Southern Stripping

I get hired simply by walking in the door and announcing that I want to dance. The door girl turns and calls to the manager at the bar. She strolls over, bleach blond with dark roots that match her thick black eyeliner, and looks me up and down. I grin and twirl. “When d’ya wanna start?”

“Tonight,” I say, “right now?”

She nods. “You danced before?”

“Yep.”

“Got ID?”

“Here,” I hand it to her.

“Oh, Alaska. That explains the accent. Dressing rooms over there,” she points.

In the dressing room I park my big bag of work stuff and pull out my trusty little black skirt, red top, and black fishnets with red bows. I caught a few glimpses of girls at the bar and it looked like there was a lot of one piece tummy hiding outfits happening, so I think a two piece is the way to stand out. The door opens behind me and a blond practically falls through. “Hi,” she says, “who are you?”

I smile and turn to shake her hand. “I’m Tara.”

Her name is Krysa. She’s got long curly blond hair and cute dimpled fat that spills over her hipbones, and down her thick thighs until her legs come to a point and her ankle. Classic. I wish I could take a picture of her for and plaster it on the internet for everyone who thinks their ugly because they’re fat, because she’s at least 250 lbs and totally cute. She’s been dancing here for three years, and she says it’s been bad lately. She’s wearing a black dress with lace stretched across the sides. I recognize it from Leg Avenue ads. She changes shoes and asks what I think, and I tell her the leather ones go best. I ask her if it’s topless or nude here, and she tells me it’s topless and my thongs probably illegal.

Dressed, I go out to the bar and ask the manager about the stage fee. Thirty bucks. She has me fill out some paperwork. “What are the rules for lapdances?” I ask.

“There’s no contact out here and there has to be six inches between you and the customer and he can’t touch you and you can’t touch him at all. That’s why we have the private rooms.”

“Oh, what are the rules in the private rooms?”

She looks at for a minute, trying to figure out what to say. And then, “well, you just set your own rules back there… I mean… if you don’t want them touching you you should let me and the bouncers know.”

Great. I just nod and turn to find a place to sit at the bar. There’s no customers yet.

“Hey! Girlie!” A woman leans out from her barstool and grabs me.

“Hey!” I hug her back.

Her name’s Chocolate, and she informs me that she is the club drunk but it is her only fault. Sure, we’ve all gotta have one, I say.

A few customers come in. I wait the prerequisite few minutes so as not to be labelled the customer-stealing vulture newbie, and then go up to the oldest one.

“Hey, sweetie,” I say, smiling and leaning into him.

“Hey,” he says, just as smoothly reaching for a breast.

I’m just as smooth. I grab his hand before it gets to me and guide it behind my back. “How are you?” I’m being nice because it’s a new club and I figure I shouldn’t hit the first customer on my first night.

“Lemme see your nipple.”

How nice.

“Lemme see your cash.”

“Is that all you want?”

“Yep, just like my body’s all you want.” I say it all sexy, thinking I could maybe still close the sale but then I’d hafta deal with this asshole in a private room being all handsy.

He makes some noises like he’s not interested, and I tell him I gotta go make some money, have a great night. Which is a joke, because him and his three friends are the only ones there.

Back at the bar one of the most striking women I’ve ever seen is wiping the bar down, gathering used cups and napkins. She’s got short short hair, and strong jaw and cheekbones, like an African Goddess. Her gold bikini top sparkles against her dark skin. She’s got it pulled up under her armpits, and her breasts hang down underneath it, reaching just a few inches from her belly button. Gold shorts and big dangly earrings complete the look.

She introduces herself when she gets to me, and I ask if she’s a waitress or just an exceptionally nice dancer. She tells me she’s a dancer and an exceptionally nice person.

I get bored sitting at the bar. The drunk girl keeps trying to talk to me, but I really can’t understand her drunk accent and I get the feeling I’m smiling and nodding at the wrong times.

That’s when Hamhock (yes, that’s really her stage name) sits down. She’s huge. Easily the biggest dancer I’ve ever seen. Her ass alone must be a hundred pounds, and it’s perfectly formed, round, high, and dimpled. Her stomach is round and cute and totally dwarfed by huge, full breasts. We start talking about the clubs in Atlanta, Florida, and New York. Then kids, cars, and stripping on the road. She’s awesome.

There are a couple customers throughout the night. They are sweet and well behaved, which is good because it turns out there are no lights in the private rooms. Mostly, though, I hang out with some southern women, eat wings, and read my book.

At the end of the night I’ve got eighty dollars and have to pay out thirty. The manager wants my schedule, and I tell her I probably won’t be back.