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Authors: Tracey Shellito
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between a hairdresser and a furniture shop on the
fringe of the town centre. It’s not a million miles away from our office – another bone of contention between Dean and me. He thinks such places lower the tone.
Because this is a lap dancing club, nobody under twenty-one gets through the door – they check ID – and usually only members, unless they know you, or the business you belong to.
Though of course there are plenty of short term memberships available to the tourists, which was going to make my job harder. Everyone has to sign in, whether they’re members or not. The
security protocols might sound stringent, but they have to think about the licence and protecting the girls. And it’s most definitely in that order.
The club entrance is a candy pink and white striped pavilion, covering a flight of external stairs and the double doors with their attendant security and doorman, then a second flight of steps
inside. These lead through more doors on to a raised catwalk of plush carpet, with ornamental wrought iron and sandblasted glass panels for a railing, like a 1920s cruise liner. Two bars, one to
either branch of the arms, are adorned with topless bar staff and pretty girls draped in feathers and not much else. The balcony runs the entire length of the club.
Here and there are slim tables, just big enough for a couple of glasses and a bottle – which will cost you an arm and a leg. The walkway sweeps down two curving stairways that debouch on
either side of a stage with a fireman’s pole as its central feature.
More tables, a little bigger, for groups and those not afraid of being seen in such a place, dot the open floor space of the mezzanine together with another bar. Two star-marked doorways
underneath the stairs denote the private rooms where you can pay the girl of your choice to all but masturbate you to a climax, while you can’t lay a finger on her in return.
Two similar doors at the back of the room lead into the amenities. His and hers. The men’s toilet is usually full of punters and the women are only ever the staff.
Other penguin-suited bouncers circulated amongst the clientele and the girls as I escorted Tori into the club proper. A few of them nodded to Tori; me they looked up and down speculatively,
wondering whether I was part of the Blackpool bouncers’ mafia: competition or an ally. I hoped it wasn’t going to degenerate into a pissing contest. The business with Spink had put
enough of a crimp in my relationship with Tori, and I wasn’t anxious to add to my troubles.
Aside from that, we didn’t get many looks. Or rather Tori didn’t. She deliberately dresses down to enter and leave so she can do it without hassle.
I don’t know whether I got more looks from the clientele or the girls. Both of them were curious about a woman in drag. I could tell the men wondered whether I was part of the act, while
the women were wondering what was under the suit and who was getting it. I hadn’t been back here since the first night I’d met Tori, I’d always waited outside to pick her up, so
it was doubtful they’d remember me – I’m not the only woman who comes here to watch – or know I was dating one of their dancers.
I gave her a hand up on to the stage. She blew me a kiss before disappearing through the curtain. I shook my head, twitched my pants to realign the creases and rearrange my underwear, then went
to report to the management.
“Spink says good things about you.”
I said nothing, just waited for the punch line.
“You don’t look big enough to do any real damage.”
“Did Leon tell you how he came to be in the hospital?”
My questioner looked uncomfortable. Good, Spink had told him. Now I wouldn’t be forced to prove myself by breaking someone else’s bones.
“I can do the job. If you think I won’t be impressive enough standing at the doors, fine. It’s bloody cold out there. I’ll be happier circulating seeing nobody does
anything they
fringe of the town centre. It’s not a million miles away from our office – another bone of contention between Dean and me. He thinks such places lower the tone.
Because this is a lap dancing club, nobody under twenty-one gets through the door – they check ID – and usually only members, unless they know you, or the business you belong to.
Though of course there are plenty of short term memberships available to the tourists, which was going to make my job harder. Everyone has to sign in, whether they’re members or not. The
security protocols might sound stringent, but they have to think about the licence and protecting the girls. And it’s most definitely in that order.
The club entrance is a candy pink and white striped pavilion, covering a flight of external stairs and the double doors with their attendant security and doorman, then a second flight of steps
inside. These lead through more doors on to a raised catwalk of plush carpet, with ornamental wrought iron and sandblasted glass panels for a railing, like a 1920s cruise liner. Two bars, one to
either branch of the arms, are adorned with topless bar staff and pretty girls draped in feathers and not much else. The balcony runs the entire length of the club.
Here and there are slim tables, just big enough for a couple of glasses and a bottle – which will cost you an arm and a leg. The walkway sweeps down two curving stairways that debouch on
either side of a stage with a fireman’s pole as its central feature.
More tables, a little bigger, for groups and those not afraid of being seen in such a place, dot the open floor space of the mezzanine together with another bar. Two star-marked doorways
underneath the stairs denote the private rooms where you can pay the girl of your choice to all but masturbate you to a climax, while you can’t lay a finger on her in return.
Two similar doors at the back of the room lead into the amenities. His and hers. The men’s toilet is usually full of punters and the women are only ever the staff.
Other penguin-suited bouncers circulated amongst the clientele and the girls as I escorted Tori into the club proper. A few of them nodded to Tori; me they looked up and down speculatively,
wondering whether I was part of the Blackpool bouncers’ mafia: competition or an ally. I hoped it wasn’t going to degenerate into a pissing contest. The business with Spink had put
enough of a crimp in my relationship with Tori, and I wasn’t anxious to add to my troubles.
Aside from that, we didn’t get many looks. Or rather Tori didn’t. She deliberately dresses down to enter and leave so she can do it without hassle.
I don’t know whether I got more looks from the clientele or the girls. Both of them were curious about a woman in drag. I could tell the men wondered whether I was part of the act, while
the women were wondering what was under the suit and who was getting it. I hadn’t been back here since the first night I’d met Tori, I’d always waited outside to pick her up, so
it was doubtful they’d remember me – I’m not the only woman who comes here to watch – or know I was dating one of their dancers.
I gave her a hand up on to the stage. She blew me a kiss before disappearing through the curtain. I shook my head, twitched my pants to realign the creases and rearrange my underwear, then went
to report to the management.
“Spink says good things about you.”
I said nothing, just waited for the punch line.
“You don’t look big enough to do any real damage.”
“Did Leon tell you how he came to be in the hospital?”
My questioner looked uncomfortable. Good, Spink had told him. Now I wouldn’t be forced to prove myself by breaking someone else’s bones.
“I can do the job. If you think I won’t be impressive enough standing at the doors, fine. It’s bloody cold out there. I’ll be happier circulating seeing nobody does
anything they
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