“Shut up bitch!”
I yell at him…
“I didn’t tell you to talk!!!”
And with that, I tighten the belt I have buckled up around his throat. It’s his belt and he wants me to tighten it…
He’s on all fours, because he’s a Dog, a Pig, a Slave. And because “Mistress Jaime” told him to get on all fours. He does as he’s told, willingly. His face is dripping because he’s sweating, profusely. Partly because it’s so hot back here - the air conditioning is broken again - and partly because he’s snorted so much cocaine. He grinds his teeth as I wrap a pair of stockings around his face, and pinch his nipples, hard.
He says this and I immediately scream at him.
“Thank you, what?!”
“Thank you, Mistress Jamie.”
He replies confidently, in between his teeth grinding. And I pull my hand back behind my head, and slap him across the face, as hard as I can. He moans and I tell him to shut the fuck up, again.
I feed him a piece of ice to alleviate his ferocious dry mouth. The drugs have siphoned all his saliva, and his lips, and tongue, are not functioning properly. He sucks the ice cube and asks if I will hit him again.
“Say it louder! Beg pig!!”
He’s peaked, overweight, in his forties, works in finance, and married with two children. Nothing noteworthy. Just your average, married, six-figure salary making, tech dude. A dude who also visits Jaime, here, about three times a week. And he pays her two hundred and fifty dollars an hour, to humiliate him, for hours…
It’s one thing to do all this in the privacy of your own home, or in a dungeon, with a Dominatrix. But it’s an entirely different story to pay to do it in the back of a VIP room, at a titty bar. In front of God, strippers, and anyone else fortunate enough to get a glimpse.
I ponder his family…
Pleasures, in Pasadena, California…
The club is furious with movement, money, and sweat. Besides the sixty or so strippers, there are a few hundred men here. Music feeds the fantasy, stopping time, and overwhelming any sounds from the outside. It’s a room that breathes with electricity, lustful, greedy, dangerous, electricity.
The girls are vicious tonight, feeding. There’s enough food for everyone, but there are those of us that come here to take it all. And Jaime is one of them.
The main room has stages, everywhere. Beautiful naked breasts under lights and champagne, everywhere. There’s a huge main stage, a stage that can hold all the girls, at once. This club has over a hundred girls on the roster, and we can work anytime we want. The main stage is where we all parade ourselves, like the miss America contest, so the men can view the cattle. It’s the auction pre-lim. It’s where we sell ourselves off for the two for one, visually. And it’s the stage all the girls must perform on.
There are several other smaller stages peppered around the room. And the walls are lined with red vinyl booths and table stages. Each one of them have poles. And like buds on a Pussy Willow branch, the girls hang.
Over the music and after every song, the DJ, Joe, hosts the buffet. He makes lude jokes and introduces each girl with a clever quip about their name. Peaches, Ecstasy, Chanel, Vixen… He encourages the men, the money, and he’s paid accordingly. Everyone in here gets paid. At least, they do by Jaime, and any of the other girls that make real money in here.
There’s rules, like everywhere in life. But the rules in these places, and places like them, are strict, and adhered to. And it works well for those that play by the rules. There’s a code of ethics, a raw kind of integrity, and a pack mentality. Family, funded, loyalty.
Money… Everything’s about money.
Jaime tips bartenders to get her customers drunk, and feed her water. She orders a round of “Tequila” shots. And he gets Tequila, while she gets water. Cash only clients, of course… Please see any one of the ATM’s available for use… The bartender and Jaime split the cost of the alcohol he paid for, but was never poured. And Jaime drinks a lot of “tequila” so, his bar tabs are hefty, her customer gets drunk, and she stays in control of taking all his money. She can also do this through the waitress with code words or known gestures. He tips the waitress for bringing Jaime shots of water.
Same rules apply to every other department. Security, kitchen staff, DJ’s, house mother…
They all get paid for different reasons, obviously. But everyone gets paid, at least, everyone that’s part of the game. Everyone, except the customer of course, he’s the one paying. But that’s his department.
