Samantha Ross reveals stories from inside Melbourne strip clubs

Samantha Ross has seen the inside of strip clubs all over the country — but one thing always remains the same.

A Melbourne stripper has shone a light on the type of men who frequent strip clubs.

Australian strip clubs are indeed a strange parallel universe.

They might look different from each other on the surface, but they’re all basically the same.

Upon arrival, your first port of call will be the reception area.

Whether it’s made of polished wood or smoky, tinted mirrors, you’ll be greeted by a girl-next-door type, there to relieve you of a fifteen to twenty-dollar entrance fee.

This girl will be polite and not overly pretty, so as not to distract you from the real deal inside. If she can be bothered, she’ll relay which and how many dancers are working that night — only she’ll call us entertainers.

For some reason, the staff never call us strippers.

Book author Samantha C. Ross. Picture: Supplied

You’ll notice the foyer is adorned with signed pictures of Penthouse Pets past or still in residence, alongside a few arty depictions of half-naked women with impossibly beautiful faces, each staring down with a come-hither smoulder.

Usually, a velvet curtain or dark passageway forms a barrier between the entryway and the club, hinting at the exotic delights inside.

Within these places of mystery, the lights are always dimmed.

I don’t know if this is for the dancers’ benefit, to veil our flaws, or so the customers don’t feel so exposed — I imagine it to be rather daunting if you’re the first man to arrive at a club full of half-dressed, impossibly gorgeous women.

I’ve seen a few patrons walk in at nine on the dot, look around and stop dead in their tracks. I also watch them consider walking out again — twenty-dollar entrance fee be damned.

Strip clubs are designed for partial cosiness, though.

Most look like an expensive lounge room, with overstuffed sofas and plush carpet.

There’s also a slight elegance to the decor, either to pacify the rich or intimidate the working class into behaving; either way, it doesn’t work well.

The inside of a gentlemen’s club is almost never painted white, although I did see one during my travels. I simply walked right back out the door, not wanting the dimples on my arse to look like glorified moon craters.

Being cheeky in Cairns. Picture: Supplied

Getting my country girl on in Townsville. Picture: Supplied

The customers looked more nervous than criminals in a police line-up.

Men like to hide in dark corners, which is why most exotic clubs are painted black. If you’re an intelligent club owner, you’ll colour the walls scarlet, subliminally suggestive of eroticism.

The corners are softly lit to soothe and relax customers, while centre stage is a flashing neon rainbow that highlights the erotic experience.

The bar is usually tended by another generically pretty girl or three, who will charge an arm and a leg for a standard drink.

And at that bar, you’ll always find the same kinds of men.
The Tight-Arse only drinks water or Coke and won’t give the girls a cent, but he’s the first to linger at the stage each time somebody else pays a dancer to get naked, staring intently enough at your vagina to catch sight of an ovary.

Then there’s the Pity Party Guy. He’ll sling you a twenty — if you sit for three hours listening to his story of woe.

His wife has let herself go. (Never mind that his appearance makes Will Ferrell

seem dashing.)

His wife won’t sleep with him. (No self-respecting woman would.)

His best friend stole his business idea and made a million (I thought up the robot vacuum, not him!).

Nobody respects him — not his family, not even the dog.

His wife ran away with his best friend. They took the dog …

The Bastard. Beware of this one especially.

He is in residence for one reason only: to insult the dancers.

We symbolise every pretty girl who has rejected him, from the popular chick in high school to the hottest chick in the office — whom he once asked out and was given a reply along the lines of ‘not if you were the last man on earth and I was already dead’.

My very first week of dancing in Melbourne. Picture: Supplied

The Bastard is blind to his own shortcomings.

He is surly and a blatant misogynist.

He is unattractive in appearance and unpleasant in nature, yet he doesn’t hold himself accountable for his many rejections.

No, his lack of success with women is our fault — because we’re all ball-breaking bitches, apparently.

The Boaster. He loves to tell you what a catch he is: how well his multimillion-dollar corporation is doing, how lavish his mansion is, how fast his speedboat goes.

And all the while, the Boaster will flash great rolls of money that he will not spend. (Important note: any man who wants you to see the vast amount in his wallet has no intention of parting with it, because he’s trying to impress you. Customers who have come to shell out

big bucks pay you to impress them).

The Misguided Creep. Yes, he truly thinks you are his girlfriend and is desperately in love with you.

Plenty of regular customers feel this way, but not on such a spooky level.

The Misguided Creep will write you poems and bring you flowers and chocolates.

I heard of one creep who would ask his favourite dancer to style her hair in the same way his ex-fiancee did.

He even asked her to wear the engagement ring his ex had returned, while the dancer stripped for him. This great love affair ended when the dancer caught him lurking outside her car in an attempt to follow her home.

Police were called, bans were put in place, and the Misguided Creep moved on to another strip club, where he fell in love with the next dancer who caught his eye.

Nothing says ‘I love you’ like a restraining order.

Quasimodo. He has a hunchback, harelip, lisp, clubfoot, psoriasis, dermatitis, lazy eye … you get the picture.

Quasimodo is by no means the worst of the lot and will actually spend money — unlike the other freaks. But he’s hard to gaze upon.

And you never know if you’re more revolted by him or yourself, as you take his money in shamed pity while looking away.

But what other pretty girl is going to spare him a glance?

The Dirty Old Man. No, he is not a myth.

He is around seventy, with a leering grin and a filthy pair of wandering hands.

His language is so suggestive and pornographic, it would make

a pimp blush. The Dirty Old Man is usually only good for a twenty-dollar stage dance on account of his paltry pension.

It’s rarely worth the trouble or trauma.

Though many types of men grace strip clubs, and for varied reasons, those mentioned above can be found most nights of the week.

The Diary of a Lap Dancer by Samantha C. Ross.

The dancers are generally indifferent to these men and will only talk to them if there’s truly nothing else to do.

The usual suspects’ faces and names may change, but the personas never do, no matter the venue, the city, the corner of the planet — whether the gentlemen’s club is of the high-end variety, with an expanse of tasteful decor, or a budget-conscious variation, dark enough

to mask the lack of expenditure.

Like the one in Darwin.

Walking into work this evening, I tried not to notice the dingy club in sad contrast to the pretty, balmy night outside.

The black paint slapped against the walls doesn’t quite reach the skirting boards in a regimented line.

The disco lights are missing a bulb or three, and the stage, with its uneven surface, always feels like a deathtrap under my stilettos.

Tonight, an old Madonna song was playing softly in the background, and the mutants were already in formation at the bar, ogling scantily dressed girls.

They were also lined up, awaiting a warm-up tequila shot.

So I undressed for work, took my place in the line, and ignored the frugal freaks for as long as I could.

This is an extract from Sunshine by Samantha C. Ross, published by Allen and Unwin, $32.99. Available from December 1st in all good bookstores.