I Have A Dream…

…And in my dream, a team of polite, respectful, decent looking, gregarious and wealthy men come into my work. These men are ensconced in a cloud of a mysteriously delicious fragrance (one that has not been tested on animals). There is one guy for me and each of my girlfriends. These guys have the trifecta covered, the holy trinity, if you will. Smell good, cool guys, LOADED. They spend all night at the club with us. They make it rain.

There is champagne, laughter, and not one of them is a Mr Octopus. They keep their damn hands to themselves. The DJ refrains from playing anything by Jason Derulo or Pitbull. My girl Lolly is there and we do what we do best – terrible accent imitations. As Germans we make ze pahtee, as Indians we are endearing Idoooooo’s, as Latecia Quanicia’s we shake ass and go ghetto on that shit. We are all booked out for 8 hours and have a fabulous time. It doesn’t feel like work at all.

At the end of the night, the men tip each of us $1500 and say it was great meeting us, we’re awesome girls. They don’t ask for our phone numbers. They don’t ask us to come back to room #3015 at the Grand Park Hyatt to ‘hang out’. They say they’ll be back every month for their board meeting and will stop in each time. They hand us each a business card for good measure and then disappear in a puff blue smoke. Leaving only the smell of their perfume and their money behind!

Why?

I still have no idea why people pay me. For a start, I’m a Disney stripper. I don’t do spreads without underwear on, I don’t touch people and I don’t shove my boobs in their face. I don’t find the nudity sexual. It is what it is. Body of Eve before the apple was eaten.

Germs. Sweaty, sticky alcohol hands. Bleh. Oily faces. Scratchy faces. Ugly faces with tongues lolling out and eyeballs rolling back in heads. Disgusting. Syrupy Jack Daniels and coke breath with the heavy cloud of cigarette stench on top. Rancid. The occasional specimen who has remembered to brush their teeth this year and spray perfume before they left the house. Heavenly.

These days I try not to remember people. Good or Bad. But of course, pictures, sounds, conversations, phrases, smells, feeling, operate on a level beyond my control, and memories are made. My own experiences and those of others that slip through the filter are the ones I’ll be passing on here.

There is no one way to answer the question “Why do people pay us?”. There are way too many variables to put it down to any number of things. Each to their own and all that.

Lonely? Got a fetish? Bored? Undersexed and overpaid? Sadistic? Curious? Wanna realise and release your alter ego? Unfaithful? Hedonistic? Artistic? Do girls avoid you when you go out? Stupid? Smug? Horny? Looking for love in all the wrong places? Well, this is the blog for you.