stripclub customer profiles — part two, Older Customers

Now we get the second half of the list…

The Almost-Middle Aged (30-35)– not really old, but definitely no longer thinking of themselves as young. Often blue collar, sole proprietor types, and less often professionals. Guys like this are usually good for 100-200 if rapport can be established. Due to lack of VIP or champagne options, this subset of customers can actually be made to shell out quite a bit more in topless clubs. A clever girl who can roll her own VIP setting and charge for time without club-created options will bank off such guys in a nude club and keep every penny. Moderately prone to tip on dances, and least offended by the suggestion of any older customer group.

The Actually Middle-Aged (35-45)– these guys represent most strippers’ prime demographic. They are guys with family and income who often want to pay to talk to a hot chick for a few songs or even hours. Topless dancers are all over these guys in a heartbeat. They prefer topless clubs (as do all the segments of older customers), but if they turn up in a nude club, they will spend topless-club cash on dances, 100-500+. A topless dancer might see 1,2, 3k off one of these sorts of guys in a very upscale club, but a nude dancer could get 500 each from 2-4 such guys on a sufficiently busy night if she were adept at selling time and company. But in general, if they go to a nude club, such customers are not worth so much, 100ish being pretty typical. They just flip high-end if they really like a girl.

The Almost Old Guys (45-60)– An awful demographic for nude dancers, but a tolerable one for topless girls. They are old and want to be catered to, and topless clubs are generally better set up for that, what with serving food and having liquor. So a girl can really do well appealing to the haetara fantasy with such men, or the littlegirllost. But in nude clubs, these guys usually come to fall in love or purchase favors. Not that the other groups don’t have their percentages seeking you know what in the back rooms, but this group is pretty notorious for it, second only to Actual Old Guys really (and a close race at that). So the money is random, unless they fall for you or you provide the favors. You might get 50$ of dances, you might get 500$, at a nude club. To a lesser extent this is true in topless-land, but the sorts of girls these guys want are more likely to sidle up and get the large sums of money, so the overall odds of scoring are better.

The Old Guys (60+)– Well, Anna Nicole knew all about them. Usually creepy, usually grabby, and often shady with the cash. But again, the topless environment is preferred for them, as with Almost Old Guys. In nude clubs they want to get down and dirty with the frisky nude girls, and are quite straightforward about it. However, the occasional old guy who isn’t seeking mileage is generous and non-demanding at either topless or nude clubs. Including creepy/grabby ones, they are generally good for 100-300 averagely, much much more if a girl achieves rapport with them.

Now these sets of profiles are based on my own experience working mainly as a nude dancer in byob clubs. And this is the kind of spending I tended to see or receive the benefit of. Though I briefly paused to note that 4-figure income from a single customer is POSSIBLE, it is simply not PROBABLE. I do not care what stupid blond women say about the matter on television programs. Granted, i did not work in super-upscale environs, but then again, 90 percent of dancers don’t, and what I noted is actually quite generous (because the customers were generous to me– for many dancers those numbers i gave could easily be halved or thirded).

This is the world I come from when I speak about stripping– a world where 400 bucks is a hell of a lot to get from one guy and where it takes immense skill to garner that from multiple guys in a single night. I don’t come from a world of 2000 dollar tips and whatnot. Anyway, I get a bit cross about the money stuff sometimes. But that’s how guys spent on me, if they were of those age groups.

Maybe another day I’ll bust out with ethnic profiles, heh.

stripclub customer profiles — part one, Younger Customers.

These are simply brief demographic profiles of the sorts of customers I have found to be most likely to spend money on dances. As I lack experience with the multi-thousand dollar spenders in the tiny percentage of high-end clubs (and randomly in other clubs), those customers will be disregarded as statistical anomalies. Also, none of this assumes any dancer has such customers as regulars already. This is just general spending patterns for guys who head down anywhere from once in a blue moon to weekly.   These profiles are primarily for nude club customers. Also, these profiles assume the Texas standard for nude and topless clubs, which is: nude= 18+, bring your own liquor and lapdances available in private rooms (usually); and topless= 21+, with no private rooms, even in vip.

