....StripXpertease.... The Strip and the Tease.

Sexuality, tips and toys, the good and bad of being a stripper, insight into Kimberly's life, men, StripXpertease info, tales of dancing from the past, and experiences teaching women's striptease and lap dance classes in NY & NJ.
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Friday, July 3, 2009

Yet another "A day in the life of a stripper" ..and yes, my 2 cents too.

As usual, my comments in red..

Stephanie Whitfield, Contributing Writer
Issue date: 5/2/06

A stripper has to reveal the parts of the body that one may only be comfortable exposing right before one gets into the shower. Along with wearing pasties and thongs, the stripping profession has held social stigmas in the United States for centuries. How does the stigma of being a stripper affect their roles in their daily lives? Do they enjoy the work, or is it simply for money?

In an article in the Journal of Criminal Justice and Popular Culture, the authors explained why such stigmas might exist."The setting of a dance club is prone to deviant activity, such as prostitution and illegal drug use; therefore, the profession of exotic dancing is generally considered deviant," the authors said. OK, true, true. "Stormy," a skinny 21-year-old in white lingerie, had only been working at the Platinum Cabaret strip club for a couple of weeks, and she said that the job offer was easy for her to take. Stormy said she was working on getting a divorce, and had nowhere else to go."I didn't have a hard time deciding to do the job," she said. "I wish I would have started when I was 18." Who knows her reasons, but I am assuming it's because generally younger girls make more money...fresh meat. The entrance to the club was blacked out with paint or cardboard, and there was a warning to all the patrons who entered: "No touching the girls." Inside, the music and smoke took over the entire room. The carpet was made specifically for black lighting, which tried to enhance the colors in the carpet, but was defeated by the wear and tear. After a dancer finished, the emcee would announce that midget strippers would be there that weekend. Wow.

The dancers writhed and slapped their high heels on the stage under flashing colors of light while the men held dollar bills in their outstretched hands, enticing the dancers to come closer. If a dancer chose to get closer, the men's faces would contort between excitement and sheer ecstasy. Stormy said she has had offers for sex outside of the club, but had turned all of them down. She said one man called her a bitch for declining the offer, but the men do not bother her in general.

"I get their money, and move on," Stormy said. Stormy got into the job for the money, she said. A stripper at Platinum could make up to $2,000 a week, compared to the national minimum wage of $5.15 an hour, Stormy said. The biggest complaint among most dancers is that they feel like an object rather than a person, according to the JCJPC article. However, "while dancers feel this exploitation, they also admit to exploiting their customers," the authors said. Well, there you go. That pretty much sums it up doesn't it? Claire Detels, UA professor of music history, said that while some feminists believe stripping reinforces the thought of women as objects, other feminists and scholars believe the profession is a way to reinforce their empowerment."Some feminists within the industry and some scholars argue that paid and self-determined activity by women as sex providers can be felt and/or viewed as empowering, i.e. as a taking back and revaluing of the power of women in and through sex," Detels said.

"Ebony" is a 23 year-old, single mother and is 6 feet 2, but with her heels on, she said she measures around 6 feet 4. Her head almost touches the ceiling when she is dancing on the stage. After she had finished a dance and was sitting down to have a cigarette, she said being a stripper is a double-edged sword."[The customers] feel like they can talk to you however they want because you're a stripper," she said, "but I've learned a lot about men and how they like their women." There is a lot of truth there. It is so eye opening to hear what these guys really want, need, emotionally and physically.

Ebony said she got into dancing because the money was good, which in turn would be good for her daughter. She said it is hard to be a stripper in a small town because so many people recognize her."We're like mini-celebrities [in Fayetteville]," she said, "but when I'm out with my kid, I don't want those people talking to me." I kinda felt the same way.That is why I could never get into the dating customers thing outside of the club. Outside was my time to be me. There were only a few customers that I could be friends with out side of the club. And they treated me respectfully at all times.

Some opponents and feminists of the sex industry agree that the jobs within it are exploitive. Girlfriends worry about their boyfriends going to strip clubs because they feel like it's a form of cheating, or that they will be cheated on. But Ebony disagreed with all of it."To people who are against stripping, I would say, 'Walk in my stripper heels sometime,'" Ebony said. "Maybe girlfriends should give their boyfriends what they want so they don't have to come to us." Ouch. True. I still don't get girls that want to end relationships because their man watches porn. I mean, COME ON!

Ebony said she is merely playing a role, or acting in order to make money. Then with her sad eyes, she said what she thought is the core of her profession. "We get paid to baby-sit men," Ebony said. Preach it sista!

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Thursday, June 25, 2009

First day as a stripper..another day in the life story and my 2 cents.

