t be any problems when it came time to settle the dance tab (sometimes I asked to be paid as I went, other times I let them pay at the end), I made sure he was aware that each song was going to cost him. But I said I’d give him a discount because I liked him. He took out a handful of bills, showing me that had the means to pay, and I went to work. Three songs later, he stood up, tucked a $10 bill in my G-string, and started for the door.
I put a firm hand on his shoulder. “What’s this?”
“Your payment,” he replied. “I get the veteran discount, remember?”
Did this guy get his brains blown out in combat? I’d made it perfectly clear to him exactly what he was getting for free and what he was going to have to pay for. Bottom line: He owed me another $50, and that was without my tip.
“But I’m a veteran,” he pleaded. “Of the Civil War!”
That rebuttal statement stopped me dead in my tracks. Now the guy was definitely older, that much was obvious. I put him in his early-70s, late-70s tops. Yes, he was crusty and a bit stooped, too, but the Civil War? Uh-uh. I saw Forever Young (Mel Gibson, yum!) and this guy didn’t strike me as being the type to volunteer for any top-secret cryogenic experiments.
Ultimately, the manager (and one of the bouncers) had to be called, as I couldn’t get this guy to cough up my dough. I hated to call in the cavalry (that’s a little Civil War pun), I really did—I felt like I was tattling on my grandfather—but he’d brought the situation upon himself. Needless to say, I got my money and he got an escort to the exit. The thing is, had he claimed to have fought for the North I would have let him slide. But when he swore allegiance to the Rebel Flag, he dug his own grave.
All Amped Up
Halfway through a routine evening at the club, I was just coming down from my turn on stage when a man sitting in the front row waved me over and said he wanted to go back to the VIP Room with me.At first glance, he looked like Willie Nelson: long unkempt hair, scraggly beard, and a face so wrinkled, he would have made a great spokesperson for the prune industry. But as wrinkled as his skin was, his clothes—baggy paint-splattered jeans and a seriously faded denim jacket covered with sewn-on patches—were even more crumpled. Basically, he looked like he’d slept in them. For a year. Then I remembered seeing pictures of what Howard Hughes looked like during the last years of his life and I allowed that this guy could very well be a zillionaire in disguise. So I smiled, took “Howard” by the hand, and led him to the VIP Room. During our walk to the back, I got a close look at the patches on his jacket. All but a few were military in nature, embroidered with Asian-sounding names. Some years before, I’d been to a gun show with a guy I was dating and had seen similar patches relating to the Vietnam War.
Once we reached the VIP Room, Howard plopped himself down in one of the room’s comfy oversized loveseats and pulled out a huge wad of cash, held together with a rubberband. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the size of his gangster roll, but a closer look revealed it to be nothing but singles. What might have been thousands was, in all probability, no more than $100. Still, it was enough for a few dances—and one pathetic tip. I told him my per-dance price.
“No problem, girl,” is how he replied, tossing me his entire thick-but-minuscule money roll. “You can have it all.” Then he added: “So long as you use something of mine when you dance.”
As I’ve explained, strippers get all kinds of requests. Everyone has his own “hot button,” that special something that gets their juices flowing. For some customers, it’s as simple as having a dancer use a personal item of theirs while they jiggle and shake. A bandana, a lucky charm, a hat—one guy even had me dance for him holding a picture of his kids. But before I could ask Howard exactly what item he was ref
erring to, he pulled up the jeans of his right leg, revealing a prosthesis beginning just below the knee, removed it, and tossed it at my feet.
He smiled. I cringed. “You want me to dance with that?”
The skanky old codger double-pumped his eyebrows. “Actually, I want you to pretend it’s a broom. You know, like witches ride. I want you to straddle it while you dance, and run around with it a little, too.”
Now, I have a lot of respect for veterans, don’t get me wrong, but there was absolutely no way that I was going to stick that thing between my legs, not for a king’s ransom and sure as shit not for the paltry sum he had to offer. So, horrified and altogether annoyed that I’d wasted my time with this weird one-legged bumpkin, I declined to use his prosthesis as a prop and told him that I was no longer interested in dancing for him at all. I think my exact words were: “We’re done here!”