Younger customers:

The scarcely legal (18-20)– these guys frequent the nude clubs since they cannot easily gain entree to topless establishments. They sometimes yet not always drink (if the the club is BYOB and not strict about policing minor drinking), and range from shy to cavalier. Once a girl has explained to them about tipping and how dances work price-wise, they are generally good for 50-100$ of dances, skewing towards the lower end of the spectrum. The truly underage are very eager to show you their fake IDs, but a lass cannot count on any profit from such a venue.

The barely legal (21-24)– These guys could go to topless bars easily, and in fact they do with some regularity. But in many topless bars they are the bane of many dancers, because the drink prices eat into their dance money. Ironically, they often spend 20-40$ on BYOB liquor in nude clubs and pay 20$ cover and then happily buy nude dances. But the pressure to buy drinks in topless bars is so extreme and topless dances are often done very publically such that they pay essentially an intimacy premium, a guarantee of privacy with a dancer. So in topless bars, these guys are often worthless for dances, but in nude clubs, they are a ready source of 50-200$ average, generally clustering towards the center, near 100$. Occasionally such guys spend 300+, but that is slightly rare, and the 50-200 is more likely to represent repeat spending.

The Actual Young Guys (25-29)– These guys are young professionals and blue collar boys. They will randomly give a girl a decent amount as a random tip, but not necessarily as dances. They and the scarcely legal are most likely to tip on dances. It is usual for them to spend 100-500, but not usually in dances with one girl. They tend to pick 2-3 and spread the wealth around, though occasionally one girl will get the full benefit (generally 200-400).

Next up is the Middle-aged and Older guys…

the glass princess

(written just before i started dancing, oddly enough. i am surprised to find it among more recent writing.)

Ah, if beauty were skin deep, right?

For a variety of reasons, I don’t like my skin, don’t like my looks. Objectively I can comprehend that I have charms that are potentially appealing, but I have trouble feeling that they are more than potential. My skin’s a pleasing shade, but it’s marked with bruises and spots from ill health and clumsiness, so there’s no perfection of tone. I feel like everyone notices and counts it against me. In practice, most people cannot really tell.

My face is a case in point. I’ve spent absolute years feeling that my face was a frankenstein melange of spots and blotches. But when I started going out regularly, most people thought I was wearing makeup, which I didn’t even own at the time. My breasts I’ve always felt were just too small, but I’ve since learned that a lot of men (some of whose opinions I respect more than somewhat) find my size and shape of breast extremely appealing. So I started fixating on my areolas, but a lot of guys go for the size and shape mine are, too.

I often feel short and dumpy, or short and scrawny (often simultaneously), yet I cannot honestly say anyone’s complained about any aspect of my body. Some guys have wistfully wished I had slightly more in the hip/ass region, but never were discontent with what I happen to possess.

Now that I wear makeup sometimes, I feel like people look and point and laugh at how overdone I look. They are usually just gobsmacked with admiration instead.

Which brings us to the root of the problem. I tend to be resentful of larger/heavier/bigger breasted girls because it seems that they are less attractive facially and have less proportionate figures, yet get guys to do whatever they want. Larger girls are always whinging about how ill-treated they are, yet I was just at a company where one of the managers was easily a 300+ pound woman. Also, larger girls have plenty of boyfriends and favorable male attention.

Men stare at me, and heads swivel as I go by, but the larger girls get the money and the free booze and the attention. I already feel ashamed and embarrassed that my supposed attractiveness can’t do anything useful for me and such things only compound the dilemma, making it all worse.

I need a drink, or some bravado. Either will serve.

the ladies of mammon

I have love for sexworkers– strippers and whores and phone sex ops, and porn girls and cam ladies– all the permutations and variations of the ladies who sell love itself at reasonable market rates.