I love this, my thoughts as usual in red...


How I became an exotic dancer
My exhibitionist streak saved me from slinging doughnuts. First of two parts.

- - - - - - - - - - - -
By Sheila Hageman

Aug. 9, 2000 I can still remember the first time I was allowed to take a bath all by myself when I was about 6 years old. It was early in the evening, after dinner. Mom was washing dishes, Dad was reading the newspaper in the living room and my sister was doing homework in her bedroom. I filled the cracking beige porcelain tub with bubbling waves of soap and then soaked myself until my fingers were wrinkled like white sun-baked grapes. Balls of moisture formed on the bathroom window and fogged out the black night. My yellow plastic duck bobbed up and down by my two pink knees, poking out from the filmy water like two naked mole rats. Hot water traveled through the clanking pipes of the radiator and combined with the clinking of the dinner dishes Mom set out to dry. I held my breath and listened harder; the crisp turns and folds of Dad's newspaper were a song of comfort and home that protected me in the quiet night.

It was then that I first thought the world revolved around me. The outside sounds were made just for me. Other people lived on earth just to help fulfill my life's experiences. It was as if I'd discovered the meaning of life. I was the center of the universe and my job was to allow everybody around me to help me to experience the world. I wanted to know and feel everything in every way.

The bath water began to chill. Suddenly, the small tub enclosed me and made my dreams seem minuscule. How could the world be just about me? If it were, surely I would have a perfect life. That thought frightened me and made me think perhaps I was only a part of somebody else's world. I needed to return to my feeling of safety and connection with the larger world. I needed to stop the spreading veins of fear in my mind. I drained the water from the tub and fluffed my body dry with the mauve butterfly towel. My hand turned the wobbly crystal doorknob. I felt the exciting rush of cold hallway air and made a shivery dash for the kitchen.

My mom spun around as I rushed past her, squealing in my happy nakedness. My feet made streaky splats along the orange tiles. Mom dropped the Roadrunner glass back into the sudsy dishpan, "Karoomph!"

"Streaker, streaker!" my mom bellowed as I raced through the adjacent dining room into the brown living room. My dad peered over the top of the Connecticut Post. I zoomed past him and around the circle of the house again. I was laughing, running and getting goose bumps all over my body. It felt good to be naked.

Coming back to the opened bathroom door, I glanced in to see rivulets of water running down the steamy windowpanes. It was much more inviting to turn to my right and run around the circle one more time. Dad put his paper down and tried to catch me.

I was winded with happiness as I collapsed back into the bathroom, gasping for breath. I could hear my mom's and dad's muffled voices whispering from the other side of the door. Not only did I feel good, but now they were talking to each other without yelling.

The whole world had watched me. That's how it was meant to be. Shy little Sheila, who usually clung behind Mom's protective shadow, finally felt free to be noticed. I guess showing off was in my blood.

Years later, I plopped down into the orange booth at Dunkin' Donuts on my break and skimmed through the Connecticut Post's Help Wanted section. My view skirted to an advertisement I'd seen there before: "Exotic Dancers Wanted! Make up to $1,000 a week! No Experience Necessary! Will Train!"

A stripper. An exotic dancer. What a wonderful way to be the most beautiful and the most loved. I could show everybody what I was capable of becoming. Perhaps by showing my body to the world, I would be able to quench my longing for attention. All my life I was an attention whore..I think that is how the acting bug got in...

I mean, why shouldn't I become a stripper? It was almost as if I was being called to be one. My hair was blond and my ass was tight. Young, beautiful and intelligent women were supposed to do amazing and daring things.

I was wasting away in suburbia -- if I lived in New York I could go to more acting auditions. But it was so expensive to live there. I needed to make some big money. Ahhh, yes, I know this story.

A thousand dollars a week? I could do it. I was an actress -- all I had to do was play another role. I really do think it was my acting skills that made me good..when I was good, before the burn out sets in...I tore the small ad from the paper, shoved it in the pocket of my Levi's and brushed the color sprinkles from my pink polyester apron.

Two days later, I was driving to a brick apartment complex in downtown Bridgeport. I walked down a long dark hallway filled with the sounds and smells of babies and knocked on a door with a cardboard gold star that read "Star Management." I pushed open the thin wooden door into a small office covered with photos of naked ladies. Johnny, his striped polo shirt sweated to his chest, interviewed me for the job. His partner, Ron, was on the phone the whole time, talking to a woman named Lola.

