Something about coming back to this "nasty industry," as one of my old friends refers to it, is that out of the blue I seem to have become a hustler.
In case you don't know, a hustler is one of those girls who makes bank every single night. She knows how to work customers so that they find themselves overcome by the urge to pay her all of their money. Most girls aren't hustlers, because it really requires working.
Back in the day, I was the furthest thing from a hustler than any stripper could be. My modus operandi was more of a general disgust with the men who came into the clubs, a sort of annoyance at their very presence and outright offense at their getting turned on during lap dances. And so I didn't make a whole lot of money.
But somehow, in my year off, I guess I figured a few things out. For instance - if you treat your customer like he's the most fascinating thing you have ever had the sheer luck to have stumbled upon, he'll like it. I imagine that rule could be applied to any old pick-up situation in any bar. Also, it's all about marketing. In this case, you're marketing the idea that you're just some rando naked girl at a bar, completely normal, and all you really want to do in your heart of hearts is spend an hour dancing for him. Cause it's so hot.
So it's all about the customer! Of course! You might be wondering at this point how I ever made any money as a stripper before. I'm wondering too. But anyway, last night I had some significant success, and it's very exciting:
1. I made a short but beefy guy feel like working out is the most amazing thing I've ever heard of anyone doing. This resulted in three lap dances ($75), following my "Wow, your arms are so strong, you must work out all the time!" comment. I choked back a little vomit as I let that gem escape from my sugar-coated lips, but sure enough, Beefy McBeeferstein took me up on it.
"Yeah - I do," he said proudly as he gazed down at his bulging guns.
2. I had a TV editor believing that a career in the entertainment industry in L.A. is the most daring and original idea anyone's ever had. This was another coup, because I didn't have anything to say to this guy and as soon as I acknowledged that his moving out here to live his dream was bold and risky (not to judge - it IS a bold thing to do, but let's not get carried away) he suddenly emptied $200 out of his wallet and threw it at my dancing feet.
3. I made a young real estate salesman from the Valley feel like he sold me on doing a lap dance in the VIP room.
Coming back to this business is less interesting the second time around. It's not such an exciting new world (naked ladies and horny men and dirty dances, oh my!!) and I'm no longer so keen on learning the ropes, climbing the poles, and having my naivete shaken off me like a dog shaking off the remnants of a swim. So the next step, I suppose, is to hone my professional skills and become not just a dancing girl, but a dancing girl with some money.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Mid-Week Money
Tonight I walked with $500 - that is bank for a Tuesday. How did I do it, you might ask? Well - a couple of really good customers, albeit unexpected ones.
The first was a kid - really, he couldn't have been more than like 21 - who was I guess a bartender at someplace downtown. Anyway, he came in with wadded up bills stuffed every which way in all his little pockets, and proceeded to go around getting dance after dance from like every girl there.
He was a skinny little guy, and he sat at the edge of the stage during my set (still in his bartender uniform, it should be noted), and afterward - completely politely - asked me if I was "available for a dance." Yes. I am.
So I went back with him, and I have no idea where he learned this, but as I was dancing for him he kept throwing money - 5's, 10's, 20's - on the couch next to him. Once I gave him his tally ($175) he gave me that, plus tips, plus all the money on the couch. That's how you DO IT!
How does a kid like this get it in his head to come spend what is clearly ALL of his money at some bikini bar in Hollywood? This I may never understand. But anyway, the second was a chubby yet endearing entertainment industry guy who insisted he was only going to get one dance and then went on to get eight. And then after that he got two more, and then I'm pretty sure I had completely cleaned him out.
And that, my friends, is how you debate.
The first was a kid - really, he couldn't have been more than like 21 - who was I guess a bartender at someplace downtown. Anyway, he came in with wadded up bills stuffed every which way in all his little pockets, and proceeded to go around getting dance after dance from like every girl there.
He was a skinny little guy, and he sat at the edge of the stage during my set (still in his bartender uniform, it should be noted), and afterward - completely politely - asked me if I was "available for a dance." Yes. I am.
So I went back with him, and I have no idea where he learned this, but as I was dancing for him he kept throwing money - 5's, 10's, 20's - on the couch next to him. Once I gave him his tally ($175) he gave me that, plus tips, plus all the money on the couch. That's how you DO IT!
How does a kid like this get it in his head to come spend what is clearly ALL of his money at some bikini bar in Hollywood? This I may never understand. But anyway, the second was a chubby yet endearing entertainment industry guy who insisted he was only going to get one dance and then went on to get eight. And then after that he got two more, and then I'm pretty sure I had completely cleaned him out.
And that, my friends, is how you debate.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Once a Stripper, Always a Stripper
It was just over a year ago that I quit stripping, and I really thought that I had hung up my multi-colored thongs and nipple tassles for good.
I had worked at a club in Hollywood for over a year, and was done with the pawing, the hustling, the possibly alcoholic behavior, the sore feet, and the coked-up management, so I went on the hunt for a day job. Using my many skills acquired in the bullshit arena, I talked my way through the year-long gap on my resume, and next thing you know I was a respectable member of society!
My worn-out, verging-on-ratty dancing gear got shoved into the back of my closet for a rainy day, still packed in the stinky green gym bag that I had been toting it around in forever. I put $3,000 into a savings account, scrubbed off my hooker red lips, and boldly marched into the real world.
And that went well for a while. I enjoyed the change of pace, the usage of the mind, and the respite from giving a shit about my tummy or my errant body hair.
But, as it turns out, cubicle life is boring.
It's claustrophobic. It's no fun. There isn't any alcohol. And worst of all, there's a schedule. That starts at 9:30 A.M. In short, I hate it, and so here I am, about to haul that green gym back out and set my carefully pedicured foot right back onto the neon-encrusted stages of Hollywood.
And I can't help but think back to a particularly poignant conversation I had once with a fellow peeler, one who had more experience than I. She told me, as she tossed back her fourth Jameson of the night, "Once a stripper, always a stripper." And lo and behold, right she was!
I had worked at a club in Hollywood for over a year, and was done with the pawing, the hustling, the possibly alcoholic behavior, the sore feet, and the coked-up management, so I went on the hunt for a day job. Using my many skills acquired in the bullshit arena, I talked my way through the year-long gap on my resume, and next thing you know I was a respectable member of society!
My worn-out, verging-on-ratty dancing gear got shoved into the back of my closet for a rainy day, still packed in the stinky green gym bag that I had been toting it around in forever. I put $3,000 into a savings account, scrubbed off my hooker red lips, and boldly marched into the real world.
And that went well for a while. I enjoyed the change of pace, the usage of the mind, and the respite from giving a shit about my tummy or my errant body hair.
But, as it turns out, cubicle life is boring.
It's claustrophobic. It's no fun. There isn't any alcohol. And worst of all, there's a schedule. That starts at 9:30 A.M. In short, I hate it, and so here I am, about to haul that green gym back out and set my carefully pedicured foot right back onto the neon-encrusted stages of Hollywood.
And I can't help but think back to a particularly poignant conversation I had once with a fellow peeler, one who had more experience than I. She told me, as she tossed back her fourth Jameson of the night, "Once a stripper, always a stripper." And lo and behold, right she was!
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