Pierce Your Clit

After stripping for a month, I started to get a feel for things. The money was rolling in. I never made less than $300 in a shift.  

My routine was to get an iced coffee at noon, get to the club by 12:30, take an hour to do my hair and makeup, and be on the floor by 1:30 or 2. I would go to the bar and talk with the bartender, Mandy, until a customer walked in. Once one guy walked in it seemed to ignite a line of customers coming into the club. Before I knew it my shift would be over. I drove home, counted my money, organized it, ate dinner, and did my homework. 

I came into work for day shift one day with my routine iced coffee and required peanut butter banana sandwich. I got into the dressing room. I began painting on my face. The same girl from my first shift was there. The glamorous one with the long, black hair. She was putting on a lingerie one-piece that clipped at the crotch. She was bent over and cursing. She was trying to secure the outfit at the crotch. Her cigarette was burning away in the ash tray next to her. It must be a skill not setting all that hair on fire. 

She looked up at me.

“Fuck, girl. Can you come over and help me? I can’t see anything. I just need you to hold my outfit while I untangle my hair,” she said.

I put down my makeup brush and went over to her. Then I saw what was giving her problems with the outfit: this girl had a bush. Full-blown, gives-no-fucks type of pubic hair.

I squatted down. Face to face with her carpet.  

At first, I thought she just couldn’t secure the clip only because of the hair. But then I saw them. Five clit piercings. She handed me the two connecting ends of the outfit. I took them. I held onto the lace piece as I tried not to rip it with my nails. The thing was tight. She was untangling her pubic hair from her piercings one by one. Finally, she got them all undone and took the two ends from my hands to fasten her outfit. 

I stood back up. I went back to my chair and picked up my makeup where I left off. 

“Thanks babe,” she said.

“No problem,” I said. 

I glanced over at her. I thought she was beautiful. I was beginning to envy her long, dark hair. I looked at her crotch and saw that the outfit did, in fact, cover all her pubic hair. Not one stray strand. Goddamn. How did she do that? I wanted to learn her ways so I could stop cutting my pussy lips shaving, trying to get my vagina all nice and shiny for the pole. 

Stripping is not always glamorous.

After finishing my makeup, I decided on one of my outfits. At the time, I wore a lot of black and red. I got out onto the floor. I began my usual routine of sitting and waiting.

The day shift at a strip club has a pattern. The door will open, the first guy will walk in, and I will give him a couple minutes to get himself situated. They might get a beer. They might go straight to the bathroom. They might walk around awkwardly and look for a good place to sit. 

Men that go straight to the ATM are ideal. They are in the club to spend money. Same with men that go straight to the stage. They want a girl in front of them with ass and titties. 

The door opened. I looked away as the piercing light shined into the club. I got a good look at the first guy to walk in. I groaned internally. 

This motherfucker. 

It was a short Spanish guy. I had seen him before. He wore a hat and dirty long sleeve shirt. He always drank Bud Light. 

And he was there for me.

Normally, this is what you want. You want a man to come in for you. That makes him your customer. Guaranteed money. Think of trainers with clients, psychologists with patients, etc. That person will come back on a regular basis for your services. The more customers you have, the better. The same thing goes for stripping.

This guy was not a customer. He paid me no money. He was there my first week. I went up to talk to him then. You never know what can happen.

The guy was stupid. An absolute waste of space. When I tried to talk to him and hustle that first time, he just mumbled. He couldn’t formulate words or sentences. He grabbed my vagina. A full hand going into my panties. Whenever I danced on stage, he wouldn’t break his stare.

I still get a gross feeling when I think about him. 

I turned away from him and got on my phone. The door opened again. I didn’t bother to look up. I was suddenly in a bad mood from seeing that creepy guy. 

I sighed internally. I told myself to get off my phone. ‘You’re here to work. The goal is $400,’ I told myself. ‘So, get off your lazy ass and go hustle.’ 