I had brought my modeling portfolio with me. Johnny flipped through it, stopping to stare at the nudes. "Why don't you go slip into your costume?" I nodded and headed for the bathroom. The bathroom was also used as a storage room for extra boxes of glossies, so I barely had room to sit down on the toilet. I slipped on a white lace bra, a thong and heels.

The door stuck on the shag carpet as I tried my best to appear graceful. Johnny whistled and nodded as I did the fashion model turns that I'd learned at Barbizon Modeling School the year before.

"Could you take off your bra?"

I felt so stupid reaching my arms around my back and trying to unsnap it. Johnny leaned back and revealed his sweaty pits as I exposed my nipples. I waited for him to say I was too flat-chested, but he just took a Polaroid of me topless -- "for the files." This only happened to me in NY, I wonder what they do with all those photos...

Johnny then went into a rambling monologue about the different clubs and their rules.

"Now, you look really young, so I need you to look glamorous from the minute you walk into a club." He rocked back and forth in his leather swivel chair, making squeegee sounds.

I tried hard to listen, but my moist thong kept sliding me farther back into the plastic folding chair. Whom was I kidding? Maybe Johnny would see right through me and tell me I wasn't sexy enough to be an exotic dancer.

"You'll need a signed permission letter from your guardian, since you're under 21." Huh, I have never heard of that before. It was all good as long as you were 18 in TX.

How do you ask your mother for permission to be a stripper? "You mean I've got to tell my mom what I'm doing? I'm 18!" I sat up and leaned onto Johnny's cluttered desk. "I'm an adult."

"Well, you aren't legal to work in bars until you're 21, but don't worry." Johnny touched my hand. "I won't tell anyone if you forget your permission slip.

"I'm your boss; you answer to me, not the club owners. I book you and I help you when you need it, and you help me when I need it." His hand ran through his curly hair. "If you have any problems, you just call me."

I smiled, nodding in agreement with everything he said. I wanted to get out of that stifling office.

"If you're caught on the premises with drugs, it's an immediate week's suspension. Clearly intoxicated, same thing." Tufts of chest hair spurted from his open collar.

Drugs and alcohol at work? Who does that? Ahahaha..so naive..soon you will learn my pretty.

"G-string stays on at all times and absolutely no physical contact with the customers." I liked that rule.

"You'll get paid $55 in cash at the end of your seven-hour shift. Of course, you'll make your real money in tips."

I thought it would be more money. How many shifts would I need to work to make $1,000 a week? How much could I possibly make in tips?

"So, when can I put you into the rotation?"

I had been hired. Just like that. I was a topless dancer. I didn't want to sound like an amateur, but there was one question that kept floating through my mind.

"Umm, the free training advertised in the paper?" I asked.

For the first time since I'd arrived, Ron cleared his throat, stood up and leaned against his desk. "Just get up there and dance," he said. Yep, there ya go..ON-THE-JOB training...

This is part two...
The Bungalow was tucked away at the back of an industrial park. I swung open the blacked-out glass door with the sign "No Fat Women Allowed!" The darkened pit gobbled up the bright noon sun, and the cool damp smell of liquor snuck up my nose. I leaned against the bar railing and a blond man's head popped into sight. I remember that walking in from the sunshine gorgeous outside clean crisp air into the club. Your eyes would have to adjust. It smelled of stale booze and cigarettes. The music muffled outside now played too loudly. It was always this weird transition.

"Hi, my name is Kyrea. I'm supposed to ask for Billy. It's my first day." Did that name sound stupid? Was I supposed to say my real name instead?

"Hey, it's nice to meet you! I'm Nick. The dressing room is down there -- I'll let Billy know you're here." He pointed off to the right and continued lifting boxes of beer to the bar.

I turned and saw it for the first time, a long L-shaped stage with Christmas lights strung along the edge, surrounded by chairs. I stumbled into the dressing room thinking I must have made a mistake; it was just a bathroom with a gold star on the door. There were three stalls (one without a door), a sink and two broken wall mirrors. I plugged in the space heater and it whirred to a start. I had expected something more glamorous. I have worked in clubs like that. You know you're in trouble because its obvious the owners and managers could give 2 shits about the dancers. Get your bag and run!

I pulled on my costume and tried to puff up my hair and squeeze my 34-A breasts as high as they would go. I looked too young.

I click-clacked my way back to the bar in my undies and high heels, wondering if I should have covered myself up or if I was supposed to be as nude as possible at all times.

The owner now sat at the bar, drinking a small bottle of club soda. He was in his late 20s and had long golden hair.

"Wow! You look beautiful." I could feel my face getting hot and red, just like my bra and thong. I felt like a gigantic tomato, but both Billy and Nick said I looked great.

