Archive for the Punters Category

Ye Olde Peep Showe

Posted in Punters with tags on July 8, 2008 by twobuck

As I’ve said before, like any job, peep show work becomes pretty mundane after a while. At first, it’s all very naughty and a little thrilling in an exhibitionist sort of way, but after a few months you settle into a comfortable routine: take off this, wiggle that, pout, rinse, repeat. With a few notable exceptions, most of the punters are of a similar mindset- after all, we’re generally talking about dudes who visit every other day, spend the same amount of money on the same few girls, take the usual amount of time to come, and leave. After browsing through the frankly startlingly wide (heh) variety of amazingly graphic porn available even in a small shop like ours, I’m a little surprised that everyone isn’t completely numb to the idea of regular naked people who aren’t fisting a monitor lizard while on fire or something. Even the 18-year old kids we get will, after a few minutes of bravado and pack behaviour, settle down into either hurling vicious insults at me or quietly wanking (sometimes both).

Except for the country boys.

We get a few in every now and then and they are without a doubt the strangest punters I get. I don’t mean strange as in deviant or flat-out weird (for that I have the elderly gent who comes in after the funeral he goes to every time one of his friends dies and lies on the floor with his cock sandwiched between his legs, mewling and stroking my shoe), I mean from-another-time strange. I grew up in the country and, as evidenced by the fact that I ran off to the biggest city I could find when I was 17, have no great fondness for it, nor the salt of the fucking earth people who inhabit it. As I recall, country people are exactly like city people except they talk more slowly and don’t know how to make a decent coffee. And country boys, far from being plain-speaking old-fashioned types with Deep South manners, are exactly like city boys, albeit far more willing to have sex in the flatbed of a moving ute. So I find it quite puzzling that the country boys we get at my work are right out of Banjo Patterson. Everything’s Yes’m and Please and Ta, pet, and it freaks me right out. The first few times I thought they were taking the piss, but apparently something about a peep show turns them into gentlemen.

The pair we had in the other night were from somewhere west of Tamworth (Horse Capital of Australia), on their first trip into the big city. As far as I know, internet porn and girlie mags are still readily available outside the metropolitan area, but you wouldn’t guess it from the sheer glee and excitement with which these cowboys greeted Real, Actual Vagina. I do believe one of them Whoop’d. And they wanted to talk. Usually, I feign sudden deafness and shrug when a punter wants to chat through the glass, because fuck that. But these two boys were SO EXCITED to tell me all about how they’d seen the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House and the beach and the skyscrapers (and we got to ride a pony and the man with the pony said I rode it better than anyone and the pony was grey and it was called Silver and, and, and EVERYTHING!). It would have been churlish to refuse. They were grinning all over their corn-fed, fresh scrubbed faces and just losing it over even the most standard stripper moves I pulled and honestly, I got a little caught up in the moment. For a good ten minutes there I was the whore with a heart of gold, giving a couple of gleeful farm boys their first taste of the big, decadent sin city and ushering them into manhood. Then they whooped and hollered off into the night (after slipping me several notes with their hotel address and room numbers on it) with a cheerful wave and a chorus of “I love you, girl!”

Thank Christ, about two minutes later a guy came in and wanted me to show him my arse while he yelled at me in German. Any more of that Salinger bullshit and I might have started believing the hype.


Gung-Ho to the future

Posted in Punters with tags on June 27, 2008 by twobuck

As I said before, the renovations at work have slowed business right down, so most of my regulars have disappeared (along with my rapidly dwindling savings). So naturally I was surprised to see the return of Gung-Ho Guy the other night.

It had been an absolutely wretched night- dead as hell, only one private show and that was with a complete arse who would not stop bitching and moaning because I wouldn’t give him head. Normally, that would get him kicked out, but unfortunately the only guy serving behind the counter was a wet, ineffectual idiot who merely shrugged and looked apologetic while the bastard was ranting and carrying on. Curiously, he regained his spine in record time when I berated him for his lack of balls after that nightmare private show, yelling that I was not to tell him how to do his job. I wouldn’t have to if I thought he were capable of such a thing- but I digress. Like I said, utterly shit night, ten minutes til closing and who should show up in his usual booth but my favourite enthusiastic wanker.


“Hey, sweetie. How are you?”


I do so. I’m pleased to see he’s maintained his MO- clothes hung over the back of the door, arm braced against the wall for support as he jerks himself like he’s starting an unusually resistant lawn mower.


“Uh, I sure can.”

At this point I’m hopng he doesn’t want me to talk dirty to him. I’m terrible at it- not only do words fail me when I’m naked, but I start giggling uncontrolably.


