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.

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A stripper is a pet for life, not just for Christmas

Posted in FAQ with tags , on June 8, 2008 by twobuck

I’ve never really had what you’d call a monogamous relationship- mostly I’d pick up girls in bars or at parties, girls I knew through friends or in the general scene about town. There were a few abortive attempts at girlfriend-type arrangements, but I never had the impetus to knuckle down and really try to make it work. Mostly, I’d tend to see them on and off for a while before either I drifted away or they got frustrated and bailed. It wasn’t until last year that I actually managed to maintain a relationship with some semblance of normalcy, and that ended when she went overseas. So with her away for anything from a year to forever, I’d pretty much resigned myself to casual flings. Then a whole bunch of stuff happened and the next thing I know I have a, well…fella.

Not so strange, really (unless you’re me)- while there’s a strong queer element in the sex industry, most of the strippers/peep girls I know are in fairly standard monogamous relationships with a dude. This would seem to go against the widely accepted wisdom passed down from bloke-in-pub to bloke-in-pub that while you should definitely have fun with a stripper, don’t ever try to keep her. Hey, I understand: I’m fairly Swedish when it comes to sexual morals, but a lot of people can’t deal with the idea of their partner being naked and performing sexually suggestive acts in the presence of other people. Just as it takes a person of strong mind and sense of self to work in the sex industry without being dragged down by all the societal and personal bullshit that can go along with it, it takes a fairly robust sort to love them and be with them. A lot of people seem to think they’ll be able to deal with it. At first it’s kind of exciting: you’re dating a Bad Girl, it’s all a bit illicit and naughty in a teenage sort of way. It’s the reason there are so many people who have (or claim to have) a stripper somewhere among their exes, that crazy girl who taught them a million new positions and gave them all these stories that they can now dole out at parties in a tedious attempt to make you all forget that they work in sales (but they were wild and crazy too once, at least vicariously).

There’s a point in any relationship, be it between stripper and boyfriend, wife and wife, master and gimp, me and a Walkman (you were so awesome and old-school and I made a million mixtapes for you. Why do you keep eating them, little one?), where the honeymoon period is over. Suddenly the partner is wondering, does “No Touching” really mean “NO Touching”? What if someone really hot books her for a private show? Is she going to do this forever? Stripping and peep show work is great, but the negative fallout for your relationships can be dire if it’s not handled properly.

Not that I have anything to complain about, personally: I’ve had two partners in the time I’ve worked in the industry as a whore and a peep girl, and both of them have been nothing but supportive and all-around lovely about it. A lot of the people I work with haven’t been so lucky. Part of the reason I’ve always chosen to be open with my friends and partners about what I do is that I’ve seen the strain it puts on girls who feel forced, whether through a misplaced sense of shame or fear of societal censure, to lead a double life. Imagine having a long, trying day at your job, coming home feeling like you just want to curl up into a ball and cry and not being able to tell the person you love what’s bothering you because they think you work in day-care. Fuck that, dude.

Although the fact that being part of a class that’s widely viewed as vulnerable (even more than most women) means there’s undeniable problems about the possibility of attracting some extremely predatory creepy fuckers, I’ve yet to know any girls with a truly Bad Boyfriend. You know, the prison-tattoed, wifebeater clad “Gimme some sugar, baby” sneering douche of legend. What I have seen, however, is an awful lot of ordinary guys who think they can handle it, get in way over their heads and end up being…That Guy. That Guy isn’t necessarily a guy, they’re whoever thought it would be fun to fuck around with a sex worker and didn’t stop to consider that he or she is a person, not a goddamn trophy or fodder for their attempt at Gonzo journalism. That guy who brags to his mates about dating a stripper, but won’t let her meet his family. That guy who phones or messages ten times an hour when she’s working “just to check in”. That guy who wouldn’t have a problem with his girlfriend not wanting sex because she’s tired from working in a bar all day, but who loses it because she’s “having sex for other people all day, don’t I deserve some?” That guy who manages to convince her and himself that since he “lets” her work as she does, it’s up to her to support his lazy arse. Fuck that guy right the hell off. And that’s the worst part of the stripper-as-novelty-girlfriend. If the partner does decide to leave, the girl is left wondering: is that what I deserve?

That was a lot longer and more rant-y then I’d intended, so here’s a story from last week:

So this older guy, thin on top and rocking a sizeable beach-ball under his jumper, comes in and books me for a private. As soon as we’re in the room he is Cecil B. DeMille and I am his starlet:

“Ok, so I’m going to take off my clothes now, is that alright? And then I would like you to take off your clothes and sit down on that stool there. I don’t want you to use any of the toys. And I’d rather you didn’t speak.”

He strips down to some distinctly un-tighty un-whiteys and black socks. I obligingly perch myself on the stool opposite him in the tiny, tacky private room (mirror balls and paper hearts and black pleather, oh my). He sits and begins giving me detailed instructions regarding what pose I am to adopt. The legs go like *this* and the arms out like *this* and hold your head like *so*. I felt like Chef’s “Miss May” (née December) from Apocalypse Now, minus a bird or two. Once I am properly positioned, he begins wanking with a fury, staring at a point somewhere to the left of my ear. He does not speak again until fifteen minutes later, fifteen minutes of me sitting still and quiet like a doll, when he finally blows his load.