"You might want to put on a robe when you're not onstage, though. I don't want you catching cold." Now my face got redder, but Billy gently squeezed my shoulder.

I showed them my forged permission note. They glanced at each other and Billy thanked me.

I relaxed on a wobbly stool and leaned my elbows against the rail. A few men started strolling in, so I tried to look as demure as you can look when you're the only woman in a bar and in your underwear.

I could feel eyes staring at me from across the bar. I tried out my most seductive smile, but I couldn't tell if he smiled back. My ice water slid down my throat, causing my nervous belly to ache. No more smiles for you, mister.

I sat there for half an hour, wondering when the other dancer would arrive. Johnny had said I should watch her first and then imitate her moves. It was almost noon, which was when the shows were supposed to start. The clock churned on and men kept entering. They were talking about me and pointing, in between going to the cooler at the back end of the bar for a sandwich and gulping down their beers. Billy said, "Whenever you're ready."

My feet carried me past the catcalls and whistles, past the pool table and the TV. I dropped my plastic purse into the giant tip basket at the corner of the stage.

Two wilted dollar bills from the bar started the jukebox A jukebox?!!? Where the hell was this girl working?!?!and I picked out my first set of songs -- fast ones so that I wouldn't have time to slow down and be aware of what was going on. I turned to face the crowd and smiled at the few men who sat by the stage. Their eyes were eye level with my calves; they couldn't help staring up at my crotch.

Oh, my God, what should I do now? I sashayed down the stage and grabbed a metal pole that stuck out from the middle of the stage and stretched my legs. The music began to beat out from speakers all around me. Male eyes peered through the hazy smoke, heavy-lidded with the effects of liquor.

I rotated my hips slowly, bent over and extended my legs. I danced like molasses sliding down a wooden banister and swung my long hair, letting it land and brush against my ass.

Men were watching me from all sides. I saw two guys leaning against their pool cues, drooling. All other action in the bar had ceased. The walls were lined with mirrors, so I could see myself dancing. I looked firm and shiny and perfect with the rosy lights playing on my body from above.

I'd stop dancing long enough to take the dollars held out to me. The men wanted to know my name and how old I was. They wanted me to stop dancing to talk to them. But I didn't want to get in trouble, so I tried to never stop moving.

"I must know your name!" A man in a blue suit squeezed my hand as he handed me a five.

"Kyrea!" I shouted over the music. I turned my back to him and undid my bra. The smelly air clung to my curves. I caught a glance of my white breasts in the mirror and I felt really naked for the first time.

"Perrier? What kind of a name is that?" I laughed at the suit and kept dancing.

It was funny how safe I felt. No one tried to grab me or said I was a whore. All they said was how beautiful I was. I felt like a queen on a pedestal with control over the men. I only had to dance for a customer about a minute before I'd see a flash of green being waved somewhere else. I decided when to dance away from one guy to the next. I was the one with the power; the men were helpless in my womanly spell. I remember that feeling too. The good nights

This was much better than selling doughnuts.

I noticed another woman standing by the stage. I scooped up my dollars as the men applauded and scurried back to the bathroom, clutching my bra to my chest. Men stopped me along the way, wanting to buy me a drink. I just smiled and rushed past them.

I plopped down on the bathroom chair and pressed out my dollars flat. Some of them had been crumpled into little balls and thrown to me, and others had been folded into little bow ties and swans. Always some loser folding all the bills into origami, now I have to spend my time unfolding that shit. If I have to spend five minutes unfolding your origami elephant it better be a $50. ...I know, I'm a bitch. I had earned $32 during that set. Not bad considering that my doughnut job had paid $5 an hour.

I mopped off my body with hard brown paper towels and yanked on my next outfit, a yellow thong leotard with pink hot pants. The muffled sounds of pool balls being smacked, men laughing and coughing and hard rock music pulsed through my ears. A whoosh of powder on my damp skin and I was all set. I wanted to get out there to study the other dancer.

I ordered an orange juice and settled in at the bar to watch the show. Kelly did a lot more talking than dancing. She also had her own repertoire of moves. She'd bend over and look at a guy between her legs, pick up dollar bills by squeezing her breasts around them and slap her butt and make a squealing noise. Her performance was not a striptease, really -- it was a half-naked woman walking from man to man and wiggling. There is a lot of that out there.

Billy sat with me and reviewed the club's rules, which were strictly enforced. The Bungalow was strictly topless and no flashing (pulling your G-string aside) was allowed. A lot of girls "play" with their t-backs to make it look like it might come off. Several clubs realized girls were flashing and made a rule that you couldn't touch your t-back at all. Physical contact with the customers was grounds for immediate dismissal. Any problem with a customer was to be handled by the bouncers. "If anyone should proposition you, come and tell me." Po-po in the building.