He threatened to sue me, claiming I was treating him unfairly because he was handicapped. Then he broke into a tirade about how poorly Vietnam veterans have been treated since they first returned to American soil. He got up and began jumping around, looking like he might topple over at any moment. Watching him hop around the room like a defective pogo stick and listening to him rant and rave, I began to feel sorry for him. I tried to placate him by picking up his wooden leg and dancing with it, holding it away from my body as if it were a waltz partner with bad body odor.
This course of action seemed to work. Howard cooled his jets, hopped back over to the couch, plopped himself down, and began to clap his hands to the beat of the music. I could swear I spotted a smile beneath that thick jungle of hair obscuring his face. In fact, he enjoyed himself so much that he discovered another hundred and sixty-some-odd dollars on his person, along with a previously opened candy bar that he generously offered to share with me. I politely declined, considering the fact it was a candy bar I’d never heard of and, to my knowledge, was no longer produced. Yeesh!
Howard came back a few more times while I worked at that club and always selected me to dance for him. Lucky me! But during his last visit, he got spit-on-himself drunk and revealed that his injury was not the result of the Vietnam War, but a bad traffic accident. In fact, he never actually served in the military at all. The jacket was just something he picked up at a thrift store a few years back.
And to think, all this time I’d been extra kind to him because I thought he had served his country proudly. Just goes to show you, you really can’t judge a jerk by his cover.
The Matchmaker
It’s no secret that men love to date strippers. A lot of guys consider girls who work in the topless trade trophies of sorts. It’s kind of like: “Hey, look at me, I’m dating a stripper.” Of course, they’d never think of bringing a stripper home to Mom. Hell no. The consensus, pathetic as it may be, is that girls who take off their clothes for a living are only good for a couple of rolls in the hay and nothing more. We’re definitely not marriage material. We’re too stupid, too sleazy—you know all the reasons. If you remember, I dated a guy who felt this way. Briefly. But you know what? It’s okay that men feel we’re not the type to bring home to Mom, because on one occasion, Mom came to us.
It was late in the evening and I was on a break, having a drink and a smoke at the bar, chatting with the bartender, when a woman, late-40s/early-50s, wearing a spiffy gray pantsuit and a great pair of Prada shoes, took a seat two stools away from me. She ordered a Chardonnay and turned to survey the action. I couldn’t help but think she looked out of place. But all types go to the topless clubs, and everyone has a reason for going. I guessed she had a thing for half-naked women, although the sizable rock she wore on her ring finger seemed to hint that she enjoyed the company of men, as well.
Curiosity aside, I shrugged off her presence and was about to go back to work when she addressed me. “Excuse me, Miss,” she said politely. “Do you work here?”
I nodded and said that I did. She smiled and asked me if I was married. This caused me to giggle. I’d been asked a lot of questions during my years as a topless dancer, but whether or not I was married hadn’t been one of them. I told her that I wasn’t.
“Great,” she said, moving to the stool beside me. “I might as well start with you.” Next thing I knew she was removing a small spiral notepad from her purse, the kind reporters often carry, and a gold pen.
“What’s your name and how old are you?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“Are you doing some sort of a story?” I asked, reluctant to answer any questions until I knew what was going on. Not that I had anything to hide, but reporters were always doing stories on the exotic entertainment industry and the majority of them weren’t very flattering. And although she didn’t look like a reporter, neither does Barbara Walters.
The woman smiled and put out her hand. “Forgive me. I’m being rude. My name is Marla and I’m looking for a wife for my son.”
At this particular club, the girls were always playing pranks on one another. My first reaction was that this was just a practical joke, but the woman convinced me that it wasn’t.
