Evading The Champagne Room: Another Successful Story From the Trenches of Titty-Shaking

One year ago I started stripping in Australia. There, I got naked and nobody laid a finger on me. It just so happens that Australian men are extremely keen on pussy and are willing to forego any sort of physical contact to get a closer, gynecological look at an ecdysiast’s undercarriage.

I’ve been spoiled.

Which is why, on my first night stripping in New York, I was a little shocked when the house Madam, Winnie, a former stripper who tucked one last Washington into her g-string in the early nineties, started breezing through the club rules.

At first I was fine.

RULE #1. You may not refuse a drink, ever.

I had no qualms with Rule #1, since in addition to eleven-dollar Bud Lights, your client can also buy you a nine-dollar bottle of Norwegian-import water. When you’re doing what equals out to an 8-hour pulsing wall-sit, it’s important to stay hydrated.

RULE #2. The g-string stays on at all times.

Admittedly, Rule #2 bummed me out some as I really like flashing my gash. It freaks the younger, less experienced and more frugal men and has a hypnotic effect on the old ones. In a club where clients are allowed a peek of pussy, dancers are showered in Benjamins before you can say SHAVED.

Then Winnie announced Rule #3.

RULE #3. To whatever happens in the Champagne Room, the management turns a blind eye.

My reaction to this, both then and now: THIS RULE IS COMPLETELY INSANE AND UNSAFE PROCEED WITH CAUTION AND PROTECT THY HONEY POT.

***

Before stripping in New York, I had never even heard of the Champagne Room, except for that one spoken word ditty, which seemed to advertise it as a safely sex-free zone. To add to the confusion, the fluorescent sign that reads “Champagne Room” in bubblegum-pink cursive lettering is accented by the silhouette of a martini glass with an olive in it.

Up until Winnie brought it up, I had chosen not to think about it. I decided that it sounded like a nice place to giggle and have a bubble bath.

NOTE TO ASPIRING STRIPPERS: THIS IS NOT WHAT THE CHAMPAGNE ROOM IS FOR.

What I soon learned through the grapevine of stripper shoes and bitch stick breaks was that the Champagne Room is a place where you will find some small tables, slightly more comfortable seating and several couples of entangled bodies. According to the veterans, the Champagne Room often involves saliva and fingers going into no-go zones. AKA my honey pot.

Essentially, in the Champagne Room, you are no longer a stripper but a prostitute. My top-earning colleagues rub out a lot of hand jobs on a nightly basis.

As a full-blown lesbot, I’m not really into gripping dicks. So after Winnie’s run-down and the subsequent light-shedding gossip, I decided to do anything humanly possible to avoid the place without losing my job.

What follows is an account my first successful thwarting of Champagne Room shenanigans. (Note to all my stripper friends: the following can also be used as a guide for remaining professional while keeping prying fingers away from your holiest of holes.)

***

It is midnight. The house Madam comes up to me and my client. She sees that he’s already blown away a handful of twenties for me to bounce on his bumpy lap. On this particular night, my client, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Weird Al (if Weird Al had boils on his face) is delightfully intoxicated and shows no signs of wanting to end this off-roading affair.

“Would you like to take the lovely lady to the Champagne Room?” Winnie asks.

“GgggrrrrYeeeaaAHHHhhh whhhaaaa whha-t happensinthechampagneroom?”

“Anything you want.”

He’s interested. “Anything?

To which Madam replies,

“It’s full contact.”

At this point, I am still a bit green to the particulars, but as far as I know we aren’t going in the Champagne Room to play football—the only ‘full contact’ sort of American interaction with which I am even vaguely familiar.

I balk.

I strategize.

IT IS OFFICIALLY TIME TO BECOME UNSEXY.

Now picture me again: perched above Weird Al’s lumpy lap parts, doing my thing, listening to the Madame try to pimp my cheeks out to a guy who deems bathing frivolous. I want to simply tell her ‘That’s not in my personal job description—didn’t you get my resume?’—but that would reflect poorly on me and seriously fuck with my job security.

And Madam’s already keen on having my head because earlier that night we had an altercation about the politics of my g-string (she said it was too much like underwear, I asked if it was too tasteful.)

Weird Al is getting decisively grabbier with this dangling carrot of champagne football.

I remain silent. I decide against coaxing Weird Al into motorboating my tits (although he clearly doesn’t need any coaxing) and continue on with my dance.

Once Madam’s on to the next couple I change the tone of my dance from Sharon Stone seductress c. 1992, shifting down to Pee Wee’s Playhouse, wiggling my hips like a Mouseketeer with a shit-eating grin to match.

Madam returns to see what the verdict is on our potential sojourn to the champagne-martini-football(!!!) room.

“Naaaaaaggghhh maybelater.”

I exhale. My sabotage was successful.

***

Don’t get me wrong, I love stripping. I love dancing naked for money. I love the game, and I love the little men who come in so willing to play it. And, yes, I understand that the club charges 600 dollars for a visit to the Champagne Room, and yes, that’s a lot of scrilla. But if it comes down to allowing dirty fingers to contaminate my cooch, I can do without my $200 cut, thank you very much, Madam Winnie. Why not legalize full frontal on your dance floor before asking us to deep throat in your back rooms? God knows I’d rather flash some gash than be a sheath to strange cock.

The Sapphic Stripper is a nomadic vixen with a penchant for plastic footwear. She currently resides somewhere in the New York City area, where, with her tits out, she gathers stories.  You can rea ...read more

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