I looked Billy in the eye and nodded.

"I run a clean club and I don't want to get closed down."

"You can count on me."

Billy smiled and touched my arm.

I danced a total of six half-hour sets that day, keeping up my energy with a ham sandwich from the cooler and a lot of ice water. I used the ice onstage by running it down my body. It kept my skin cool and my nipples hard. The men loved it when I did something spontaneous like that, because they could tell I was discovering the moves for the first time. Hahaha, I almost forgot about the ice trick. Yep they love that one. I will go into more detail on that one tomorrow.

Kelly was older than I and you could tell she'd been a dancer for a long time. She wore the same costume all day long, while I liked to change my outfits so the guys would have something new to look at. My whole mood changed when I switched my costume from white lace to black plastic. That was me, I hated changing, more laundry. I also felt it was better because guys would look for you based on outfit. Like, bring me the girl who was wearing the black dress with pink at the bottom.

I must have warded off a dozen date invites. The men seemed to be asking me out seriously, not like I was a prostitute. What did these old fat guys think? That I would want to go out to dinner with them? That they were going to make a love connection with a stripper? Yes! They think they can take you away from it all. Of course, there were some who wanted something else and were very clear about it. As soon as a man's words began to sound like a proposition for sex, I'd flip my hair and dance away.

The guys got rowdier and more offensive as the day wore on. Some guys would look away when I approached, so as not to have to give me a dollar. The old, if I don't see you I won't have to tip you. I would just stand there until they had to tip. Ha! I was such a bitch. But it worked! Others got pissed off because I wouldn't flash. They told me that everybody else did it, but I had no intention of flashing. There were plenty of customers who were more than happy to watch me do an actual striptease dance. I used a lot of eye contact and found that the men liked to be teased. They watched my face as well as my body. My acting skills were really coming in handy. Yep!

Kelly's dancing got bawdier and she spent a lot of time at the far end of the stage. She would bend over and fiddle with her thong while customers leaned in close. She'd flip herself up all of a sudden and shoot a look to the bar. I pretended not to be watching her, but she must have known I was.

After 5 o'clock it got really busy and Kelly waved to everyone. One fat guy threw a matchbook onstage and the guys went wild, screaming and clapping.

"What's going on?" I asked Nick.

"You'll see. It's her signature move." I looked toward the stage again and was bewildered. Kelly was inserting matches in her nipples. The audience got louder as she lighted the matches and carefully swung her flaming breasts in circles. The stunt lasted only a moment, but customers were throwing money onto the stage. It was bizarre, but I guess the men liked the novelty of it.
There is always a couple of girls who did this. It wasn't my bag. I tried it a few times though. Maybe I'll explain that one too. :)
The second-shift dancers began arriving around 5:30. Other wise known as the A-team. It was my first opportunity to speak with other women all day. One dancer with long blond hair started quizzing me as soon as I walked into the bathroom after my last set and counted out my dollars.

"Wow, you made a lot."

"Yeah? It's my first day."

"Your first day at this club or you mean your first day dancing ever?" She was slipping on a cheerleader outfit.

"Oh, my very first day."

"Mmm, well you better watch yourself around these other women. You're young and pretty -- a lot of dancers are going to be jealous." She brushed her hair up into two ponytails.

"Oh, I don't know."

"Seriously, you should put a lock on your suitcase and watch your back." She checked herself out in the mirror one last time and then whipped around and left the dressing room. She had not sounded friendly in her warning. In fact, she sounded downright hostile. Perhaps she had been talking about how she felt, and I decided that I should try to stay out of her way. I felt a twinge of panic at the thought that she had actually threatened me. Sounds like she had it right on. No one likes the new girl. I hated being the new girl.

I hurried to leave because I had a dress rehearsal for Neil Simon's "Brighton Beach Memoirs" at 8 at a local Playshop. I wished that I could take a shower to wash off the sweat and smoke that clung to me, but instead I dumped on some more baby powder.

I left the club at 6:30 with $275 in cash. Wearing sweats, I slipped out completely unnoticed; I'd become totally invisible by putting my regular clothes back on. My mind was spinning, my legs ached and I had a pounding headache, but the cool evening air refreshed my tired body and brought me back to the real world. By the time my Sundance hit Interstate 95, I was feeling like Sheila again. Kyrea drifted away into the black night somewhere around exit 40.

As I drove I wondered how long I'd be a stripper. I could feel that bar darkness beckoning, a place where I could escape the pressures of being a superwoman. In the club, my only responsibility was to be sexy. I knew the crowds of men had no respect for me. It didn't matter who I was or what I was about; they only wanted to look at my naked body.