Apparently, her son, a handsome guy, although not really my type (she showed me a picture), had just broken up with his fiancée and was devastated. His mother, who hadn’t liked the girl from the start, was convinced that one, a new love would mend his broken heart, and two, she could do a better job of finding him a mate than he could. According to Marla, her son had been “fraternizing with prissies and Daddy’s little girls for far too long,” a scenario for which she held herself accountable; her son had gone to an Ivy League school at her and her husband’s urging. She wanted him to find a woman who “was a real go-getter, someone who wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.”
I laughed and told Marla she’d definitely come to the right place. At this particular club, there were some girls who would happily get a lot more than their hands dirty.
We shared a laugh and I agreed to answer her questions. At first, they were pretty basic: Do you know how to cook? Do you want children? What religion are you? Are you close with your parents? Do you do drugs? Do you like animals? Do you have any pets? Have you ever been arrested? Nothing that I found too objectionable.
But soon, the questions got a little racy: Do you like sex? Do you like oral sex? Do you prefer to give or receive? On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your oral technique? How would you rate your performance in bed? Are you a screamer or a moaner? Where’s the wildest place you’ve ever had sex? Do you like anal sex? Do you like to use sex toys? Do you own a vibrator or a dildo?
These were the kind of questions guys commonly traded at frat parties, not the kind you expected to hear from a woman shopping for her son’s bride. Before long, they were so nasty that sailors would blush. Having reached my limit, I bowed out of the running for her son, but introduced her to a couple of girls who not only wouldn’t have a problem with the explicit questions she asked, but would in all likelihood provide more information than she was asking for.
To my knowledge, none of the girls she interviewed that night made the grade. And maybe that was a good thing. I couldn’t imagine having that woman as a mother-in-law.
And Even More VIP Room Adventures
But it doesn’t stop there. Not even close.
There was a guy who wanted me to strip for his invisible friend. An overbearing father wanted me to “dance the gay” out of his flamboyant homosexual son.
A martial-arts expert was convinced I needed to be taught self-defense to protect myself from disrespectful customers. A woman described my actions in explicit detail (including things I wasn’t even doing) to her blind male companion. An expectant father paid me to dance for him while his sister relayed information from the hospital via cell phone as his wife was giving birth. A trio of women, once in the VIP Room, revealed they were nuns and began berating me for selling my soul to Satan. A proud father tried to sneak his recently bar mitvah’d son into the club so that he could finish “becoming a man.” A masochist want
ed all of his back hair yanked out with tweezers. A group of guys played a high-stakes dice game while two other girls and I danced for them. And some guys celebrating a bachelor party sponsored their own version of the Olympics, rating the girls with numbers drawn on cocktail napkins after each lap dance.
Never a dull moment in the VIP Room. And these moments are happening even now, in strip clubs all over the world, if not beyond. The myriad situations—and individuals—encountered are all part of the strip club experience, which I would describe as a five-course meal for the senses. Regardless of how long you stay, and how much money you spend, strip clubs are clearly the entertainment bargain of a lifetime.
After seven years as a topless dancer, I was more than a little burned out. Sure, I’d taken vacations along the way, but as anyone who works in the sex business will tell you, until you decide to get all the way out, you’re still all the way in. Some girls bust out within a few months of getting into the profession, while others are still going strong after 20 years. For me, three quarters of a decade was my limit, and I knew it, so I decided to say goodbye.
Beyond simple burn-out, there were other reasons behind my withdrawal from the exotic entertainment industry. For one, I found myself drinking and smoking more than I wanted to. For another, I was getting tired of the constant drama and the endless nightlife scene. I was also sick of keeping a vampire’s hours. Physically, I’d reached my limit, as well. My body was beginning to shows signs of wear and tear—especially my knees and lower back. Years of dancing in high heels can wreck even the sturdiest of physiques.
But perhaps most importantly, I simply wanted to move on with my life. Stripping had been good to me (great to me, actually) while it lasted, and I wanted to remember it as such—not go on to have regrets about staying in the game too long. Sure, there were days when I missed the fast money and the wild interactions, but whenever I needed a quick fix, I’d just crack open one of the many journals I kept during my dancing days and relive some of the memories.