Customers can use cash, or buy chips. The chips are for the big boys. The ones that are spending thousands of dollars at a clip. The chips are cashed in at the end of the night, the girls pay a fee of course, as does the customer at purchase. And the girls get cash back. One of the many ways a club makes money off the dancers. Essentially, every club, and club owner, is a pimp. Between house fees, tips, and payouts. You need to make serious money, to make serious money in these places. You need to be a soldier, and work. If you don’t find a way to make yourself a commodity in a sea of raw material, you will die. You will, without a doubt, be eaten alive. And Jaime will have fun doing it.
Here, my name is Jaime, and Jaime, is a stallion.
In the back of the club is the smoking terrace. A greenhouse like area that could double as a catch all room for summertime parties at an Applebee’s. This is an upscale establishment and smoking is not allowed inside, no matter how many chips you have.
Right beside that is the entrance to the VIP room. Flanked by enormous security guards, this doorway leads into another huge room, with booths, and banquet seating. This is where fantasy is paid for, on the clock.
I’m in one of the back booths, the VIP area of the VIP lounge. This area is paid for by the hour. And a “Fantasy Hour” runs you two hundred and fifty dollars. Not including tips, or drinks, of course.
This is an interesting place, both financially, and emotionally. The girls that do Fantasy Hours have choices to make. Yes, two hundred and fifty dollars an hour sounds like good money, however...
One dance is twenty dollars, and one dance, is one song. The average song lasts about three minutes, so in theory, if you dance for an hour doing single dances, you would make four hundred dollars, without tips. But this means you would have to do twenty songs, back to back. Firstly, it’s rare that a man will only get one dance, very rare. It’s a certain kind of guy that’s a one dance only guy. Jaime know what those guys smell like, and only talks to them as a last resort. Jaime sniffs out different men. This is business, not a BBQ.
Each dance of twenty dollars sometimes comes with a tip, so two dances with a shitty tip is forty-five dollars – and six minutes of your time. Songs never stop, and we, never stop… So, on a busy night, you could make more money doing single dances, holding them in the room and getting four or five dances back to back, before you have to fish again. But with tips, you might come out on top.
It also depends what you’re doing during this “Fantasy Hour”. What kind of “Fantasy” your dude wants to pay for. What kind of dude he is. And what kind of "Fantasy" the dancer is willing to fulfill...
Some men just want you to dance, and it's about the math. They want to watch you dance for an hour. So, it's cheaper for them to pay for an hour. You dance to every song, for an hour. They will stare at you, perhaps say nothing, or perhaps say vile and disgusting things. Perhaps they just smile awkwardly, then leave.
Some men expect sexual acts, and there are girls that cater to those needs. They know who they are, and we know who they are. I’m one of the few that will send those girls fish. Some girls that think it’s “Cheating” I, on the other hand, don’t give a fuck. If giving blowjobs in the parking lot is your hustle, so be it. Get your money. I will send her guys that will come back to find her, when I’m here, and she’s not. I will be Mr. Blowjobs buddy, or so he thinks. And I will position myself as his “Matchmaker” And I will also take his money drinking “tequila” shots while he waits for a blowjob that may, or may not, ever come…
Those with puritanical ideas about women and sex are usually the ones paying me to do weird shit to them. Or, the ones giving blowjobs in the parking lot.
Consequences come from both sides of any coin. When we're alone, and our eyes are closed. We only have ourselves to answer to.
For some men the fantasy is just talking. About their marriages, their jobs, movies, or really fucked up weird shit. Things they can’t, or, shouldn’t tell people they know about.
Other men want to be humiliated. Usually men with really stressful jobs. Jobs that involve lots of money movement, or responsibility. And this brings us back to our gentleman on all fours…
He’s blindfolded on the carpet, and being spanked. He’s fully clothed which makes it even more ridiculous, and fun.
Now, he wants to remove the belt from his throat and tie his hands. He’s frantic, sniffling, itchy, and dripping sweat. It’s totally ridiculous… His belt won’t tie his hands the way he wants to be tied so he asks mistress Jamie, me, if we can take a break. “She” allows it. Mostly because “She” is moderately bored, and very hot.
We have established a two- tap couch pat if at any time he wants to stop, and perhaps has a pair of socks stuffed in his mouth, and can’t speak. It’s our little safe gesture, if you will.