I spoke to my reflection in the foggy rearview mirror. "I'm Sheila now. Kyrea is back in the bar." I brought my attention back to the road and as the white dashes flicked by I realized I had no idea who I was or where I was headed.

And the road stretched out very far in front of me.

salon.com Aug. 10, 2000

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About the writer
Sheila Hageman is a writer in New York

I loved this article. She has since retired, good for her! She has a blog too http://strippermom.blogspot.com/

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Monday, June 22, 2009

Another Vice article.. love it!

OK, so underneath that Vice article from yesterday was another one... You gotta check out all the comments http://www.viceland.com/issues_au/v2n8/htdocs/how_to.php people get so serious...it's comedy fools! Lighten up fer fuck's sake!


By Gloria Glory

One of the greatest things about dewds is their ability to assume every woman wants them. The greatest things about dewds are that they continue to believe this in places such as Strip Clubs. Let's get one thing straight as far as we dancers are concerned it's a JOB - period. Part of the job is finding your stories about eating a hot dog and then going home to take a crap the most fascinating hunk of conversation ever shared. Oh, I am gonna loove this one.

Well guess what you're as sexy as a weather report, not a poet laureate; you are your own poetic justice. You would have a better chance screwing Queen Elizabeth after regaling her with your hair gel stories. Ergo, for the men who act like they are doing us a favor or tey (try?) bringing roses to a strip club because there was a "connection", oh no..i know those guys..oh this is gonna be bad..i feel the laughter tears wellin' up already. here's a few reasons why you are doomed.


Let me guess: You find yourself going alone or with all male jock friends who are horrible with women…

Solution: JUST STOP! Call your mom and explain that you are horrible with women, start to cry and then go to bed. It's better than accidentally overhearing us mention that you are a gorgeous example of an unattractive guy.


What you do: Apparently you haven't called your mother yet so you think you are still in the game. SIT DOWN!

What you do:

Guys who come in and make a "mother fucking ruckus" translates into a "mother fucking fuck us - financially". It pisses of everyone including the guy jacking off at his table. He even feels superior to you. oh noooo.

Gynecology row is a Gynecology No! Maybe sitting right in front the stage impresses a girl at a Sting concert but it a peeler bar it tells the girls you think went to a Sting concert.

Just do this: Sit to the side of the stage in the shadows like a sexy Vincent Price. DO NOT make a seen( scene?). How impressed do you think we'll get you're in a peeler bar for fuck sake. True, I like how she calls it a peeler bar. I have never heard that. We always called them titty bars.


The smell of a guy can be amazing if you're into him but if not (ie you) your personal odor is as welcome as a waft of a stranger's pepperoni belch. Cover it up with something, but before you do
ask yourself this: "Did I use a judicial amount of cologne or do I smell like I should be wedged between the pages of GQ? If you reek of shitty cologne go down the street to Planet Hollywood and find your wife.

Why we hate cologne:

The fact that I'm explaining this is making me furious! It REEKS and after smelling 40 different carefully chosen "scents" we've done more damage to our nasal cavity than the blow we just did. Bah hahaha! All your doing is effectively telling the girls that you have the expectations of a horny ten year old and you actually believe hip hop music videos are self improvement tapes.


Make it short and sweet. The longer you take ordering while the waitress is there causes a log jam inhibiting you from being the man you think you are.

Complaining about drink prices in a strip bar is like complaining about not getting across the border American in a pot leafed "legalize it" shirt. Oh fuck! I hated, I mean HATED when guys did that. I was like are you for real?!?!

Why we hate it:

If you are losing your bald coconut over a $1.50 you're not exactly going to be peeling out the dead Prime ministers for my perfect ass. So true!


This is the deal ender is almost every case. You are in a strip club. Do you walk into a grocery store expecting free food cause your bragging about how much you eat?

Your cock, sex stories and financial success stories are BORING. If you somehow pull a David Copperfield they will figure it out on your date, in fact even Coppefield couldn't hypnotize Claudia into staying with him.

The solution:

Nothing. If you're a human yawn there is little you can do in a five-minute conversation while "Shock The Monkey" is playing. Go home and shock your monkey.


Actually I want to stick with conversation. Let's face it this is where men rule. They may have been wired to be aggressors and are individually convinced they would bring home the most from the hunt. Thanks to the implausible lessons of pop culture combined with their equally clueless friends, most guys think they are sexual warriors. Here are some golden moves courtesy of my last month at work.

Anyhow, check out how out of control it's become.