I went over to the second guy that walked in. I sat down at the bar and started talking to him. He was a nice, average guy. We had a casual conversation. It was his day off. He had been going to strip clubs for a few years. He liked meeting the girls. And lap dances.  

Who doesn’t like a lap dance? 

The creepy guy came over. He sat down next to us. I turned my back to him. As we talked, my customer kept looking past me over my shoulder. I turned around. The creepy guy smiled.

Shudder. 

I turned back around and apologized.

“That guy is really creepy. He never leaves me alone,” I said.

“That’s okay,” he said. “But it’s weird. Here, let’s go do a lap dance cause he is really freaking me out,”

Great idea.

Him and I got up. We walked toward the back of the club where the lap dance couches are. As I walk past, el creepo reached out a hand to grab my arm. I quickly jerked away. I walked faster. I tried to hide myself behind my customer. El creepo stared at me while I walked. When I glanced back, he gave me a nasty smile. 

The lap dances at the club were not private. They were on couches in the back behind the stage. This way the DJ can always see the girls. My club wasn’t exactly…classy. 

We went over to a couch and waited for the next song to start. You kill time before a dance by making small talk. During this small talk, I saw the creepy guy walk over. He sat in a couch close to us. He looked over and smiled. 

I turned and started the lap dance early. Anything to not look at him.

There are mirrors on every wall in the club. This helps when you’re walking around trying to hustle. You can notice who looks at you. It also helps to see what other girls are doing. It allows you to keep an eye on the stage and front door. As a stripper, you need to always be aware of your surroundings.

That day, I used the mirrors to keep an eye on the creepy guy. He was staring directly at me. I was halfway through the dance when my customer noticed. 

“What the fuck is that guy’s problem? He’s fucking weird,” he said. 

“I know. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to make him go away. He’s always following me around,” I said.   

“Well, at least I can look at you and not him. Let’s do another dance.”

At least I was making money.

I tried to ignore the creepy guy. But it was as if he had lasers in his eyes. They were burning into my back. I caught a glimpse of him in the mirror. He was doing something. He was moving slightly in his seat. His eyes slowly closed. I could see them roll backwards.

What the fuck?

He was masturbating.

This man. This vermin was watching me give a lap dance and was getting off to the sight. I practically ran over to the bouncer. 

“You need to get this guy out. He’s fucking jerking off,” I said. 

The bouncer looks over.

“Oh shit,” he said. He ran over.

I don’t know exactly what happened. All I saw was the bouncer grab el creepo by the shoulders, drag him to the door, and throw him out of the club. 

I was so relieved. I didn’t have to worry about this creep following me around like a sick puppy. I breathed a sigh of relief. I went back to my customer. He was still on the couch. He was probably processing what he just witnessed. 

“Want to finish that dance?” I said.

“No, but here,” he handed me a stack of cash. “I’ll pay you for both dances and a tip.  That guy killed my vibe. I’m just gonna finish my beer and leave.” 

Can’t say I blame the guy.

Gentlemen, if you were thinking the strip club is a free, live-action porn studio, you would be wrong. 

I thought my day would end there. I hoped my day shift would fly by. I would have made my money off all the old white men. But no. That would not be the case.

I was working a double shift that day. Day and night. The plus side was that I  could leave at midnight. When you work a night shift, you stay until close, 2am.  Since I was working a double shift I also got a discount on night house fee. 

A house fee is what strippers pay the club to work. Strippers are independent contractors. We rent out the club space to sell our product: lap dances. We pay the DJ and bouncers for their services while we sell our services. Some girls will complain about the house fee. But house fees are justified. They are proportional to how much money we will make at that club. A high house fee means that strippers can expect to do well at that club. Often, if the club is slow and girls make little money, the manager will give us a discount or free house fee. This is common on day shifts.

Around six or seven at night, the club began to slow down. I counted my money. I made about $400 from day shift. My hair was full of cigarette smoke. My feet hurt. And I needed some food. I threw on my clothes and went over to the corner store. I got a diet coke, an apple, and a bag of almonds. Perfect. I ate in my car. 

