Stripper Stories – The Pincer Strategy

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The Pincer Strategy

 

Vince had originally been a barman, but had been promoted to a managerial role – an unusual route, and one which had originally filled us girls with hope. Most managers – practically all, when I think about it, were once doormen, and in the ‘security’ business, before they became managers.  It’s a total farce, and ironic really, that the men who run stripclubs make such a song and dance about drugs when they are all pumped full of steroids themselves. From being a friendly guy behind the bar – occasionally a bit sarcastic with the girls, always ready with a lopsided smile, well – a few months in power had changed his character completely.  Now you never found him out of a suit, with a dapper waistcoat besides. The steroids may have failed to add bulk to his body, but whatever it was he had been taking, steroids – or power and success – he was slowly turning into a mean, misogynistic man.

He had certainly been rubbing Simone up the wrong way. “He’s tres pathetic,” she snorted, describing how he had caught her with her mobile out on the floor. “I was just checking ze time, I wasn’t even with a customer, and he strides over like the King of ze fucking jungle, and voila! Threatens me with a £50 fine.”

“No…!” We all gasped in shock. The threat of fines were an everyday occurrence at the club, as the managers and bouncers routinely fined the girls for the most arbitrary of things – chewing gum in front of customers, taking your phone out on the floor – let alone using it text to or make a call – being late for stage, missing a podium, using the wrong stairs onto the stage, being abusive, wearing a non-regulation outfit – the list was endless. When you have up to a hundred strippers working on a Thursday night, it’s the easiest revenue stream out there.

“Did you pay it?” Amy asked, wide-eyed that anyone could charge such an obscene amount for looking in their handbag.

“You calling me stupid? Why would I give that idiot my money? I remember when he was a barman polishing glasses. I tipped him then – I’ll tip him now. But I’m not handing over fifty English pounds because he insists I do so. Mon oeil!

“You know Simone sweetie,” I said, as I watched Amy weave through the nestled tables to reach the sanctity of the main stage. “You know, you shouldn’t be so harsh on the new girls. It’s not her fault she doesn’t know anything.”

She failed to take the bait. “Yeah well I’m not paid to babysit. Who gives a shit about what she’s been told? Idiot. Come on, let’s stop chit-chat and go make some money before my regular comes in later.” Simone gave the club floor a quick once over. “Who’s zat? He looks alright – come on.”

Grabbing my wrist, perhaps a little harder than she needed too, she nodded towards a lonely guy who was nursing a beer and watching Amy’s first moves on the stage. Amy was looking a little awkward and flushed still, her arms and legs jerking around the pole as if she was about to trip over it. But I wasn’t here to take sides, I was here to make money. I cast a quick smile at the rest of the dancers chatting away, and let Simone pull me away with her. Sometimes it’s best to follow a proud woman into battle.

The man was staring blankly at the stage, his only sign of life in his fingers as they absentmindedly peeled the label on his bottle of half-finished beer. He wore a crumpled suit jacket and had loosened his cheap tie so that it fell over his slovenly form. A knackered, mid-management commuter who wanted to switch off and tune out. Slumped in his seat, he could have been at home on a Lazy Boy surrounded by delivery pizza, remote control in one hand, balls in the other. I tailed Simone as she approached him confidently. As it was still fairly early, he was surrounded by empty seats. Simone sat down in the chair next to him without hesitation and I followed suit. We had him in a pincer.

“Well helllloooo darrling. Mind if these join you?”

She coquettishly waggled her ample cleavage at him. Like the rest of her body, they were the glistening ochre of the ruins of Petra. Simone gets her colour from weekly injections of tanning fluid. The skagheads tan of choice. Every Sunday, the stripper day of rest, she plunges a hypodermic needle filled with radioactive gloop into her toned tummy. She tried to stab me once during a drunken after party at her place but I declined. Why risk hepatitis B to add some colour to your life?

We had approached as a tag team but I was clearly the ingenue next to her porn star, so it was my role to pout prettily and blurt out the occasional cute comment.  A good double-act would convince him that what he needed was a blonde and a brunette, not a left and right nipple.  Simone and I cast knowing glances at each other, and then in unison trilled;

“I’m Honey!”

“I’m Simone!”

Guys who just stare and have the conversation skills of a peanut are a bloody nightmare for a dancer. To complete a sale you have to get him engaging at least a little bit, otherwise it’s just you talking at them. You want to be pushy, sure, but not in a bossy ‘her-indoors’ way. We keep up our full-frontal attack. Visually and audibly we were going to have all guns blazing.

“What’s your name?”

“Where you from?”

“You work here? In London?”

“Do you even like London?”

“You do? We love London – it‘s the best city.

“Just the best. You live in the city?”

 

A barrage of pushy talk disguised behind sugar sweet smiles.

Questions designed to make him say yes.

Compliments to make him feel good.

Body language that stirred his groin.

