Mr. Nasty followed by Mr. Nice


Who knew that two friends could be so different?

Both were army guys, both under 30 … they served and fought together and were out together – a whole gang of army pals, in fact. Regular readers will know that I have a soft spot for squaddies, sailors, pilots – anything forces based or rocking a uniform. It’s a difficult job that polarises many opinions, but it’s mans work goddammit, and I am happy to assist in some hot fantasies for them to take back to the front line when they want a nice mental image after a gruelling shift.
I spoke to Mr. Nasty first. I thought he was going to bring me to tears. It had been a killer of a slow night (that’s half term and the snow for ya) and I had barely broke even after five hours shivering away with my butt hanging out. He was big, brutish and had a face which had seen a rugby scrum or two.
“Why should I have a dance with you?”
To be fair, I get this all the time, and usually smile like a million watt bulb and reply; “Well, firstly I’m not Eastern European, and then there are two great reasons right HERE” I point to my perky titties, stroke the right, then the left, before bringing my hand up to play with my hair and do that coy, cute look you can find on pages 3,9,18,21 and 42 of Playboy.
He dismissed all three of my very good reasons…”Yeah, but any woman could say that.”
He then proceeded to tell me I was boring, that I was meant to be selling it, selling myself, and selling, selling, selling.
“Honey, I’m here to entertain. We are not in a car showroom – we are showgirls!
“You’re selling mate.”
“Let’s have some fun! It’s Saturday night for chrissakes, it’s snowing and cold outside….”
“Hmph. I’m used to the cold. I’m a soldier.”
“Ohhh I lurve squaddies. I always give them a little bit extra.”
“Can I get one for free then?”
“I’m not going to give you a free dance because you are a soldier. I’ll give you an extra special one tho…”
“What’s extra special mean?”
“More time in a booth with me….”
“Why would I want that? You’re boring.”
Argh! I counter-attacked with a host of witty remarks, sniper-rifled a few nasty put-downs of my own, before getting up to leave as I wasn’t getting anywhere fast. Best to beat a hasty retreat.
But as I got up to leave…. he went “nah, don’t go.”
“I thought I was boring and wasting your time?”
“nah, I didn’t mean it like that” (He soooo bloody did though. He was they type that loved to insult women and make them squirm… I wanted to go because I could feel me getting upset, and thats probably exactly why he wanted me to stay – to make me upset).
So I grabbed a passing sexy hot young thing, and said – “why don’t we have a threesome? When was the last time you had a threesome, huh?”
The cheeky mare glanced at his watch and went “Oh, about 14 hours ago actually.”
I would just like to re-emphasise the point that this man, whilst he had some funny lines, was essentially a big nasty bully who was ruining an already poo night – no empathy here readers, ok? lolz

Unbelievably, he then said I didn’t have confidence in myself, as I tried to get another girl involved, so therefore I wasn’t good enough!!!!

Errrr, how exactly did I say I wasn’t good enough? Added to the ‘you’re boring’ comment earlier, I was ready to run for the hills. But then surprisingly, Mr. Nasty got up and went “Come on then.”
I must admit I most certainly did not give him my usual sexy squaddie special, oh no. I gave him a crappy, short lapdance with dead eyes and a body going through the motions, as I hated taking my clothes off for this cruel man with cruel eyes and cruel words.
I buggered off to the bar quick-sharp afterwards, and started talking to an absolutely lovely little fella who seemed a little shy and shell-shocked by it all. Turns out that Mr. Nice was in the army, and immediately alarm bells started ringing in my head after the demeaning quarter of an hour downstairs. These turned to full on sirens when Mr. Nasty approached. They were friends! He looked at me and immediately I thought the worst, but he just took a sip of his beer and went;
“I’d recommend her mate. Real go-er.”
Well slap me silly, seems like even Mr. Nasty can say nice things sometimes…. and with his endorsement ringing in our ears, Mr. Nice and I went off to have fun together for the rest of the night. And I gave him a squaddie special….

About author


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...

  • So many books, so little time#1

    February 13, 2012

    Telling you mrs you have a book in you!


  • Stripparella#2

    February 18, 2012


    Just found this blog and had to say hello to a fellow working girl. Nice to read about stripping in other countries, I’ll definately stop by your place again.

    I’d like to say that I hope youre gonna take a look at my blog about stripping as well, but Im not sure how much sense it would make to you since its in swedish..

    Well 🙂

  • WasJustBored&Curious, – and not at all reading just because I am a perv… Honestly…#3

    March 6, 2012

    This story was disturbing in more than one way. As well as seeing what you experienced, I could also imagine, for the first time perhaps, the pleasure of being a witty, sadistic, individual on a power trip.

    Forcing somebody to jump fences because you give them no choice. The pleasure in a contest of wit, between yourself and someone who’s at a disadvantage. Seeing somebody ‘up their game’ and pull out all the stops to impress you. Resisting the polite pressure to do the right thing, because you can.

    Having a cruel streak turns one of the worst things about a strip club (in my slender experience as an occasional customer some time ago), the role reversal or power inversion, into a ‘virtue’. Instead of feeling awkward and guilty they just use the situation to make someone feel small.

    Being able to imagine this pleasure made the story, as I said, disturbing. The reader is relieved to find that he got a rubbish, dead eyed, lapdance: he deserved worse.

    Incidentally, it occurs to me that people like that man do the same thing when it comes to any salesman, or anyone seeking their time or money, but that as a lapdancer they’re in a position to be far more hurtful and unpleasant. Whatever you may feel, it probably wasn’t ‘personal’, he wasn’t nasty because he disliked you, he just did it because he enjoyed it.


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