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...
Eyes stare hungrily at the door. A bouncer nods, tipping her off on the promise of a tip for himself later. Toes unfurl inside the stacked heels, an ankle twitches, a slight shuffle off the seat – but not enough to capture a nosey dancer’s attention. She is a pro. A secretive stalker watching you more keenly than any CCTV camera.
You check your coat in. They check you out. You are wearing a suit. The tie is Hermes.
Like a Mexican wave the packs of girls previously coiled in their seats rise up as one.
The thudding beat of many stilleto’s reverberates over even Dr Dre’s thick hip hop beat as five, ten.. more even.. run.
She has her arm through yours before you have even realised that she is there.
Another one is on your left.
A further two are in front.
You are surrounded, and you are yet to even reach the bar.
Welcome to the stripclub jungle. They are going to eat you alive.