Locker room chat is usually one of the best parts of my night. The girls at my club are for the most part, sound bitches but let’s not lie, we are also deeply, and unapologetically demented… In a good way. Some of the sharpest wit I’ve ever had the pleasure to sit pretty in, has been with the home club girls. Yesterday the gossip was that there had been a shocking occurrence over the weekend. A club crime if you will. Something that has really incited rage in the long-standing manager and institution of the blue stonewalls. Something that could drastically interfere with the pristine presentation of both the venue and his long, black, slicked back pony tail. It’s pretty fucking hard to piss him off. He’s as eccentric as we are, easy come easy go. If he likes you he likes you, if he doesn’t you should probably fly under the radar or change up your wigs and cosmetic contouring quite regularly (the club provided an excruciating compulsory tutorial on the latter in 2013 so there is really no excuse). Opinions of him vary according to experience but I love him. He makes me laugh and I really enjoy it when he gives me practical life lessons, such as how to put out a fire in the smoking room bins, or why it doesn’t serve me to languidly pour a drink all over a customers white shirt. It’s rare to hear of him genuinely pissed off about anything at all.

According to locker room goss, one of our younger, crazier, lovable girls, Little Las Vegas had found an entire gram bag and spoofed the contents of the small plastic vessel into the face of our younger bar manager. It sprinkled it’s fairy dust all over his black attire under the UV lights. Uh oh. He’s usually quite jovial. Always up for a laugh and has a cute, friendly dog who is shaped like stodgy black penis with extra girth. Winning. Apparently he, the manager, not the dog, then went out the backstage door and reemerged with a loaded super soaker water pistol. He then proceeded to spray Little Las Vegas in the face while she was giving a lapdance to a customer in tipping seats at the main stage. There were gasps and laughs all round the locker room. This is unheard of. Girls have literally shat themselves on that stage before….ok, maybe just that one girl. But a manager has never super soaked a dancer mid straddle!

“What was in the bag?” We inquired.


“FUCK! What the fuck was she thinking?!?!”

Loose glitter is a class A banned substance where we come from and erryone knows it. It’s likely that if Little Las Vegas had thrown a bag of cocaine in either manager’s face, the objection would have been minimal and the inhalation deep and spiritual. Namaste. You’d be less likely to get fired for giving a hand job on the premises than you would for spreading the filth of loose glitter on the floor or stage. Semen spritz and the interaction leading up to such an explosion (and/or dribble) is ill-advised and gross, not to mention illegal. Whilst glitter showers would not be a blip on the radar of the law, they are highly illegal on King Street. It spreads like a bacterial virus that nobody wants to catch and that nobody can escape. Most of all, it’s bad news to men who want to pretend they’ve been good boys when they return home to the significant vagina in their life. It’s in our interests to protect their interests. As much as we all love sparkles, a zero tolerance glitter ban must prevail! The crime rate for glitter related offenses has been close to zero in the 9 years I’ve been working. Little Las Vegas is lucky she’s one of the lovable demented ones. And that she’s pretty. And funny. And sweet as pie.


It’s A Dog’s Life

Over the years I’ve noticed that people think the life of a stripper is shimmering with ‘here today, gone tomorrow’ glamour and lashings of debaucherous activities. The goggles of the average punter are both beer drenched AND rose tinted. When a fat, smelly, balding man tells me I must really enjoy teasing him, I think to myself it must be wonderful to be out there in the world, functioning with that level of delusion. They think that we are so sexually charged that we’ll fuck anything. To them, our lives must be a blurry patchwork of promiscuous sex, sequins, smudged mascara,  promiscuity, and mountains of cocaine.

Although this may be the case for some, it is not for me. I won’t be coy about it. I have my moments. I adore drugs. We’ve had some good times. Rarely any bad. They’re like the friend that I might not speak to for 6 months, but when we see each other again, it’s as if no time has passed at all. We understand each other. We love each other’s company. Sometimes we spend hours enjoying the comfortable silence of old friends. Sometimes we make ze partee.

Contrary to customer belief, I don’t go back to the hotel rooms of guys after my 11 hour shift, smoke a crack pipe and party on Wayne. Party on Garth. More often than not, my drug intake has been characterised by tracksuit pants, joints and an early onset diabetes inducing amount of confectionary. In the early days back home, hallucinogens and forest parties were our weekend ritual. Or in more manic times, tracksuit pants, my best friend, a plate of cocaine, broom, mop, chemicals and a very satisfying 4-6 hours of house cleaning. You can justify anything when you’re going through a break up, and I do love a clean house.

Tonight I noted that my evening’s activity may just be enough to dispel the myth of the sex, drugs and sparkle tassle joy luck good time life of a stripper.

Insert “disturbing content” warning here.

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Every couple of months, my dog Chockie has a stinky but. It’s not the kind of smell you can ignore. An additional open door or window will not suffice. If you want revenge on someone, you could conceal a bag of prawn heads in their bedroom air vent, or you could lend them my dog. Gooby squid left in the bin over a few warm days, stewing in it’s own thickening juices, is the most accurate description I can give you.

My boyfriend likes to say it smells like “off box”. Could it be true? Is there really a level of personal hygiene out there that is so low or is it an urban myth? I feel like it must just be post footy training locker room banter. I kind of want to ask him to elaborate and dispel the myth. But I just can’t do it. No one wants to think about their boyfriend’s face buried in another girl’s vagina. Particularly if the cha cha smells like the your dog’s arsehole. That’s just weird and gross. Note to self, ask Bennie St boys to clarify. Urban myth or horrific fact?

Where normal dogs will poo or drag their but across the ground to mark their territory and leave their scent, my poor Chocorette dog’s anal glands get blocked. After spending a ridiculous amount of money getting the vet to unblock them, I learnt how to do it myself.

And so earlier tonight, as I had my latex gloved, vaseline lubricated finger positioned at 10 o’clock, up my dog’s but hole, expressing her anal glands into a piece of folded toilet paper, I thought to myself “If those men could see me now!”