“I can see it, sure, it’s right there. It, uh…it sure is big.”


Now I’m slightly concerned- is it possible that as a result of a gamma-infused condom his cock has become invisible to everyone but he and I? Are we bound together as some kind of horrible X-rated Justice League- Twobuck and Invisicock? Either that or the dude needs to go back in time and introduce his parents, pronto.








“Um. Thank you.”

But I’m such a Nice Guy

Posted in Bitching, Punters with tags on June 27, 2008 by twobuck

One thing that really, honestly baffles me every time it happens at work is the punters trying to talk me into sex. I don’t mean guys offering to pay me for sex: it’s annoying if they keep at it after I’ve said no, but I can see how the logic works. I mean, I’ve gotten naked for cash, so I can get that they think it might be worth a shot to ask for a hand job or something. What I really cannot understand is the guys who think that through the sheer force of their winning personality they can convince me to fuck them for free. At work. In a booth. Bear in mind, this is in a city where prostitution is not only legal but extremely widespread (heh)- one of the reasons I stopped doing full service work was that the glut of young, nubile and extremely attractive women in the industry made getting a decent amount of work difficult (yeah, book your flights now). So I can’t for the life of me imagine what their logic is, apart from maybe the misguided notion that someone who isn’t a full-time whore would be “cleaner” or something.

It’s happened often enough now that I’ve detected a strange and slightly worrying pattern in the guys who try it. Not that there’s any particularly common thread in terms of appearance or age or affluence- it’s rather more subtle than that. Namely, that every approach each of these guys take is exactly the same as a guy trying to get you to fuck him in high school. I don’t just mean it’s the same sort of “oh come on baby, it’ll be fun” kind of vibe- I mean it’s word-for-word taken straight from the mouth of a guy at a seniors party.

All the other girls here do it

Really? Well gee whiz, I guess if I want to get to go to Casey Nichol’s big party after the formal then I’ll have to get in with the cool crowd and WHAT THE FUCK, DUDE? I’m 23 years old, you idiot. Do you honestly think my main goal in life is to fit in with the cool kids at the peep show? I can guarantee you, if any of the other girls DO fuck you, which I doubt, they sure as hell aren’t doing it out of the kindness of their little stripper hearts.

I just broke up with my girlfriend

Sure, makes sense you’d come and watch strippers, then. What doesn’t make sense is you thinking that your tale of woe is going to move me right onto your naked lap. The fact that you’re here, now, paying to watch a woman dance naked tells me right off the bat that no, you probably don’t have a date this evening. Has this worked for you in the past? Have you walked up to women in bars and whined about what that lying cheating bitch did to you and had them leap upon you, cradling your head against their nurturing bosom and cooing softly “There now, brave little bear, let me kiss it better”?

I just think you’re really pretty

It didn’t work in the back of a Holden, and it’s not going to work now.

But I want to

That’s the one that always gets me. The bambi eyes, slightly quivering lip, like a horny little match girl staring wistfully through the wintery window of my crotch. “But I WANT to.” From a forty year old businessman. Well, golly, mister, if I’d known it meant that much to you I’d have bent over and grabbed my ankles the minute you walked through the door.

Just to reiternate, I’m not actually surprised that punters would try their luck, and a couple of hundred dollar bills can be pretty persuasive. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been at least tempted by a particularly pricey offer or two. But a grown man actually sulking because you won’t fuck him for a 50/50 split with the house of his forty bucks and a “I like your shoes”? That’s just sad, dude.

Take your fancy cufflinks and GET OUT

Posted in Punters with tags on June 14, 2008 by twobuck

So I’m a big update slacker- apologies, it’s been an odd, slow week. I’ve been working on something about the ongoing takeover of my workplace by a far larger company, but I keep getting distracted by shiny objects and unexpected sounds. Instead, here’s some stories.

It’s Tight-Arse Tuesday

Every now and then a swarm of misers will descend, locust like, upon our humble sweaty establishment. I don’t know whether it’s the largely cash-based nature of the transactions, or some misplaced idea that strippers come in a “Buy three and get the fourth ABSOLUTELY FREE!” value pack, or possibly just having watched one too many of those A Current Affair “SAVINGS BONANZA” specials that tell people that you can haggle over every damn thing. Anyway. They all seem to show up on the same day, which this week was a Tuesday. The first guy I saw was part of the business lunch rush- youngish dude, expensive suit, matching Georg Jensen cufflinks and wedding ring.

“So how much if I want to jerk off?”

“That’ll cost another twenty.”

“But I just paid FORTY to see you!”