1 - This line is from a guy in a VIP lounge whispered into the ear of Erotica " If I told you who I actually am you would cum.. You have no idea how much I can do for you if we get along"

WHAT does that mean? Why don't you just put on a cape, twirl around and throw a smoke bomb on the floor captain enigma? oh god, I have heard versions of this. I mean get real. If you are so amazing, then why are you here paying me to pretend I like you. Pull-eeze!


2 - Here's a line from a guy who was wearing a suit that looked and smelled like it was "stolen from a rotting corpse"

"I may be Chinese but I love Hitler. Followed by a Zieg Heil. This was his idea of casual conversation. Saying you love Hitler is rich enough but thinking a Zieg Heil will seal the deal is at least 4 Ice Ages ahead of its time. Weird!


3 - This one happened during a strippers birthday at a club We brought a home made cake to the club for a dancer(yeah we can be right fucking classy)

Guy: Can you bake me like you baked that cake?

Dancer: I'll bake your mother.

Guy: What do you mean by that!? (Actually angry.)


4 - And Finally, just last night I got:

Guy: Inever get dances. Can I get your number? Or you want to come by my place.

Me: Look buddy, I'm not going to fuck you.

Guy: (self righteous) Who said anything about fucking? Maybe I just wanted to TALK and have some coffee. (then he made this ridiculous "upset" face.

(It was 3:30 AM) Hahaha...these guys are a dime a dozen. " I just want to hang out." Suuuuuuure.


Well, good luck. If you can get your shit together and you do pick up, prepare for a life of work stories from your sweet heart about a thumb being squeaked up her ass at work when she wasn't looking.

It won't be me. Hee he. Shes funny.

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Sunday, June 21, 2009

How to fuck a stripper...all you need is drugs.

I fucking LOVE Vice. So I found this article..my comments are in red...so wrong and soo funny!

And Still Have Money in Your Pocket

Most people think the way to a stripper’s pussy is with money, buying lap dance after lap dance, throwing stacks of singles on stage as they dance, and surprising them with expensive gifts. Those people are idiots. “Marks,” as the girls call them. Someone to be siphoned until not one drop of cash is left. So far very true...

There is only one surefire way to pull a stripper and it has nothing to with personality or money (although those things don’t hurt). The secret is DRUGS. hehehe...

Contrary to what many pro-stripper films and documentaries tell you, 9 out of 10 strippers are on drugs of some sort.* I'm gonna have to agree, cuz booze is a drug. Be it coke, dust, weed, pills, booze, if a girl’s job is to climb up on stage and spread her gash for a bunch of sweaty, over-weight mutts in ill-fitting work clothes you’d better believe it takes a certain type of courage that can only be had from illegal substances. Knowing that, the key to making a needy young sex kitten your slave for the night (or the week) is to always be holding. But you have to make sure you’re carrying the right stuff for the type of stripper you’re trying to bang. It just so happens that this whole thing can be broken down racially. Along with the genetic yarns that make a woman a certain color go these little strands that decide their drug proclivities. Don’t freak out—I didn’t write the rules here. God did. I just follow them. I am commenting as I read..now I am scared..lol.

WHITE STRIPPERS (BLONDE): White chicks love coke. HA! It’s as simple as that. Any stripper worth sticking your dick in is between the ages of 18-28, meaning they were born between 1976 and 1986, which makes their moms either 70s disco coke whores or 80s yuppie coke sluts. Either way, the coke slut gene has been inherited by their daughter. When she asks if you’d like a lap dance, respond: “No, I want to get out of here and do some blow. What time are you done tonight?” That’s usually enough to get you in, but for added emphasis it helps to pull her to the side, dump some powder on your fist and give it to her to prove you’re for real. (Don’t buy beat shit. Strippers who love coke know coke. You’re not getting anywhere with shit that’s been stepped on ten times.) OMG. I have had guys do this...but I didn't go home them. I did get a bunch of free coke in my days though. They would say, "Here take it to the back and do a few. So you would walk back, dump half the bag, share with friends, and come back. Or transfer to another bag for a later date. I knew girls with real habits who never bought their own. Suckers.

