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...
I wore a red and white outfit with matching red and white underwear and a glittery tiara on top.
I gobbled down BBQ sticky chicken and licked my fingers clean afterwards.
I took huge bites from fancy cupcakes, icing sticking to my chin.
I danced in the streets as ghettoblasters pumped out tunes – funky house, soulful reggae, singalong favourites.
I flashed smiles and talked to men and introduced myself by my real name to everyone of them.
It felt great, and whilst I’m nursing bruises and a battered bank balance, I’m sat at this computer with a dopey grin on my face, patting myself on the back for ensuring that I had this weekend off. When I stared at my calender last week, and realised that I was rota’d to spin around a pole and flash my privates to tourists and stag parties on what was the biggest weekend my fair city had hosted in my living memory, I blanched.
I felt scared and worried – I’d been in that position before, when I worked shifts and didn’t know any of the girls, felt the pull of celebrations happening elsewhere, and had to make friends for the night with the friendliest looking faces in the club – if there were any that is.
So I bit my lip, took a deep breath, and walked into the manager’s office to discuss my schedule.
And promptly got out of it – by hook and by crook.
When I first started dancing, I used to pick the world’s worst schedules.
I’d work a tuesday and wednesday night, get really drunk, wake up with a hangover and then drink red wine in front of the telly for a few days.
Then I’d panic as I realised it was the weekend already and I had no money and I’d be forced to work the Saturday night. I’d stare longingly at my phone as it beeped away with text messages full of the great times my friends were having, as I pounded round the club like an animal in a cage, servicing stag party after stag party with their grabby hands and reeking beer breath.
Every Sunday I would swear to myself that I would work weekdays only and not let my little moments of laziness ruin my weekend. What’s the point in having friends if you can never get to see them?
But my problem was that I had too many friends, and there were always invites to this club night, a birthday house party, drinks after work… I really used to beat myself up over it – was I a perpetual student? How could I ruin my chance at saving the pennies and building a decent future if I couldn’t even go earn the pounds?
I can’t say that’s changed much, but at least now I put myself first.
Most of the time…