Dancing for money

Memoir, 2026

The rainbow mesh bikini is too small for me, I realise once I take it out of the box. I put it on and stretch it over my body. When I look in the change room mirror, I can see that my skin hangs over the edge of the elastic. There are dancers either side of me, but they are too busy touching up their lipstick and adjusting their bikini straps to notice. They have styled hair and full, glossy faces of makeup. I know I look different. I haven’t done anything to my frizzy, box-dyed red hair, and I’ve used an eyeshadow palette from Daiso on my eyes.

Nobody has spoken to me yet. I stand, quiet, waiting for the manager to come into the change room and tell me what to do next.

Eventually he walks in and introduces me to two sisters. One is a feminine blonde, the other a tall, skinny woman with curly brown hair, covered in tattoos. They are complete opposites to each other, but both so beautiful in their own ways. They give me a quick tour of the club. There’s a bar, a stage with three poles, some couches, and a lap room which is hidden around a corner. TV screens are set up around the venue, playing 2000s R&B.

The ground is lumpy and covered in material that has different sized circles on it. My shoes slightly stick to the floor. The sisters show me which parts of the carpet have bumps, so I don’t trip over.

I’m told the rules. No talking to a customer if a dancer is already talking to them. No fingering yourself during bookings. If you want to have a cigarette you need to borrow a robe before you go outside.

Once they’re finished, I look around the empty club. It’s been open for half an hour and nobody has walked in yet. Dancers sit on stools, waiting for the night to start properly.

“Stay until at least ten,” the sisters say, noticing my hesitation. “Nothing ever happens in the first few hours.”

A few minutes later, a customer walks down the stairs.

“Go talk to him!” They say, pushing me in his direction.

He orders his drink and I follow him to a table.

“Hello, how are you?” I ask.

“Good thank you,” he responds. I wait for him to ask me a question or continue the conversation. I don’t yet understand that it’s my job to do that. I look at him then walk away, back to the sisters.

“I don’t think he liked me,” I say.

They look at each other and giggle.

“I doubt it,” the brunette sister says. “You just need some more practice.”

I spend the next few hours sitting at a table by myself. I watch customers walk down the stairs, and try to figure out how I’m going to talk to them. After a while the manager approaches me.

“Talk to this guy, he likes the new girls,” he says, leading me to a short man dressed in a suit. He smiles and offers to buy me a drink.

We walk up to the bar and I try to maintain eye contact as he talks to me. I tell him that I’m a writer, and we chat about books for a few minutes. The conversation is much easier, and I don’t have to think too much about what I’m going to say next.

“Would you like to go for a dance?” he asks once I finish my drink.

“Sure,” I say. My body tingles as I follow him into the lap room. I try not to look at the naked women in there, smiling at their customers. I stare at my feet as he talks to the girl behind the counter.

“Ten minutes please,” he says. She takes his money and points to the last booth left in the room.

He sits down. I stand in front of him, but my hands are shaking so much that I can’t even grip the material of my top for long enough to take it off. I reach for my bottoms instead, but it doesn’t make a difference. I can’t grip them either. I try not to look at him, this nice man who has paid money to get me naked, only to watch me jerk around and fumble with my outfit.

“Don’t worry,” he says, serious. “Just sit and talk to me, you don’t need to take anything off.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“I’m sure,” he says, patting the space on the seat next to him. “Sit.”

I sit, my body still shaking. I press my legs as hard as I can against the synthetic seat.

We chat for the rest of the booking. I try to focus on what he’s saying, but my mind is like a whirlpool. I do my best to nod and smile whenever I think I should.

When the ten minutes is up we walk back out to the bar. He orders more drinks for us. He asks for a rum and coke, and I figure I’ll have what he’s having. I never usually go for dark spirits, or any spirits at all, really. Beer is always cheaper and better value for money. Now, though, I can drink whatever I want because I’m not going to be the one paying for it.

When we sit down he hands me some cash.

“Thanks for putting up with my crap,” he says.

I look at him in surprise. After all, I was the one who didn’t give him the lap dance he paid for.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Yes, seriously,” he says, touching my shoulder. “Thanks again.”

I tuck the money into the side of my bottoms and walk away, wondering why he was so nice to me.