My boy was a total White Knight the other weekend.
A White Knight is a stripper term for a guy, usually ur partner, a customer, or a 'friend' who trys to get you out of dancing.
"You don't need to do it."
"I will work extra hours and look after you."
or even - " I can get you an apartment and take care of you whilst you are at university/child/shopping/whatever."
I know of no other job where this happens with frightening regularity.

Boyfriends usually have a 6-9month window on this one. Once tthe honeymoon period is over, thats it, its time for a reality check. They decide - or realise, that they don't like their little princess flirting with strangers and taking her clothes off in public, and want their girl to get a 'normal' job instead. Then the paranoia starts to creep in - they wake up late at night, checking the clock to see if you are not back at your 'usual' time, wondering who that text message is from, who I am meeting for lunch etc etc.

GET OUTTA MY FACE

Give it up he said.
What, and get into massive debt at university?

You do realise that I have been doing this for several years, have built up close friendships with several - no- many of the dancers, all over London and even the world, bills have to be paid and, shit, I like getting out of the house a few evenings a week.
IN fact, it all began before I even met the boy, so is a bigger part of my life in the pure longevity stakes at least. AND I met him thru a fellow dancer.

I think we rode this tide at least - I can be super stubborn when I want to be.
Once it all calmed down, we went for a night out in the funky bars of the East End and tried to chat up the tequila shot girl between us.
Anything to keep him happy and the relationship fresh, no?

Today I went in a hot-tub and got shot by a shotgun.
The end result of these cumulative affairs was that one got horrendously drunk.
One event naurally led to the other, as it seems to do.
At the moment I amgetting a masasge from a horrendous man seeing as he abstained from my superior drunken cooking. BUt he cannot give me a massage on this chair - a true fool.
I am waiting patiently., like godot... for precisely nothng as they say.
MY friend is waiting up fo me to lock this bloody penthouse up.
bUT TRY AS i MAY i refuse to come anywhere, and ths arrivederci mis amores, I must fly to my waiting chariot before I annoy anyone else.

My club has been cuckoo of late.

Due to a £3million tax bill, the powers that be have decided to squeeze us for more money. I know that everyone imagines us earning thousands of pounds a week, but its simply not true. The bottom has fallen out, especially in London, which now has lots of clubs, big and small, all open all night.
The Eastern European invasion has been harsh too - they undercut the standard prices and offer 'extras'. Fucking extras. I still squirm when guys want to meet me outside- just an hour, just a drink, they say. ALl I wanna do is lick your pussy till you come over and over again.

Spew over and over again I think... I mean, I have NEVER, EVER met a stranger who can get me off in an hour when I have only just met him. True, I have severly fancied customers, and properly creamed myself whilst bouncing up and down on their laps, but this has happened say, half a dozen times in 4 years of dancing?

Hardly a high hit rate.

The Stripper Bride

Modern life is all about combinations and permutations.

Mine is essentially awkward.

By day, I study at a London University and run around after my boyfriend, trying, like all 'good' wives, to create a nice, loving home and make the two of us happy.

By night, I dance erotically around a pole, smothered in make-up and shimmer, desperately trying to elicit my rent money from dirty old men, stag parties and city boys.

My heart races at two things - the sight of my boy, sleeping in bed when I sneak home in the early hours of the morning, and at the sight of a fat wallet, bulging at the seams with crisp 20s I wish are destined for me.

How can I love one man, yet flirt shamelessly and get my pussy out every night to complete strangers, stroking their necks and whispering filthy thoughts into their expectant ears? Where does this line between fantsy and reality blur - I either get accused of flirting with the boy's mates, or that I seem distant and " not into it" at work!!!

This can be my tonic, for at the moment the usual feelgoodstuff is shrinking. The boy and I are bitching, and my wages are spiralling downwards due to new regulations and an overheated economy.

Whats a girl to do?