For the libertines and polyamorous overachievers among us, it’s probably no great shakes. Some people carry the imprint of others around with them. The cash and trinkets become bonding agents. It’s not just stuff that’s exchanged it’s energy. I used to see these gifts and the labyrinthine relationships around them as “just business.” But in retrospect, they are more than that. Her husband hated these gifts - didn’t like being shown up by expensive goods, and certainly didn’t appreciate the material intrusion of other men into their lives. She had it in a Ziploc bag, puzzling over what to do because she couldn’t bring it home. I also remember seeing a dancer at my home club frowning at a thick gold chain a customer had just given her.
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She told me how she managed to put away $12,000 a month into a Charles Schwab brokerage account and, widening her blue eyes, she recited what she’d told a chief executive client who wanted to give her something special: “I’d be honored if you’d give me some of your company’s stock.” I recall an evening spent sitting in the restaurant section of Scores listening to a dancer describe her financial plan. I haven’t forgotten much about stripping, but the significance of things has shifted over time. What do you know? That son of a gun wasn’t lying. He’d been arrested on charges of fiscal malfeasance and was partway through a multiple-year sentence. The letter, typed up and printed out, started with a bombshell: The S.E.C. And, thanks to Google, he knew I had a P.O. here? Pseudonyms are customary for strippers I extend a similar discretion to him as a courtesy.) He knew my ambitions, my age. enough as a customer to step out from behind my stage persona. I hadn’t worked at that club in six years and had moved across the country. I was touched, amused and really weirded out.
IM IN LOVE WITH A STRIPPER WHEN WAS IT MADE FULL
was full of it.īut there I sat, in the privacy of my own home, with a letter from him, addressed to me in my real name. Many a Steve from Middle Management became Steven the C.E.O., sometimes right down to the fake business card. Strip clubs are built around flattering the male ego, and the customer’s own aggrandizement was often part of the package. “The feds are breathing down my neck again.” Or “The S.E.C. Often, he’d mention work, some murky finance gig, that, as he told it, had recently attracted the attention of the authorities. would tell me what his three teenage daughters were up to, and what opera he’d seen lately (he was a huge buff).
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He roared as if I was the funniest woman alive. He had his own spiel about his hard-knock life. He grew up poor, made a fortune, partied hard, and struggled with addiction. An up-from-nothing success story, he sounded like Jackie Mason and made it rain like Jay-Z.
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was gloriously larger than life, and also, well, gloriously large - a jovial bear with a classic Brooklyn accent. When he laughed at all my jokes, the connection was sealed. I sat in his lap during a night shift in my San Francisco home club when he was in from the East Coast for work we started talking, and couldn’t stop. He greeted me exactly where I was, and in that spot, affection bloomed. He also didn’t view dancers as a dating pool and hang about, lovelorn, like a Stage Door Johnny from vaudeville days. wasn’t Captain Save-a-Ho, the type who thinks telling a stripper, “You’re better than this” is a compliment, and seeks to whisk you out of this hellhole. Within the taxonomy of strip club customers, M. The letter was from M., my old strip club regular. Typed neatly over the address wasn’t a sender’s name, but rather, an inmate ID - a hashtag and a string of numerals. The return address on the letter was from a Connecticut prison.