I have love for the uniquely and particularly female manner of selling intimacy, affection and longing in such myriad and tailored ways. I have this love because I shared the skin, I thought the work a valuable service, a series of gifts showered on men in need. Like all those girls, in my corrupted confusion I thought I was doing kindness, giving away a sacred thing in a way that could benefit the giver and the taker/receiver.

And in so many ways what they do, what they offer and give is a beautiful thing, so curiously wrought one cannot help but be fascinated. From just the right angle, it looks so much like ministry to the needy. It looks like the work of Christ’s handmaidens– if you tilt your head a certain way.

But sexworkers bow before a different altar and are doing the work of a different god– Mammon. Being Mammon’s handmaiden is an altogether different situation. The least bit of good intent in sexwork just gets completely twisted to serve a dangerous end. No matter your degree of love for them as creatures of need, in the end they are only customers, after all. If the girl likes you so much she will not take your money, she has pretty well spit on her own god and pays accordingly in terms of your disbelief and lack of trust. Or you do trust her, and ’support her work’, so she treats you as a pet, the way she is ever treated by the decent regs. And this is also sin against Mammon, to play the buyer when you are fated to be the seller.

It is a cruel effect that even worship of Mammon gets corrupted in sexwork, leaving the work itself a mystery, though not a holy one. Just an endlessly fascinating and tempting one. Because the allure of being kind to weak men is not the strongest pull, only the thing that is corrupted in both Mammon’s and God’s philosophies. The real pull is not even Mammon itself, not the crispness of the bills for each dance or bj, nor the feeling of satisfied smugness when your paypal account has money in it from an adoring money-slave, nor the edged pleasure taken from having a sugar daddy you didn’t have to fuck for rent and Benz money.

The real pull is the thing they’ll constantly deny, swear up and down and sideways is either non-existent or beside the point. It’s the idea that love itself can be commoditised and packaged up in highly constrained forms and shapes, and that the girl, SHE is the mistress and the craftswoman responsible for it all. She controls love itself, moulds it to form the core of her appeal to various types of customers. She is the thing, and controls the thing, and OWNS the thing, and you’re just getting the sliver she’s CHOSEN to carve for you to hold a little while. This is true even among the degraded and/or trafficked girls, the ones whose suffering is the sell. Even among the lowest girls who had the least choice in it all, there are those who feel this.

But you cannot tell a sexworker that she wishes to be God– not a holy-whore vessel of some mythologised temple cult, not an empowered uberbitch, but plain old G-O-D in the most elementally Christian sense of that word.

Every sexworker is playing Eve’s part, seeking after Godhood, believing the misdirection of the serpent that knowledge is itself Godhood. Some think they only want the money, only want Mammon. It is just the excuse, not the motive. The fact that worship of Mammon naturally corrupts itself as a function of sexwork illustrates this.

As for the men, the customers, they are playing Adam’s part, wanting to do anything to please Woman. Some will say that this means Adam’s sin is the lesser, but all sin is the same to God and Adam’s sin is merely different, but no less dangerous. Adam’s sin has led us to the resentment of women that characterises all too many sexworker-customer interactions. Wanting to please, but cursed to battle against that desire that brought sin into human existence.

Eve, being more than her sin, has left a legacy in which some daughters particularly choose to re-enact her sin in a manner that looks and feels and wants (sometimes) to be something more Godly. And it is in that fumbling, mutilated version of charity where temptation remains strongest for me, why I still sometimes wish to return to that work. But if a lady would offer kindness to Adam’s sons, she must offer it as sister to brothers, rather than to customers as a falsely holy whore.

a spy in the wire, dark eyes in the wires…

some observations from over the years:

*distracted by a girl in a red shirt*
I’m caught by the fragile wonderfulness of a tall pale girl with short dark hair and a longish red shirt. She had a tight, contained prettiness that distracted me from writing a silly, but funny story. Now she’s gone away and I feel a tad bereft, but that isn’t wrong of me, now is it? Beauty always distracts me. I’m caught by the shape of a face, the curve of a body, even particular colours of hair. The light falling on buildings at night enraptures me. The feel of the cool soothing breeze against my skin often leaves me speechless. Inanimate, animate, re-animate– beauty in any shape leaves me wandering away from my writing down the hall after a ghost of loveliness from my past.

