*[Author’s Note: The following story is told in the voice of Candice, a 24-year-old woman who narrated to me the stories from her six years working as a stripper. While some artistic license has been taken, these events are largely based on the truth.]*
June 5, 2018
I almost have him. I can’t tell you how I knew, but I just do. He has about a minute left in the lap dance, which means that *I* have about a minute left in the lap dance. He can always ask for another one; I can’t. In that sense, this is my audition. If he says “Thanks,” tips a few dollars and walks away, there’s literally nothing I can do about it.
“VIP Room” is such a misnomer at this strip club. It is barely the size of a restaurant booth, with furniture you would never sit in if you saw it in the light of day. But the light is dim, and the occasional flashing from outside makes its way in, too. A flimsy, half-drawn curtain gives an illusion of privacy. The small side table next to the armless chair he sits in has an ashtray filling with spent cigar butts, and two half-empty glasses of tepid champagne. The bottle is long gone.