Saturday, December 27, 2008

Almost Ready for Takeoff at the Jet Strip

I'm nothing if not studious. So less than a week after my Hollywood talent manager kindly offered to be my Stripper Pimp, I did what any Yale graduate would do: research.

Stripper Pimp was supposed to escort me to a club, but he stood me up. By this time, breaking agreements and not returning my calls had become the norm. The lavish attention initially bestowed upon me had dwindled to a trickle. But I clung to him anyway.

I drove to what was arguably the most well-known strip club in Los Angeles: the Century Lounge. That place was impossible to miss: its orange "Nude Nude Nudes" marquee assaulted my eyeballs every time I drove to LAX airport. But when I got there, the doorman informed me that they did not allow "unescorted females" on the premises. So I turned tail and drove around until I found a place that did: the Jet Strip.

Into the club I went, dressed down in full nerd regalia: a ratty yellow sweater, faded jeans, flat shoes, glasses and no lipstick. The only thing missing was a sign: "Back off, buddy. I do not work here."

It was nothing like I imagined it would be. I thought strip clubs were loud and boisterous, full of drunken rednecks or college rowdies or ghetto hustlers. But no. The Jet Strip fit Stripper Pimp's glowing description: it was as quiet as "a law library or church" (yes, he really did compare the nudie bar to church).

The rapt men were completely engrossed in the delicious goodies that were spread-eagled before them. On the mainstage, a girl was on her back, high heels pointing to opposite corners of the room.

At the tables, a couple of girls were grinding away, their tits half a centimeter from the guys' noses while the guys rubbed their backs.

Meanwhile, girls in bikinis trolled the room, asking the guys if they wanted to dance. That was the worst part. I couldn't quite picture myself holding a stranger's hand and cooing "Hi, sugar, you want to dance?" in a sweet, soft voice. It was the ultimate in women should be seen, but not heard.

A pretty, wholesome Latina, clad in a beige bikini, came up to me and asked what I was doing. I replied, "Research." She explained that she made $200 to $600 a night, but it hadn't always been that way. She'd been at it for about a year, but made practically no money for her first six months. One night, she'd gone home with only $20.

It was my first inkling that stripping really was a job, not just easy money. There was a certain amount of skill involved. There was a learning curve.

There was also a back room with plastic cups for men to spill their seed in. "They're not allowed to touch you," she explained, and bouncers were there to enforce that rule. But sometimes, she said, the men offered more money in exchange for more services, and even though the girls weren't supposed to oblige, they often did.

Given my track record for not turning down sexual overtures, this didn't sound promising. I'd be half naked – ok, 97 percent naked – in front of horny men, rubbing on myself and getting turned on, and then I was supposed to remember to say no when a guy offered me money for the same sex I'd been giving away for free?

But for $600 a night couldn't I maybe, possibly, get it together?

(Stripper/Casting Couch Diaries Part 7 of 17: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)

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3 comments:

Luscious Sealed Lips said...

Skills for sure are needed. But is it really that hard to seduce an already horny man? :|

Kisses.

izzie_tisha said...

WEll I kinda always saw it that way... as hard work... I just don't know if I'd had the guts you had going to research it... you are more and more one of my heroes...

Blogger said...

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