I closed my eyes. The smoke and darkness from the club gave me a headache. But I was determined to work a double shift. I wanted to see what night shift was about.

Around 8:30, I went back inside. I went into the dressing room to freshen up. I put on a black outfit. I sprayed dry shampoo in my hair. Fortified by my gas station dinner, I went out on the floor and waited. 

Around nine, more girls entered. They all showed up with suitcases with their work shit. Most girls had fake tits. I counted the number of girls working. I stopped once I hit 20. Shit. That means a lot of competition.

I was easily the smallest girl there. I had the least curvy body. I thought that tonight could go good or bad. Bad because it seemed that night customers want thick girls. Good because I had no competition for the men that like tiny girls.

As the night goes on, the club gets busy. Men come in wearing suits. They go to the bar to get stacks of cash. I walk around. Suddenly my thong is full of ones. Guys slip them in between my thong and my waist as I pass by. Groups of men call at me to come over and hang out. I dance for them. The money comes.

It's fun. Walking around, dancing, drinking, hanging out, and meeting people. Talking about everything and anything. Feeling beautiful and sexy.

And powerful. In control. 

The DJ comes up to me. The Indian guy that hired me. 

“You ready to go on stage?” he asked.  

“Shit, I guess!” I said. I laughed.

He returned the laughter. “Only two song sets on night shift. Shit, maybe just one song sets. There’s so many girls working that it’s hard to get through the list. You may only go up once or twice all night.” 

That sounded good to me.

I was running around the club getting high off of having fun. I noticed that I was one of only three white girls working. The clientele was predominantly black. The black guys were not looking my way. I could tell I would have to put in some work to get money from them. 

I focused my energy on the younger guys. And the ones wearing suits. I took note of how many black credit cards I saw at the bar. I kept track of the men who went to the ATM. I used the mirrors to see who was looking at me. 

The environment was intoxicating. Was I having fun from the atmosphere or the hustle?

A dancer comes up to me. I’ll call her Belle. 

“Hey baby! You’re working night shift now, huh? Finally figured out where the real money is? Come with me. I need a shot,” she said. 

I followed her to the bar. We walked up to an older, but attractive white man. 

“This is Penny, isn’t she so sweet? We need a shot, baby. Get us some tequila!” she said.

The man pulled me over to him by the hips. He felt my whole backside. Three tequila shots appear with salt, lime, and pineapple chasers. 

“Watch. Don’t take the whole shot. Sip on it. Get it down to half then put in some pineapple juice. That way you won’t get all fucked up,” Belle said. 

I did as she said. The man tipped us both. He slapped her on the ass. Then he took her to the back room. She winked at me and sipped her tequila as they walked past. 

I sighed and looked around the club. Then I heard my name being called for the stage. Suddenly I was glad I wasn’t totally sober. The club was so packed. It became standing room only. The stage somehow appeared larger than during the day. 

I went up and started my routine. 

Pour rubbing alcohol on the rag. Clean the pole slow, like I’m giving a hand job. Make eye contact with the men as my hand goes up and down. Wipe off the dirt from the previous girl. Bend over, keep my legs straight. Try to arch my back dramatically. Emphasize the lower back dip. Keep it all tight. Suck it in. No one likes a fat stripper. 

I walk around the pole. Climb up. Spin and spin. Then drop down to my knees. I position my body like I’m getting fucked from the back. I keep that sharp arch in my back. Slowly spread my legs. Pulsate on my knees. Isolate my lower back to get that great ass shake. 

As I danced, I could see myself in the mirror. I knew I looked good. Yet the men didn’t tip. The other girls had stacks thrown on them. 

Wait. The black girls did.

I didn’t pay much attention to the other two white girls. It was so busy in the club. It was hard to even spot them.

There were only black guys around the stage. They weren’t not looking at me. They had taken a step back. 

