What Works We Ply
And what trades we make.
The club itself is rather small. An isle of what you might expect: coloured lights, mirrored walls, black black black; a stage with two shining poles smudged with the glow from the gels.
I do not get paid to dance on the stage. I pay to dance on the stage. The commission paid to the house ranges, depending on the day, and the theoretical popularity of the day; which I'm beginning to realize is an attempt to force order onto the unknowable, the barest form of chaos. I rent my place in the space. Ultimately, I'm self employed.
The money I make is made by taking gents upstairs to the "VIP Area", where the Private Dances ensue. What is involved in a private dance is the subject of much debate, wrangling, whining and pouting. At times, genuine temper-tantrums. At others, a swindle or a shaft.
They really do run the gambit.
What I have come to understand is that there is no handbook for what goes on in those little cubicles. (They're referred to as rooms, but they are no-nonsense, swing-door, particle board cubicles; painted grey.) Full nudity is assured, though, I'll often leave my socks on. (Good socks mind, those cute little white sports socks that end below the ankle. I'm not straight, for god's sake.) Beyond that, it becomes a little more obscure. Just as there are all kinds of customers, the dancers themselves are an eclectic bunch, and the comfort level of the performer determines what your going to be allowed to do in that tenuous private space.
Assholes and aggressive wing-nuts don't get much from me at all.
"You sit there," I'll point.
"What? I don't even get to--"
"You get to watch."
That is, if happen to get stuck up there with a surly creep in the first place. I'm now weeding them out with positive artistry.
But whoever it is, I always make them sit down. From there, there are definitely different degrees of stripper tricks the client gets to enjoy (my repertoire is expanding), but what gets pulled out of the kit and used depends on the kind of energy I get off of him. The polite and the gracious, the delighted and the humorous, they get the best of me. It can be very easy to have a good time.
It is equally as easy to lose that cheerful disposition.
It is unavoidably intimate, the whole procedure: an exchange of personal boundaries, and unquestionably a business arrangement, a monetary exposition of fantasy and desire. It is indubitably the sex trade. I have the fortunate knack of being a very tactile person, once personal space has been breached. I find being affectionate easy, despite the fact that I am, on the whole, rather shy. I make quite a bit of money because of it.
The horny make up the loin's share of my clientele; but the lonely are only slightly behind.
The club is gay. Women are only allowed on Sundays which, as a rule, I don't work. They are more inclined to gawk, and are more intimidated by the solo experience. It's more like working for free.
Plus, the women don't give me a boner.
Which is how I make a great deal more money.
The club itself is rather small. An isle of what you might expect: coloured lights, mirrored walls, black black black; a stage with two shining poles smudged with the glow from the gels.
I do not get paid to dance on the stage. I pay to dance on the stage. The commission paid to the house ranges, depending on the day, and the theoretical popularity of the day; which I'm beginning to realize is an attempt to force order onto the unknowable, the barest form of chaos. I rent my place in the space. Ultimately, I'm self employed.
The money I make is made by taking gents upstairs to the "VIP Area", where the Private Dances ensue. What is involved in a private dance is the subject of much debate, wrangling, whining and pouting. At times, genuine temper-tantrums. At others, a swindle or a shaft.
They really do run the gambit.
What I have come to understand is that there is no handbook for what goes on in those little cubicles. (They're referred to as rooms, but they are no-nonsense, swing-door, particle board cubicles; painted grey.) Full nudity is assured, though, I'll often leave my socks on. (Good socks mind, those cute little white sports socks that end below the ankle. I'm not straight, for god's sake.) Beyond that, it becomes a little more obscure. Just as there are all kinds of customers, the dancers themselves are an eclectic bunch, and the comfort level of the performer determines what your going to be allowed to do in that tenuous private space.
Assholes and aggressive wing-nuts don't get much from me at all.
"You sit there," I'll point.
"What? I don't even get to--"
"You get to watch."
That is, if happen to get stuck up there with a surly creep in the first place. I'm now weeding them out with positive artistry.
But whoever it is, I always make them sit down. From there, there are definitely different degrees of stripper tricks the client gets to enjoy (my repertoire is expanding), but what gets pulled out of the kit and used depends on the kind of energy I get off of him. The polite and the gracious, the delighted and the humorous, they get the best of me. It can be very easy to have a good time.
It is equally as easy to lose that cheerful disposition.
It is unavoidably intimate, the whole procedure: an exchange of personal boundaries, and unquestionably a business arrangement, a monetary exposition of fantasy and desire. It is indubitably the sex trade. I have the fortunate knack of being a very tactile person, once personal space has been breached. I find being affectionate easy, despite the fact that I am, on the whole, rather shy. I make quite a bit of money because of it.
The horny make up the loin's share of my clientele; but the lonely are only slightly behind.
The club is gay. Women are only allowed on Sundays which, as a rule, I don't work. They are more inclined to gawk, and are more intimidated by the solo experience. It's more like working for free.
Plus, the women don't give me a boner.
Which is how I make a great deal more money.
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