The Turn Out… (A Stripper’s Tale)

Jun 4, 2012 by


It was the kind of titty bar that lingered at the edge of the strip, past the commotion of heavy night-life consumerism and 10 second traffic lights; the true definition of a hole-in-the wall. The cops rarely traveled as far as the Cheetah Cabaret on a Saturday night. There were so many more opportunities to make their quota on the other side of the boulevard toward Fort Benning, where the soldiers and their equally drunken comrades would club-hop and cause commotion while looking for a quick lay.

The Cheetah Cabaret’s building infrastructure was predestined to become a strip club; solid brick covered all four walls without a single window in sight. It was perfect for keeping the ambiance dark and shady, no matter the time of day. A tiny stage sat in plain view of the entrance in front of the cashier’s table, surrounded by what looked like Christmas tree lights, a silver pole glistened with baby oil in the center of the floor.

The old rickety chairs that lined the back walls for lap dances must have come from the 1960’s. The rest of the thrift store-like tables and chairs held the hefty asses of leather-clad biker veterans, middle aged functioning drunks and the occasional drug dealer with his entourage of horny goons looking for take-out. It was the only club on Victory Drive where you could see a dancer smoke a cigarette out of her vagina without getting arrested. The regulars knew everyone by name, the new customers were too drunk to notice how far they had club-hopped out of popular territory and the rest of us were just there to get high, especially in such a small town like Columbus, GA.

I was twenty-one.

Fresh meat.

A newbie on the pole.

I had only been working as an exotic dancer for a couple of weeks and the Cheetah Cabaret was my very first club. The owner had a crush on me and allowed me to come in early to practice; right around when the sun was just about to set. I got really good very quickly while the rest of the dancers were still catching up on their late afternoon sleep. Always the first one on stage when the club opened at 8pm, I stayed onstage a lot longer than the average three-song set while the rest of the dancers strolled in late and took their time with their make-up and hardly-there costumes.

My stage name was Kitty Galore, from the Bond movies. I was still a shy little thing and tried my best to not give anyone any eye contact as I let the music take me into fantastic pole splits and candy-cane twirls. I earned my acknowledgement tips from the regulars who came to see their favorite dancer and also from the random customers that trickled in and sat at the bar to watch the game on the screen behind the bar.

I kept no acquaintances, nor did I desire to acquire any. After all, the strip-game was a cut-throat industry and I made sure to keep my purse at arm’s length at all times while I was on the clock.

It was a night just like any other night working as an exotic dancer. My sleep schedule was scrambled by the third-shift hours, but it always paid off at the end of the night. We weren’t allowed to drink anything but soda and water if the customers offered to get us something at the bar, so we compensated with heavy drug use and backdoor marijuana breaks when we were slow on lap dances.


The money always came easier when our inhibitions were lowered, especially when my favorite song was vibrating through the oversized speakers on either side of the stage. It was easy to get turned on when looking in the floor-length mirror behind me, seeing my tight, sweat-drenched body high in the air, secured only by the muscles in my inner thighs. It was like they could smell the aura of horniness emitting like steam from my pores. It wasn’t long before the dollar bills came from everywhere and stuck to every part of my body that wasn’t covered in thin lace and rubber as I slithered around on the stage.

A beeline of eager rogue husbands and aging biker-boys waited for me after each set. A lucky few would grab me by the hand and practically carry me to the VIP room where they anxiously anticipated the sweet release that only the slow grind of my naked pussy could relieve. The many furious erections that I produced in their jeans when I got off stage were enough to pay my rent every night if I wanted.

Though many of the dancers were part-time hookers and slept with their customers against the rules, it never stopped the men from coming back to spend money on me.

The newbie.

It was inevitable that soon, someone else would take my place. Would I succumb and become another aging stripper with a drug habit, resorting to selling my goods to break even every night like the others? I thought about it daily and wondered how long all of this would last before I had to find another way to compensate for my near thousand dollars a night salary. Everything we did was illegal anyway; from the full-on nudity to the Kegel muscle tricks we did on stage with everything from milk to firework sparklers. It was only a matter of time before some slick undercover cop would incite a raid and end my career. So I saved my tips for that fateful night when I would need it to leave town for good, or hire a bail bondsman.