“Yes, and it’s another twenty if you want to jerk off.”

“Let’s call it fifteen.”

“What? No, I don’t think y-”

“Fine, eighteen. FINAL OFFER.”

Look, I don’t give a damn if someone’s a little short on cash- they’ve paid the forty to see me, and I don’t really chase for tips. I’m quite happy for them just to pay to watch. But a dude with a couple grand worth of shiny-man-pretty trying to use his Business Negotiation Skills to gyp me out of two bucks? I say nay.

The rest of the day was filled with douchebags demanding their money back (after they’ve jacked off, naturally), for many and varied reasons. “She’s not hot, she’s fat, she’s ugly, she didn’t even DO anything” and my all-time favourite, “I changed my mind”.

The Dude Is Just Not Comfortable

In any customer-service industry, the general rule is that five minutes before closing, the most irritating and time consuming customer will stroll right on in and make themselves at home. So it follows that the dude who comes in and books a private right before my shift ends is going to be the kind of sleazy weirdo who walks around silently narrating his own imaginary letter to the Penthouse forum.

From the beginning, something was off about him. He baulked at the $20 jerk-off charge and was all set to storm out until I politely informed him of our No Refunds policy. After a little whinging and moaning (“Can I touch you?” “No.” “What about just your tits?” “My tits are a part of me, so NO.”) he finally settled down with the option of a twenty buck jerk-yourself-off and thirty buck “take the girl’s clothes off yourself”, and all went well. For about two minutes. Then, in the mirror I see his hand snaking up to try and grab my crotch.

“I just said, no touching.”,

He stands bolt upright, and in the most stentorian tones yells like an eight year old in a Say No To Strangers PSA, “I AM NOT COMFORTABLE WITH THIS. THERE ARE TOO MANY RULES.” He strides out the door, leaving me to try and grab a towel before everyone in the damn shop gets a free show. But hey- fifty bucks for two minutes work, not so bad.

My Favourite Wankers

Posted in Punters with tags on May 30, 2008 by twobuck

It’s been an uneventful week, peeps-wise, save for an unpleasant incident with a young man who obviously presumed the “NO PHOTOS” signs were there to protect the punters from hordes of camera-wielding strippers. We are quite the shutter-bugs. As such, I’d like to take the time to reflect on some of my favourite regular wankers.

Gung-ho Guy was one of the first dudes I saw, back when I was just starting out, and I’d say he visits maybe twice a week. Usually, it’s difficult to see the face on the other side of the window unless you’re really looking, but there are exceptions. Gung-ho Guy is notable for the sheer enthusiasm with which he approaches wanking in a small booth: he always picks the one furthest from the entrance (for privacy?), and spends a good few minutes warming up. He strips right down (although for his sake I hope to God he leaves his shoes on), hangs his clothes over the back of the door, and starts doing sort of “aaaand STRETCH IT OUT” exercises. Only when he feels appropriately limber does he begin to jack off, and honestly I’m glad he takes the time to warm up because he could seriously pull a hamstring. He thrusts against the wall of the booth, bobs up and down, runs on the spot and hangs off the door all while his arm moves at approximately mach 7 and he makes strained grunts of encouragement to himself. I don’t know how he manages to last at that speed, but the guy usually has a good 6-7 minutes in him before he cums, signalled by what appears to be a small seizure and a good deal of yelling. Then he quietly cleans up, puts on his clothes and goes, leaving everyone in the surrounding area feeling slightly inadequate about their masturbatory techniques, myself included.

Texta Tosser is a slightly less regular customer, but he remains one of my favourites. A lot of guys will huff amyl in the booth (which is pretty risky, considering the poor ventilation. I have $20 riding on a huffing snuffing by the end of the quarter), so I didn’t think much of it when I noticed a guy raising his hand to his nose, inhaling de-e-e-e-eeply, grinning like a loon and wanking with renewed vigour. After a few minutes of him huffing up every ten seconds, though, I figured that the guy was either unaware what that much amyl was going to do to him or something else was afoot. So I sort of casually sidle (which is almost impossible to do naked, owing to the lack of pockets) over to the window of his booth and wait. Sure enough, about ten seconds later he goes for another sniff and I realise that the guy is inhaling from the tip of a big, black permanent marker- like the kids at school used to do when the teachers took away their glue. He continues on like this, huffing away, black smudges all around his nose, for a good few minutes more before he blows his load and goes on his way. He’s been back in, with texta, once or twice since. The theory? His usual choice is strippers and coke, but some days it’s just harder to get the cash together, so…

The Hard Stuff This is the hard shit, man.