*how songs sometimes make me feel*
I hate when I can feel the taste of a song in my throat, like the slickness of a desirant cunt or the sprung softness of a warm nipple. The potentiality chokes me with its ripe expectance, like it can’t wait for me to fill it out, fluff it up with frills and lyrics and proper middle 8ths. It’s a sudden sense of wonder as elusive as it is elucidative.

*about online identities, and 60s rockstars*
They all looked like baby Jesus. Little boys waiting for the beginning of the new world. I sometimes had this dream I was there with them, the exotic, unusual, brilliant birdmad girl they could stare at and be inspired by. It was a dream bound by age. I was fascinated by the sixties and the idea of carrying through something antithetically mainstream. Happenstance, though, forbade me from ever sitting in a cold green room with these illusory godsons and asking them what it means to be of the real. Thus leaving me with this world of the internet. It’s a toss-up here in the online aether, what is of the real and what is not.

The people who constantly slip in and out of online skins, a new personality every sixmonth. The people who use their real names online and try to keep their offline and online personas the same. And those in the lengthy middle. A bit braver online, perhaps, or more playful, more cruel, a bit more of something they are not offline. There will always be a difference for most people betwixt the online self (dream self perhaps) and the real-life self. That the distinction is made still, will yet be made, between the cyber-aether and the air outside, real air, sums the split mind of humanity. This case being Western most America humanity, but the sharpened point still holds. One needs some dream self to counter the real. The dream can be of the real, but it cannot overwhelm the real. Who dreams most lives least. Living online is allowable, but it cannot be all the real one has. There is always more.

a month of beer – day three (Manny’s Pale Ale)

Now this was a change of pace from the Baron Black. It was sweet and light and wheaty, so delicate it didn’t even need the optional lemon of your hefeweissens. Ah, just openly yeasty goodness. I like a light-colored beer more than somewhat, the brightness of flavor always inclined to cheer a lass. I had it in the same bar, also with no food, and also with the same lustful glutton of a companion (who was downing Rat City, one of Seattle’s overly numerous mega-hoppy IPAS). It was a pleasing way to start or end any evening. I would term it a lovely midsummer sort of ale, or perhaps something to drink on a sunlit winter day, as you like it.

I give it eight monks out of ten.

“I felt like destroying something beautiful.”

One night I had a customer who looked like Edward Norton. The resemblance was distinctly unsettling, enough to throw you off on first glance, yet not enough to play lookalike.

I don’t remember what his industry was, construction or a similar line of work, but he was built more like Rounders Ed Norton than American History X Ed Norton. But I like the slim thing, so I considered it all quite all right.

At that time in my dancing life I would graze the lips of some customers with my tongue, an as-if sort of kiss. He considered that sort of thing frivolous teasing, not too dissimilar to the other rituals of my dancing for him. He didn’t really want me doing much of that; instead we mostly talked about various things while he held me in his lap.

Directly he came to the end of his funds, and then he made a request of me that left me bemused and considering its significance the remainder of the shift.

He offered me all the money he had left if he could kiss me full on the mouth and nothing more. I didn’t have to return the kiss, or enjoy it, just allow it. He knew it wasn’t much, and if I were to say no, he felt that was all right. But the strangeness of the request to me and the quasi-familiarity his looks lent him led me to say yes.

It was a brief kiss, not even ten seconds– possibly no more than five or six. His mouth was slightly cold against my parted one. I don’t think I offered him my usual sly-shy smiles afterwards. But he paid me and we did our thank yous and goodnights and left the private dance room we were in.

What left me bemused for hours afterward was the quality of his need, a desire for something that he wanted whether I would like it or not and a hunger to have me accept that desire. It’s the heart of darkness, the idea that money should buy you one kiss from a pretty girl. Still, I gave it to him then, because his need and looks touched me, and there are always others like me waiting for others like him.