Then I saw her.

She was cuddled up with an overweight, middle aged Italian man in the corner of the club underneath the dim, fluorescent lights. There were a few lesbians or bisexual women that came in every blue moon, usually accompanied by their lucky male escorts to get into our humble establishment for half price. I almost paid it no mind aside from the fact that she was breath-taking and had no business cavorting with a man that was clearly beneath her in levels of attractiveness.

She was gorgeous!

A woman reminiscent of a young Grace Jones, complete with height, cheekbones and the darkest skin I’ve ever seen on a person.

Then again, perhaps it was the lighting…or the fact that I might have been tripping on E that night.

Every time she whispered in her bulbous companion’s ear, he would stand up and give one of the dancers a bill, as if he was under some drunken spell. It was the finest display of feminine hypnotism I had ever witnessed.

I sat a few tables to the left of the odd couple while attempting to gain control of the MDMA racing through my veins.  I babysat my ginger ale to the tune of ‘Tush’ by Z.Z. Top. My eyes constantly shifted back and forth from them to watching a heroin-addicted redhead named Montana sit spread-eagle on the edge of the stage in order to open her vaginal lips as wide as she could for an eager old man with a dollar.

The dark woman glanced at me for a moment and whispered again to the fat man.  He promptly stood up to walk in my direction.   He pulled a twenty out of his pocket and placed it on the table in front of my drink.

“Come keep us company.” He demanded over the loud music.

I nodded and grabbed my purse, slipping the twenty into it before he could snatch it away as a prank. I followed him to her table and she pulled out a chair beside her, sandwiching me between her and the fat man.

“You’re awesome up there, you know that?” She half-declared once the song ended.

“Thanks!” I replied, attempting to flirt out a lap dance. “Would you guys like something special?”

I had never been attracted to a woman before. The notion didn’t frighten me like it did before I became an exotic dancer. Perhaps my morals (or lack of them) had changed for good. Maybe it was the ambiance of the club or the musty smell of testosterone in the air that incited a different flavor of sexual preference at that moment. Perhaps it was the drugs combined with the constant groping of my nipples by unwashed, gnarly hands that made me long for a touch softer than the ones that shoved money into my G-string like a former inmate fresh out of solitary confinement.  I think she knew I was yearning for something…whatever it was, and took advantage of the situation by sliding her hand under the table and between my legs. I gasped, but surprisingly, did not flinch. My head was swimming under the pulsing lights and throbbing bass of the music. I clearly looked like I was feeling good and I might have asked for it.

“I want you to keep me company.” She replied, as she moved closer, “Marty here will take care of you.”

With that, she nodded to Marty as he immediately pulled out another bill. The woman took it from him and seductively crushed it between my breasts ever so softly, all the while staring me dead in the eyes.

“What’s your name?” she asked matter-of-factly, all the while slowly inching her hand more and more toward my overheated girly parts. Her hair was wavy like Wonder Woman and smelled like cigarettes. She was a wild one. I could almost bet my life on it.

“Kitty…” I told her.

“Kitty…” she swirled the name around on her tongue, “I can deal with that. Who made that up?”

I smiled.

Her hand was now massaging my clit the way only someone who had one herself could. She turned her head toward the stage, all the while pulling my panties to the side to explore my wetness with her middle finger during Kandy’s amateur pole tricks. My eyes rolled up in the back of my head and I closed my eyes and moved in rhythm with her confident finger work. She finally waited until Marty got up to go to the bathroom before she spoke again, this time directly into my ear.

“Wanna get outta here?” she asked.

I did.

“Is that your…dude?” I asked her between labored breaths.

“Hell no!” She softly exclaimed, “I just met him in the parking lot.”

“I gotta work,” I told her honestly.

“I can make it worth your while…” she promised. “ I’ll teach you some things.”

A song by Nine Inch Nails began playing, as a goth chick named Raven climbed onstage with her thigh-high patent-pleather boots. By the time the song ended, the unknown woman and I had snuck out of the club, never to be seen there again.

Poor Marty.


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