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| I was A Topless Hostess For A Week |
| by Anon “Girls wanted for dancing and drinking partners only”, the ad had said. Tucked away in the corner of the Evening Standard, its obvious discretion appealed to my sense of curiosity and within hours I was there for an interview. The interview, if you can call it that, was short and snappy. A balding, pot-bellied North Londoner sat firmly behind the reception desk, and, interspersed with the words “love” and “darling”, he told me, “this is a topless club. You look good; you’ve got a nice personality. Now, come in tomorrow and mingle.” I didn’t listen particularly carefully to the rest of the talk about money and the amount of very expensive Champagne I was supposed to drink per minute as I was too busy trying to catch glimpses of the room behind some luxuriously heavy plush red curtains…low lit candles, plush velvet everywhere, the sound of Sinatra crooning away. But where were the girls? The next day I found out. They were all cramped into a tiny dressing room behind the kitchen, squeezing into their size 10 French maid outfits (despite the fact that some of them were a size 14). I was greeted with amusement, compassion and a barrage of hints on how to make it as one of the supposedly famous French maids. I had few qualms about going topless – I had done it on holiday enough. Neither, apparently did the two other new girls starting the same day as me. It was quite a shock however to be crammed into a room the size of a broom cupboard with eight other girls all preening themselves. The unspoken subtext was that, however friendly we were in that room, out on the floor we were all in competition with each other. The uniform made everyone look good: smart black stilettos, seamed stockings, frilly French knickers and apron. It was slightly kinky rather than sordid – I felt as though I should be carrying around a pink feather duster with the Benny Hill theme tune in the background. The buzzer sounded – it was the front door. The girls scattered into the mysterious area behind the curtain, and I followed. The cavern of iniquity revealed itself to be a small room with eight tables set for four and a dance floor big enough for two. We inspected ourselves in the mirrors and waited for the customers, In walked a fat, bearded man accompanied by a younger and better looking colleague. Sadie showed them to their seats in an alcove. We were invited to parade before them and as we fluttered our eyelashes provocatively they were asked who they’d like to join them. In fact they preferred to eat alone so like unwanted children we were sent way. An hour was spent doing the crossword and chatting, and shivering away as the icy blasts of air conditioner kept the cavern feeling cavernous. At last the elder man came forward and asked the way to the toilet. As he passed he asked me to go over and look after his friend. My first customer! The guy was nice looking, the type I’d be happy to meet on more normal territory. I told him I’d been sent to look after him and he flushed with embarrassment. Surprisingly I didn’t. The older guy returned and it was time to go to work. A bottle of Champagne had to be drunk every twenty minutes so various and frequent trips had to be mad to the loo, glass in hand, and return trips were made back with Champagne looking ginger ale. There was a little table just inside the ladies where our glasses were swapped over. Our conversation was surprising – somehow we ended up talking about Floubert, which I would never have predicted. They left, three bottles later, and a very expensive bill went with them. It was now mid-afternoon and I left too, my tip stuck down my stockings and a drunken grin on my face. Not all the Champagne had gone down the sink. These had been nice customers. Some were awful. Rachel, a busty blonde, was forced to strand on a table whilst she had her assets started at by a couple of lads. Ellie was bitten and almost every one of us ended up with cigarette burns on her body and a little less respect for men in general. For many the job was an easy way to make money whilst on benefits, or without a work permit. There was one married woman in her forties who travelled in from Brighton every day. She was desperately doing it to keep her family financially together, whilst another was doing it for a holiday to Florida. Many had problems of their own. Elsie, twice married, was threatened with having acid thrown in her face by her second husband and Debs came in every day with a new bruise from her boyfriend. The management took in thousands, whilst we were lucky to make £200 a week. One of the girls who had been there a while told us to check the bill as a hostess fee was supposedly written on it. This was money that we often did not see, unless we pointed it out. Of course, there were many offers to earn money on the side. One guy old enough to be my grandfather propositioned me and I found myself shrugging it off without a fuss because I wanted my tip. There was a funny side too sometimes. One guy popped in for a coke whilst his wife was shopping – he had to be back in twenty minutes! I was finally sacked for turning up late too often. I can’t say that I was too sad that it came to an end, but it was an experience I’ll never forget. The club our writer worked in has since closed down. If you're intrigues by this, you'll love this book: Confessions of A Lapdancer  City girl by day, city stripper by night Geri Carson is fed up with life in the City. Forced to act as one the boys in order to climb the ladder of one of London's biggest investment banks, it seems however hard she tries, she's constantly sidelined - her male colleagues all get bigger bonuses and the most prestigious accounts. Struggling to keep up with an increasingly lavish lifestyle, Geri gets deeper into debt. She needs cash - and fast. A company night out leads her to a lap-dancing club. She's awestruck by how much power the girls command - and completely turned on. Forced to return to the club the next day when she leaves her purse behind, Geri is presented with an offer she can't refuse. A chance to earn GBP500 per night lap-dancing in one of the hottest clubs in town. At first petrified, once the lights go up, Gerry has never felt more alive. She's a natural and soon becomes intoxicated by her new job. Then she becomes involved with a millionaire client. The sex is mind-blowing. But then she discovers a seedier and scarier side to life as a lap dancer. A world where anything goes and only the strongest survive! click here to buy Confessions of A Lapdancer |
| Posted: 16/07/2008 13:30:10 Last Updated: 25/07/2008 11:45:20 |
Chick Lit > Lifestyle :: I was A Topless Hostess For A Week