They say the higher your shoes, the closer you are to Heaven. In my case, it’s the opposite: there are just 7 inches keeping me from Hell (the carpet of the strip club floor).
I’m standing in a white slingshot G-string bikini, a bold choice for a girl who gets stains on everything, while I scope out the current patronage to see if there’s anyone here I can turn into my next rent payment. It’s still early, only 10:30 pm.
The hardest part of this job isn’t flirting with men or taking my clothes off in public. It’s standing there knowing you’re down a house fee, with nothing to show for it except a fucked circadian rhythm and a fresh bout of tinnitus.
A girl comes over to say hi. Rhiannon. She’s sweet and very young – only 20. She was the first girl to be nice to me when I started, so I guess I’m her work friend, even though we have nothing in common and don’t really get along.
In standard stripper fashion, she asks how my night’s been. I say dead. She agrees it’s been dead for her too.
Good, I think to myself.
This job is competitive as hell, and nothing makes you feel more like shit than watching other dancers move in and out of the lap dance room while you stand around getting sore feet for no reason.
Rhiannon points to another dancer and says, ‘There goes Chastity. She’s the most booked girl in the club.’ I stare at Chastity, green with jealousy, because I’ll have what she’s having, thanks (a handbag stuffed with cash).
Chastity is gorgeous. She’s tall and beautiful, with a body that makes me realise I’m no better than a man. She’s always booked, always in VIP, and always taking home fat wads of hundred-dollar bills.
But there’s something else you should know about Chastity. She’s 45.