I tell him to lick my boot, and he does it, immediately. I wish I felt more powerful in doing this, but I don’t. It’s more like watching T.V.
He’s been coming in to see “Jaime” for about a year now, on, and off. We won’t see him for months and then he will suddenly appear, looking for drugs, and jiggling pockets filled with money.
Of course, I know where to get drugs. I know a someone, that knows where to get everything.
I take care of his candy needs, and within minutes, he’s high, and happy. In here you’re only footsteps away from drugs, guns, and other trinkets of foul play. You just have to know who’s who.
We’ve had all kinds of adventures together, him and I. Each time I try to figure out how I can make it a little more interesting, for me. What degrading performance I can demand of him. One that has just the right level of comedic value in it for me, while also giving him his money’s worth.
I’ve made him put his face on the filthy carpet and wait there for forty-five minutes, while I sat in the dressing room, reading magazines. It was a slow day, just him in an otherwise empty room. I would run in every ten minutes or so, to yell at him. I also demanded he pay me double because I was so bored by him. He did so.
I must admit, he does ask Jaime to do some weird shit. Once he asked me to shove the heal of my shoe up his ass. Of course, I politely declined…
“You don’t ask me for anything, pig! I make the fucking rules around here, not you. Got it?”
That’s how I get around things I don’t want to do. I just get furious, and say no. He does ask me to spit in his mouth every now and then, and that I do, gladly.
I find it all so fascinating. Who he is with me makes me so curious about who he is outside, in the daylight, when everyone can see him. And I wonder what kind of father he is, and how he is with his children.
I never let him touch me, sometimes I won’t even allow him to look at me. And the only touching I do, is hitting, pinching, or pushing. Today, he’s so fucked up, it’s hard for him to concentrate. He has a very serious cocaine habit, or at least, he does while he’s in my company. He stops every five minutes to do a bump. He sprinkles lines on my seated thigh, and snorts it from the floor.
I don’t really care what they do to themselves, just so long as they don’t take my choices away from me, and I get my money. That’s all I give a fuck about.
Mike, his name is Mike.
He’s so annoying this evening, too chatty, too whiny. So, I make him walk around the club literally, doing laps. Then, I make him wait for me blindfolded, while I do dances for other people.
I finally tell him that he needs to leave. I tell him how disappointed I am, and because of this, he needs to pay me for two hours. Even though, I have only spent about twenty minutes with him. He thanks me again, and again. Then says he’s going out of town for three months.
Mike pays “Mistress Jaime” and tips her another hundred dollars on top of that, then heads out into the real world, lit.
Jaime heads back onto the floor, to hunt.
I guess that’s the beauty of these places, we accept everyone, as is. At least, we do if they have money. Nobody in here gives a fuck about anything else.
I ask myself if I should feel bad. If I should feel some responsibility towards finding out what makes him exhaust money to live a lie with a stripper. Find out about his wife, if she knows, and ask why he doesn’t share this with her. And quickly, the answer is no.
Every man who walks in here enters at his own risk. As do the women. We all end up in these places for very personal reasons. And we all return because they feed us, something.
These walls welcome the weary, the wealthy, the broke, the broken, and all the crooked paths in between. It’s a place that lives in fantasy, and its doors are open to everyone. In here, it’s the dance between predator, and prey. A backyard open to both sides of the fence. And it’s a fence that’s constantly shifting.
When men tell me, they want to come in my ass, or call me a dirty whore, and ask if I like sucking cock. Or describe skinning my soft tummy to make a lamp shade out of it. I don’t think my humanity is something entangled in these thoughts. Besides, they’re not telling me, they’re telling Jaime. And who are they when they’re here? Are they the Mark, or the Steven, or the Paul, they say they are? Are the words coming out of their mouths also performance?
I have become hardened in a lot of ways working here, and yet, I have softened in a lot of ways also. I see more sadness, I feel more sadness, and I see men in all the darkest of corners. But every time I feel a little too warm and fuzzy, you can bet your sweet ass some customer will fix that, they always do.
That’s why Jaime’s here. As a voice of reason, a voice politely reminding me to…
“Shut up bitch!”