“So tell me,” he gasps, pulling on his track pants, “Do you get off when you work?” It’s a fairly common question, and I know what they want to hear: oh yes baby, it makes me so hot, I’m getting my seat wet, blah blah blah. But dirty talk costs extra and I’m a mercenary bitch, so I answer (as always) truthfully.

“Sometimes, if I really feel like it. But not usually, no.”

“Did you get off this time?”

“No.”

“That’s good,” he smiles, and puts another twenty on the pile he’s already given me as he walks out the door. Halfway out, he stops and turns, not smiling anymore. “Because if you’d been lying to me, I would have known.” And then he’s gone.

If you play “Smooth Operator” I will fill your mouth with spiders

Posted in FAQ with tags , on June 2, 2008 by twobuck

I’m slightly deaf at the moment, because today we had a visit from a HQ rep (the Peeps has recently been purchased by a Conglomo-Porn Co., more on which later) and apparently the music in my booth wasn’t blaring loud enough. He also wanted to have a word about “appropriate song choices”. This bodes ill: if I end up wearing a name-tag and a hair net at this place I shall be very put out.

Choosing the right music for work is more difficult than you’d think. At first the natural inclination is to just bring along your favourite CDs and let it roll, but after a few shifts on high rotation that band you really loved becomes Those Fucking Guys With That Goddamn Song pretty quickly. An MP3 player or laptop hookup is also a good idea in theory, but only works if you’re one of those freaks who could never be ashamed of anything that comes up on “Shuffle”. I learned this the hard way in my first few weeks when in the middle of a rush, with every booth full and my laptop in the back room where I couldn’t easily yank it out of the wall in shame, I heard the opening chords of “Tears In Heaven”. I don’t even remember downloading the damn thing, and I certainly had never had it come up on a playlist before- so naturally it decided to raise its hideous My-Child-Went-Out-The-Window when I’m naked with a six-inch rhinestone studded black dildo in my crotch. And you know what? That song is long. Like, really really long. And every second was agony. I think one dude might have started crying.

So now I stick with a pretty safe set: reasonably upbeat but not too twee, and nothing too obscure. A bit of Buzzcocks, the Shins, some Ramones, early Clash, dash of Pixies, you know. A lot of the other girls find it easier to work to real bump & grind hardcore or R&B, but I just can’t keep a straight face: the combination of “Milkshake”-level explicit lyrics and stifled grunting from the punters is a little overwhelming and I start snickering. Besides, if I really don’t want to be working that day I can just play “The Mercy Seat” for about five hours and make everyone wish they were dead.

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.

It’s a living, yeah?

Posted in FAQ on May 26, 2008 by twobuck

According to my calculations on the back of this coaster, I’ve spent about 600 hours this year naked for complete strangers. That’s a rough estimate, mind: if I was better at maths then I’d be doing that for a living instead of writhing around on a black pleather couch held together with duct tape, but there you go. Those 600 hours have been spread across the last five-and-a-bit months that I’ve worked in a peep show.

What the hell is a peep show?

peep·show also peep show

(pēp’shō’)
n.

  1. An exhibition of pictures or objects viewed through a small hole or magnifying glass. Also called raree show.
  2. A short pornographic film presentation seen usually in a small coin-operated projection booth.

Kind of like that, but the object is a naked girl- dancing, playing with toys (the vibrating kind, although we do occasionally use Hungry Hungry Hippos. You know, for the freaks), squishing her boobs, making sex faces and occasionally yelling “DO NOT TAP ON THE GLASS”. I am that naked girl.

So you do that for a living?

Yep. Four or five days a week, for 4-8 hour shifts at a time.

Is it like being a stripper?

Kind of, but not exactly. Both are nekkid for cash, but while strippers perform shows on stage and receive tips from the audience (the monetary kind, not helpful advice. Unless you consider “WHOOO! GET IT ALL OFF” to be helpful, in which case you are very welcome, Sir), Peep Girls are separated from the punters by a wall with small frosted-glass windows. The punter puts in a minimum of $2 (this varies from place to place, obviously, but in my joint it’s two bucks, which buys you thirty seconds), their window goes see-through, a little red bulb over their window lights up and goes “BEEEEP!”, the Peep Girl puts down her book/magazine/crocheting and does her thing.

And that’s it?

No, we also do private shows. If a punter likes the look of you, he’ll fork out $40 to sit in a tiny room and watch you do pretty much the same show you just did, but without the glass between you.

That’s kind of weird.

YOUR MUM’S KIND OF WEIRD

Fair enough. So what kind of guys come to a peep show?

All kinds of guys. Business guys, student guys, old guys, guys with their girlfriends, guys with their boyfriends, guys who are girls, guys who are desperate, guys who are curious, guys who like to jerk off.

Why don’t you get a real job?

Tried it, didn’t like it, don’t wanna, can’t make me. Besides, I like the job I’ve got.

For real real?

Yeah, for real real. I make a decent living, I decide my own hours, I wear what I want (what there is of it, anyway), I listen to the music I like and I don’t have to wear a name tag. There are downsides, sure: days when I barely make bus fare, idiots yelling “SHOW US YER TITS” (I…I thought I was?), late nights, having to maintain obsessive standards of personal grooming all the damn time, people TAPPING on the FUCKING GLASS. But it’s a give-and-take, and as far as I’m concerned the positives far outweigh the idiots.