A week in the life of

Friday night at Stringfellows.

A friend X from work was leaving the firm, and post leaving-drinks at a bar near work, the party headed over to Stringfellows on Upper St Martin's Lane.

A reverse Cinderella, I headed to town straight after work and reached there just as the clock struck midnight, and pumpkins turned into magical coaches.

My friend was overjoyed that I actually showed up: "e*! You came! You really didn't let me down! Wow, that's great! I can't believe it, I've never managed to get a girl to come along to a strip club!! WOW." Apparently another girl from work had actually turned up and was right outside the gentlemen's club when she chickened out and went home instead.

Strictly speaking, I wasn't the only girl there - I was one of two girls. However, I was the only "girly" girl girl there (even that is debatable I think).

So it was my first experience with a strip club. I took a step into the club, glanced around and took in all the flesh on display. And -Boom-, just like that I was inured to it. Naked flesh is just naked flesh. And I was actually pleasantly surprised at how safe and unthreatening the club felt. I was expecting a dodgy place, but in the end, I found that I quite liked the atmosphere. It helped that we had a small crowd from work, including one other girl, and that we were occupying tables in a classic position, right alongside the stage.

As I watched the girls pole dancing and doing their act, I finally understood why and how a friend of mine could date a stripper. I didn't use to understand how my friend could date a stripper, and more importantly, allow her to continue stripping while they were together. Didn't he get jealous at all the guys oogling her and pawing her?

But that night, I got a sense that this was just a job to the girls. It's no big deal in a way. Yes, you happen to be naked, but it's the same as any other job. There's a schedule, you take turns to go on stage in the basement, and upstairs near the entrance. There's a routine - you start from one pole, do your moves, move to the next pole, take off some clothes, then rotate to the foremost pole in front of the stage, strip down to your thong, then you go off stage. Then you start soliciting. Give your name, sit on a couple of laps, smile , chat, and try to get guys to buy dances.

Most of the girls don't look particularly seductive when they pole dance. Because I look at their face as well, not just their gyrating bodies. And most of the time, their faces seem blank, their eyes stare straight ahead into nothing, making no particular eye contact. And so it seems to me that their movements, apparently suggestive though they may be, are mechanical, and lack the soul and passion that makes it truly sexy.

That's why I told my friend that I got a sense that these were just regular working girls. Like they could be bankers, lawyers, accountants, whatever, except that instead of crunching numbers and writing up fancy documents, they strip. It's about sexy to them as auditing is to an accountant. I can almost imagine them writing up to do lists or grocery lists as they do their moves.

I don't envy the girls the job, mainly because it can get really difficult to get people to buy dances. And of course you may meet the horny, desperate toad who would get fresh with you. Plus, I reckon most of the guys disrespect the girls in the club.


I thought most of the girls seemed quite nice actually. All of them smiled at me when their eyes met mine as they were pole dancing. And the three girls I'd spoken to (two of whom danced for me) were all really sweet, friendly, and lovely - came up to me, grabbed my hands, and did the bisous.

Samwra, Christina, Sabrina.

Morocco, Portugal, Russia, Poland, France. The girls comes from all over. But maybe there's a reason why they ended up here, in this job. Who knows? The French Moroccan girl who had first come over the London to improve her English because that was the reason why she was turned down for a stewardessing job in a French airline company. She goes home every holiday to her big family of eight brothers and sisters, but she doesn't really miss them. And going home doesn't seem like a real holiday. She's been shunting between home in Southern France and London since she came here a three and a half years ago. She thinks maybe she'd rather go somewhere else for her next holiday. And there was a girl in a red babydoll dress who moved listlessly, almost as if drugged, and had the saddest expression on her face. I wondered why she was here.

I'm in two minds about strippers. One one hand, I don't know what has driven them to where they are today. I tend not to like to pass blanket judgement over girls unless I know their background. And I'm inclined to be soft-hearted and protective towards what I call "story girls". On the other hand, the part of me that is exacting sometimes questions: "Wasn't there a better choice that they could have made?"

But I wasn't thinking about the deeper issues of life and the stories of these girls all the time obviously. A strip club is ultimately a meat market.

X suggested a lap dance. I've always wanted to try one, but then I thought it would be really weird and awkward. Especially since I can't see these girls as just lumps of meat, an art that I think most of my male colleagues easily mastered. X suggested the two of us share a lapdance if it would me make me feel more at ease. And since I know I'd have to try it once in my life anyway, and who knows when I'll next end up in a strip club, I said yes. The first girl who danced for us was the French Moroccan girl, who he had previously spoken to, and who came over and chatted to us while we were at the bar.

He asked me after if I enjoyed it. I was like: well.. it's a new experience. But I was probably too traumatised the first time round, plus, while the girl was nice, she wasn't really my kind. The boy said that a girl dancing for him doesn't do that much for him, because it's really just jokes. Apparently he gets hornier when he sees a girl dancing for another girl. He persuaded me to share another dance with him, and I said yeah, okay. Cos I wanted to see if I'd have a better second experience with a chick I fancied more.

It's shocking how picky one gets after a while. When I had first entered the place, I thought all these girls had amazing bodies. But after a while, I became a lot more discerning and picky. And X would fancy a girl, then strike her off because another hotter chick came on stage, or because he prefers another kind of figure, or he doesn't like a feature of her face or her hair. We took ages ages to agree on a girl we both liked. Until finally I got annoyed and gave him the ultimatum - either he gets the girl who he thinks is The hottest chick in the club to dance for us, or I leave.

The girl had stepped off the stage and disappeared. But he managed to appear with her in tow. She danced for me alone. The second experience was still quite surreal for me. X was disbelieving: "Aren't you at all affected by all this?!?" I guess if I let myself go, then yeah, I could get turned on, not only by the lapdance, but by the whole atmosphere. But I'd have to be fairly relaxed and in the right frame of mine. And I guess I'm more of a private person in that, to get into that right frame frame of mind, I'd need to be away from the public eye. Besides, honestly, it struck me as being highly unproductive to get all turned on and horny if I wasn't going to get any that night. That's just really asking for needless suffering. X himself was horny as hell and I was just cracking up.

Although I ended up being dubbed "The Pimperina" and crowned the Queen of Cool for being a good sport enough to enter a strip club and try out lapdances. At the end of the day, I'm still a girl. And there are just some things that guys can and will share among themselves, which will necessarily exclude me. Which is really quite annoying. But at the end of the night when the coach turns back into a pumpkin, and the horses into mice, there's still that glass slipper to hold on to. And the glass slipper ain't too bad really.

***

Written on January 27:

Yesterday, I woke up in the middle of the night and thought I was going to DIE. My throat was painfully parched , my bones were aching, my nose was blocked, chest hurting, couldn't really breathe, I was upset and miserable, cold and feverish at the same time.

It was the second night in a row that I woke up suffering, although last night was infinitely worse than the night before last.

Been feeling nauseous every afternoon for the past week. And tonight I properly felt like being sick. I am reminded once again why I think getting pregnant is a Bad idea.

***

Written on January 25 in the office:

0049 hours in the office, and it's once again time for me to wonder what else I'd rather be doing at 0049 hours on a Tuesday night instead of waiting for my presentation to be processed.

Sleeping, having wild animal sex, lying on my back and gazing into a starry night sky, cycling, talking and laughing and running along a distant beach, snuggling and whispering under a duvet, skinny-dipping in the moonlight, watching DVDs, IM-ing manically, playing bridge.