Titties that jiggled before his eyes.

You get the picture.

 

“Do you like threesomes?” The words fell out of my mouth on autopilot. When all else fails, talk sex. Sexual shite.  Although he was grunting less, it was still like talking to a brick wall. Either he was painfully shy or had the conversation skills of a depressed foetus. I was too hungover to use up all my charm on what would inevitably pan out to be twenty or forty quid in my pocket.

Simone took my cue and repeated my question. It was a no-brainer – only an idiot would say they didn’t like the thought of sex with two people, although I seriously doubted that this Norman Normal had ever had multiple partners at all. Perhaps one time, at band camp, after too much cider and a whole lot of teenage hormones.

The slob, predictably, grunted a reply. He did. With two girls, apparently. How very fitting, and an incredibly useful piece of information at my disposal. I turned the screw.

“When was the last time you had one then?” Cheeky and maybe a little cruel.

A big ‘errr’ emanated from the corpulent commuter in reply. He looked uncomfortable.

But Simone and I were not here to be malicious. We were here to provide a fantasy, straight out of the box. Two hot girls, taking him on and taking him to new places. Like the doors of the nearest booth, which winked at us girls all night, taunting us with payday promises.

Grabbing his hands in ours, the three of us walked at a fast clip towards the far wall which had five black doorways against its length, each housing a slightly different peepshow space. Simone led us straight to the first one we found empty. It was one of the smaller ones, six metres by three, but like the rest it had an upholstered velvet banquette seat that had seen better days running around its periphery. The club had commissioned a specially monogrammed carpet in browns and golds, and had used the same colour scheme in painting the walls with some bizarre smeared paint effect, but the designer had skimped on the seats, which were your common dark navy velvet. Probably thought that any more patterns would have been overkill in a rare moment of good taste. Three gas effect lamps hung from the ceiling, casting pools of light downward so that customers couldn’t spot the CCTV cameras that watched our every dirty moment. These eyes in the sky hid in the corners, blinking LED circles of red beady eyes which transmitted the footage to the DJ booth, the manager’s office, and god only knows where else.

We began our dance. Two girls swaying this way, that way, repeatedly for bar after musical bar. I brushed my hands over my soft skin. I brushed my hands over Simone’s soft skin. Her hands brushed against me, parts of me – my tits, my sides, my legs as she pulled my dress down in a succession of short tugs. Removing somebody else’s clothing whilst they were moving was always going to be difficult, but we had practised enough to make it look like the epitome of sexual art forms. It wasn’t about taking your clothes off. It was about taking your clothes off well.

“Look at how wet we ‘ave made my petit…,” she said, directing the man’s attention to the sight of our hands coiled together, the finest strip of hair edging down into a dark, damp slit, diamond rings on crimson nails… “I want to see some more. Would you like more? More of this?”

“Err…” he said. Grunted really. Fucking hell. I can’t believe that there we were, sexually primed, charged and raring to go, giving this random lost soul the dance of his life, and all we got is an ‘err’ in return. Some job satisfaction.

Simone obviously wasn’t going to take this sitting down. She was going to take this all the way, I knew. You didn’t go ‘err’ to her. She was a YES woman.

“You know, I really think we should play for just a petit bit more. Chanson de plus. Just one more song… it would be fun… You don’t want to go back out there all alone, do you?”

The thing is, I reckon the guy did. He was enjoying himself, sure, but he was also pretty intimidated by the whole situation and was probably mentally calculating the number of notes he would shortly have to fork out.

“We could make it a little longer than usual, just because you’re so cute. I like dancing for you. And this tune is just so fucking sexy.

It wasn’t really. It was some Ibiza beat about having it up on the dance floor, the kind that gets played in beach bars all summer and then disappears apart from the odd drive time radio show. But that didn’t matter to Simone. She just wanted a reason.

“Erm, well, I…” he shifted in his seat, and Simone took this as a yes.

“Bonne! Yay, I’m so happy that you want to stay for another!” Like an over-excited puppy she bent down and kissed him on the cheek. “Now we can really get naughty with you… Let’s look at my pussy.”

On cue we began swaying to the beat again, and I tugged the thong down further, being careful not to rip the lace. The trick is to look excited, but not actually get so excited that you start ripping your friends’s clothes.

The guy settled back into his seat, seemingly not asked that he had just been forcibly coerced into spending another four and a half minutes of his life watching two women prance around naked in front of him for an extra forty quid. Can’t blame him really. It was certainly easier than standing up to the behemoth which was Simone.

 

 

 

About author

sassy

Sassy by name, Sassy by nature, I write to explode the myths which surround the lapdancing profession - standing up for the clubs, the girls and the customers. Its not always drinking champagne and playing with my tits - it can be hassle, hustling and hangovers. At heart I'm just a regular twenty-something posh cockney living in London who likes taking her clothes off...

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