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...
These are the urban legends of the average stripclub punter. The media will portray them as dirty mac wearing, shuffling men with a combover and hands that creep to their crotch. I know them as bread-and- butter regulars who are great for having a guaranteed dance from, but are generally so eager to molest that its not always the nicest option.
Perverted wallet worriers have an enclycopaedic knowledge of the nearest stripclubs and their favourite dancers, and which girl does what and for what price. This can lead to arguments from the old-hand stripper, who won’t give a toss what he says, she ain’t doing it! It can also be distressing for the new girls, who get manipulated into thinking thats how far all the girls go, and that breaking the rules they were told at the start is normal. At the end of the day, yeah it probably happened, once or twice, but wasn’t as good as he remembers and has built up into in his wankbank of collective memories.
Whilst old-school perverted wallet worriers may have worn a dirty anorak, nowadays the door policy makes them leave the old mac at the coatcheck. They can be spotted at the tipping rail, nursing their single beer, staring at the girls on stage with glazed eyes and eeking out their notes to last all night.