WHITE STRIPPERS (TATTOOED AND/OR WITH PUNK HAIRCUTS): This is a somewhat trickier bunch to read because they like pills and saying someone “likes pills” is like saying someone “likes music.” You’ve got to either roll the dice on a narrow spectrum of possibilities (uppers, downers, psyche, or pain) or you can be smart and invest in a smorgasbord of pharmaceuticals and have all your bases covered. There’s nothing worse than sparking a girl’s interest only to learn she likes Xanax and you’ve got a pocket full of Ritalin. Pretend that you’re going fishing and you’ve got an empty tackle box. You’re going to need a little of everything: lures, bobbers, hooks, etc. Pills are inexpensive ($5-$8 a pop), so see if you can work out a deal with your man on a variety bottle. At that price you shouldn’t think twice about pissing them away. Offer a blue to the first girl you see. If she takes it, she’ll go and tell the other girls. Give 10mg to each and every girl in the club. 10 strippers = 10 pills = 50 bucks. No big deal. If you have enough to get each girl high on the job, one of those girls is going to have enough brains to realize you’ve probably got more. She’ll be the one to ask you, “What are you doing later?” Thaaats funny.

BLACK STRIPPERS: The black stripper is difficult to snare, especially for a white male. Their drug of choice, weed, is the cheapest drug on the market and easiest to obtain. This makes them the most affordable fuck, but you’re white and you have to compensate. That’s where things get expensive. Don’t freak out, it’s still completely doable. First, start by tipping. Don’t go crazy. Just a dollar or two here and there to let her know you’re interested. This will automatically put you ahead of any black patrons in the club because it is well documented that black males do not tip at strip clubs.** That's terrible, and not true. But funny. Your next move is to have better than average weed. Like flowers, girls like weed that smells nice. Hehehe. It helps to tell them that it’s from your boy’s crop, and has been featured on the cover of High Times three times and it’s Redman and Snoop’s favorite weed. It’s important that this lie and the two following lies be convincing: “Yeah, I know Snoop,” and “Next time he’s in town, I’ll introduce you.” That should take care of it. For added effect I like to lie and say I make beats and ask them if they want to go over to my studio after they get off work. This helps to both sell the con and save money on hotel rooms. Be sure to know where a local recording studio is. A cheap one is between $75 and $150 an hour, which is cheaper than taking her to a nice hotel. Be sure to bring the new Usher CD and when her favorite song comes on tell her you made the beat. Then turn one of the knobs on that big mixing board thing in front of you. OMG..thats terrible...haha

OTHER STRIPPERS: That is correct, I am going to lump together all Asian, Latin, Paki, Euro strippers, along with anything else that might have just come off the boat and amputees. This category is really your best bet, especially Euro girls, because all they want is to be loved and taken care of and what drug emits more love than Ecstasy? The reality is you could give them mescaline and they’d take it without caring.*** A key with foreigners is to make them feel welcome in America. This is accomplished by telling them you don’t detect an accent, that they speak great English and that you basically understand and agree with whatever they are saying regardless of the fact that you can only make out every fourth word. Ahahaha. To do this convincingly, you must practice. Go to your stereo and put on some rap music that you can’t understand the lyrics to (most any rap will work), turn up the volume just slightly, then go into your bathroom and shut the door. You should not be able to easily hear more than reverb and bass. Stare dead in the mirror, strain your ears and try to decipher the lyrics without looking unsure, without creasing your forehead and pursing your eyes. If you can convince your mind that you know every lyric to that Ghostface song, using only your eyes and facial expressions, you’ll be able win any foreigner over, completely negating their self-consciousness. Using drugs as bait, of course.

Before you go running to your phone to cop there are a few more things you need to be aware of when trying to run this kind of game. First, and most importantly, is that you don’t ever do the drugs. If you’re an addict don’t even bother because you’ll always take the drugs over the girl and might even get arrested for beating a girl for touching your shit without asking. You can get high all you want when she’s gone but while you’re with her you have to pretend to inhale, go take a piss when your turn to bang a rail comes around, throw the pill over your shoulder and pretend to pop it. Sounds lame but you need to have full control over the situation. I’m telling you from experience, strippers are cunning, any sign of weakness and you’ll wake up without your pants, your wallet and your drugs. Secondly, realize you only get one shot of pulling them out of the club. If it doesn’t happen that night, it doesn’t happen. Don’t play yourself by giving your number and don’t take a number. Consider it a failed attempt and go home and get high. Lastly, and I can’t stress this enough, don’t let them know where you live. If you can, take them to a hotel (or the studio). If you’ve blown all your money on the drugs and are forced to take them back to your place, take the most ridiculously fucked up route ever to get there. Then after you’re done with them, give some more drugs to fry their brain a little more and put them right in cab and send them on their way (instructing the driver to use an alternate, more confusing route.). As a child you had a great many dreams of things you wanted in your lifetime, and I’m pretty sure that a drug-hungry whore knocking on your door at 4 in the morning was not one of them. That was funny. And there were some moments of truth in there.

Thank you vice. You rock. Now, where's the blow?

CHRIS NIERATKO*All research conducted and collected solely by Nieratko and proven to be 100% accurate.

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