The Strip Club Interview

In an effort to bring you the best real world insight into escorts and strippers possible, I have not only chatted up more escorts for strictly business purposes than I ever thought I would, but have taken it upon myself to go on one or two field trips abroad. Yes, I have gone to strip clubs and claimed it as a work expense. Naturally I can’t simply go there and just sit around with half a hard one and call it work, I had to have some plan in mind. But what could I do? Talk to fellow patrons about why they like strippers? If they’ve ever picked up a stripper and how? Tips on making their lapdance last longer for cheaper? Or should I talk to the girls about why they started? Or what impresses them about some guys and creeps them out about others. The possibilities were endless and, in truth, ended up covering several topics. But the umbrella experience of the entire night is well worth a look too. So, for those who think they too may like to blog some day about a live strip club experience, please learn from my example.

9:30 - I arrive at the club and pay $5 at the door to a somewhat over the hill topless lady with small breasts. She hands me some kind of wooden nickel and informs me it’s a token I can exchange for a drink or give to a girl. That cover charge isn’t for nothing. Huzzah!

9:31 – Seeing as I stupidly wear a long, black leather coat and am unshaved and generally unwholesome looking, I get a quick search from an immensely huge man who takes notice of a bulge in my coat. Not that kind of bulge.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Notebook and a pen,” I answer.

“You plan on taking notes?”

“Yes, actually. I’m a writer.” This nets me an eye roll.

“Let me see.” I pull out the pad and paper, he pats my coat again, shrugs and sends me on my way. I take a seat near the stage.

9:36 – A waitress in a tight top comes to take my drink order. I get a beer and pay her with my wooden nickel. I ask her how long she’s worked her and I immediately sense hostility. She’s afraid I’m trying to pick her up, but she’s friendly enough in answering me. I let her know I’m only asking for something I’m writing and she looks as though I’ve told her I plan on filling my ass with fire crackers later on. Apparently writers are quite foreign in these parts.

9:47 – A dancer wandering past takes a seat next to me and asks if I want to buy her a drink. I don’t, really, but I’d like to chat to her.

“Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Ask anything you like, hon.”

“OK. How often do guys try to pick you up here?”

“Why, you have a line you want to try?” She smiles and I get that same feeling I got from my waitress.

“No, I’m writing something about exotic dancers, thought some first hand info might help.” A deer in the headlights look comes over her as she realizes she sat down next to the biggest tool in the bar. As her brain scrambles to think of a polite reason to leave, I pop out $20.

“Stay for a song and we’ll chat.” I say. She smiles and takes the money, apparently pleased that she need not have my face in her ass to earn that $20. We begin to go over some of my questions.

9:52 – My song and therefore my $20 are over. I produce some new cash and a new girl arrives, apparently intrigued by the financial transaction afoot that has not required the first girl to knock my head from side to side with her tits (and she could, as they’re quite huge).

“He’s writing a story about me,” the first girl says. I half nod.

“I write online and wanted to learn about what you think about your job, the customers, that kind of stuff.”

“Ooh, do me next,” says the new girl. I make the obvious joke in my head but nod again. She takes a seat and I realize I am now generating stares from other corners of the room. Why does that guy with the paper and pen have two strippers at his table now?

10:15 – The first stripper has left me as my wallet could not maintain the level of interest I had foolishly attempted to generate when I first sat down. $20 per song per girl is steep when you need to get her to stop so you can take notes. However, new girl and the last girl on stage don’t seem to mind if it’s $20 until they’re needed elsewhere. Which brings us to…

10:16 – The large man from the door approaches and tells the girls they need to work the room. He looks at me like I am selling drugs to school children and warns me against doing anything “funny.” Literacy is lost on the staff here.

10:25 – Having attracted the first girl again and a shooter girl, I have once again earned the wrath of the door ape.

“The girls have work to do buddy.”

“I’m not trying to stop them from working. I’m paying for their time.”

Apeman looks at the shooter girl, who grabs her drink tray and gets moving. I buy a foul shooter made with Jager and she leaves. The dancer returns Apeman’s stare.

“He’s paying, Tom. Fuck off already,” she says. Tom the Ape looks at me like I just killed his dog. I feel nervous.

10:40 – Three girls is the official limit of tolerance for this particular club. Having snagged the shooter girl as she made her way around again, plus the original dancer and one of the others, Apeman approaches with a new guy. New guy looks like a douche.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to stop what you’re doing OK? The girls are here to dance and entertain everyone and we can’t let them get all caught up just sitting here doing nothing. If you want to stay that’s fine but I’m going to need you to put away your stuff and just enjoy the show like everyone else and not disturb things further.”

I look at my notepad. Writing has, for the first time ever, caused a disturbance. At a strip club no less. I feel kind of proud. But, judging from the looks I’m getting, I must comply. And so I do.

10:50 - After weathering many stares from new guy, who I learned is management, and Ape Man, as well as being unable to shake the girls who want to keep chatting even though I put my book away, I decide to leave. I have some information, and I got 2 phone numbers. Suck my ass, Ape Man.