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The Tasteful Nude The Tasteful Nude

When Stripper Meets Regular in Broad Daylight

When Stripper Meets Regular in Broad Daylight: Hair and Makeup by Emma Parkes

Hair and Makeup by Emma Parkes

Welcome to The Tasteful Nude, in which stripper, comedian and writer Kasey Koop gives us a point-blank look at life onstage and backstage in L.A.’s strip club scene. Check back every Thursday afternoon for more.

Beware the attractive strip club customer. My troubles in this department started with my first regular: a 40-year-old ex-GQ model who was too busy managing a restaurant to date after his divorce. He was finer and wealthier than my usual type: starving artists who slept on air mattresses, presumably to float away on once the Pacific finally overtook L.A. But there’s another fuckable regular I want to tell you about, a cutie I’ll call Ben. The stripper-client relationship we developed was my first unwitting test of the strip club’s unofficial code of confidence: What happens in the club stays in the club. Because our customers are often tied down, we try to keep things discreet by not wearing glitter or perfume. But avoiding sexually transmitted cosmetics doesn’t mean we can’t run into guys outside of work.

Here’s what happened when I ran into my strip club regular in broad daylight. Spoiler alert: His girlfriend was there too.


Though it’s a known stripper fact—like how pigtails earn you more money, albeit with creepier guys, or that the pheromones released right before your period are gold— that hot customers are a waste of time, I wasn’t aware as a newbie. Hot guys are too jaded from the pussy they’re swimming in to spend money on strippers. An attractive patron once asked me why he should buy a lap dance when he could just get laid. Perhaps because you’re soliciting the business of women who make their livelihood that way? Does this mean you ask waiters why you should buy dinner when you could make it at home? His smugness disappeared when I told him he’ll want dances in 10 years.

I was a nervous baby stripper when I first laid eyes on Ben, pulled in by his youthful meekness. When I sat down beside him, he caught on to the fact that I wasn’t doing well and bought me a drink. I vented about how my best friends had moved to New York, my car had broken down and I had started stripping despite the suspicion that other girls hated me. Men come to the strip club for relief; Ben’s might have been in knowing he wasn’t the craziest one in the room. We further bonded over lap dances, during which he confessed that it was his first time at a strip club and that he had a girlfriend.

Despite the two strikes of “attractive” and “taken” against him, Ben returned a month later. It was surprising to see someone so good-looking come back for more dry-humping, and I nearly broke an ankle skipping over to him in my heels. This guy must really be messed up, I thought; he probably gets me.

Once seated, he on the couch and I on him, we talked about his girlfriend. He felt she was “the one,” despite his curious solo trips to Whore Island. I responded the same way I do to all customers in relationships: with an understanding nod while telling them to hold onto the love they were lucky enough to find. Then I proceeded to shake my ass on his face. I didn’t pry too much about his personal life—the strip club is an escape, not an interrogation room. And he didn’t inquire about my aspirations, either, probably to maintain any fantasies he concocted of me as his Other Woman.

Five months later, I was running around a Venice lawn barefoot (I had gotten sober by this time, but taking the whiskey out of the girl doesn’t take the white trash out of her), prepping for a stand-up set. It was my girlfriend’s TV pilot premiere, and she had booked a few comics to perform in her back yard before the showing. I was nervous for my date Ken, (see “The Stripper Dating Diaries, Part 1 ”) whom I met at work, to see me do stand-up. When it comes to public displays, if there’s a more intimate act than touching yourself, it’s sharing your feelings.

Then I saw Ben walk in with a woman whom I instantly knew to be his girlfriend—a plain girl of inoffensive beauty. It suddenly made sense why he had craved a stripper fix. My anxiety skyrocketed.

For his part, Ben looked like he’d just come face to face with the Ghost of Boners Past. Here I was with my strip club date, standing next to my strip club regular and his lady. My mom was married at my age; what kind of fucked up romantic comedy was I living in? Ben avoided my gaze like I was Medusa and making eye contact would turn his dick to stone.

That is, until I took the stage. Ben had no idea I did comedy, let alone that I was performing that night. He tensed up, holding onto his girlfriend’s hand for dear life while Ken watched in amazement that I could actually produce words. By the time I got into my stripper material, Ben was doubled over laughing like my jokes had punched him in the gut. It seemed as though his nerves about being outed as my customer had dissolved into relief. This whore’s funny!

To my knowledge, Ben hasn’t returned to the club. But I’ve hustled other cuties, and these days I’m careful not to establish too strong a bond. It’s tough not mixing business and pleasure when you work in the business of pleasure.


Find more installments of the Tasteful Nude here.

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