Then I felt something hit me

A crumpled-up dollar.

Two bills fluttered on stage.  

Wait.

No. 

It was one dollar bill ripped in half.

My heart stopped. I could feel myself getting angry.

Then something stung me. I heard laughter.

Quarters on stage.

I immediately step down. 

Fuck this.

The bouncer yelled at some guys. He cleaned the ripped dollars from the stage. He collected the quarters. I calmly stepped down. 

My insides were shaking. I felt my internal temperature go up. Looking at me, you would never have known I was mad. When I get mad, I get quiet. There’s a point where the anger overrides any feeling I might have. The only thing I can do is become externally emotionless. 

I went back to the bar.

The ripped dollar bill is a symbol of disrespect. The quarters are worse.

I watched the next girl get on stage. Suddenly, there was cash thrown everywhere. The girls went up in doubles. They danced on top of each other. The men were an inch from the girl’s pussies. When they get down the bouncers sweep up the money and push it into trash bags. A trash bag means you made a shit ton of stage money.

I hadn’t gotten a trash bag yet.

I didn’t go on stage again that night. 

I took note of what happened when the other two white girls went up. They didn’t get tipped either. But they didn’t get disrespected. They had the same dance routine. That made me feel slightly better. But I was still pissed. 

As the clock wound down to midnight, a young black guy came up to me. He asked me to dance for him. 

When strippers work a double, we’re allowed to leave at midnight. I wanted to leave. But I couldn’t turn down the extra money. 

So, I smiled. 

We went to the back to the second row of couches. As we talked, he told me he had never been to a club before. He said he just turned 21. 

A strip club virgin! The easiest clients to take advantage of. 

The guy was truly sweet. He had some average job. I can’t remember what it was. He told me I was beautiful. I believed him. He was my age. We had a good conversation. He couldn’t keep his hands off me. I was tired, sore, and had a raging headache. But I didn’t stop dancing. I counted the dances in my head.

One, $20.

Two, $40.  

Take a break. Talk, laugh, drink.

Three, $60.

Four, $80.

Take a break. Take a shot.

Go to the ATM.  

Five, $100.

Then, $100 more.

I lost count. I just keep dancing. By that time, it was one in the morning. I figured I might as well stay until two.

I was dancing with my back to him. I was getting ready to take off my top. I bent over. I started to turn.

Suddenly, I heard glass shatter.

I see a man on the ground. There’s blood. A stripper screams. 

Holy shit.

I looked to see what had happened. Someone broke a glass over some guy’s head.

All the strippers doing private dances got down. Belle was a couple couches away. She ran over to me. She pulled me to the floor behind the couch where my customer was still sitting. 

“Girl, you never know what’s gonna go down,” she said. “You gotta be ready for a shooting.  You see some shit, you get in the dressing room or on the ground. Don’t get caught in an altercation.” 

The bottle to the head didn’t end things. The fight continued. The guys were on the stage beating the shit out of each other. The stripper that was dancing onstage jumped off to the side. She ran into the dressing room. Bouncers appeared. They wrestled the men out the door and onto the pavement. 

The bouncers came back in and corralled all the girls into the dressing room. We weren’t allowed to leave because the guys were still fighting outside. The cops showed up. We were stuck standing around on the floor under the ugly lights. The bouncers were still telling customers to leave as we all sat around, counting our money and waiting.

My manager eventually came out of the office to give us the all-clear. I had no idea what happened in the parking lot. Or to the men who got in the fight. I paid my house fee. I tipped the DJ and bouncers. Then, the bouncers walked us strippers to our cars in threes. 

I didn’t get home until three in the morning. My body felt like a weight. My knees were bruised. My feet were swollen. And my throat was hoarse from the cigarettes.

I sat on my bed. I counted my money. 

I made $1,300. Over half of that came from night shift. 

I can deal with no stage money. 

I can deal with fights. 

As long as I’m making over a grand a day.