The secret live of a South African Stripper #2, How I learnt to dance.

Welcome to the second part of my story " how I learnt to strip professionally and dance." I just want to say I am only here because a friend has convinced me to share my story . she promised I would never need to say who I am, I can say what I want and it could make me a ton of money, she assured me saying maybe I wont need to even dance anymore. I don't know much about blogging for money but I was surprised when she just showed me I made 6c from the previous post. People around here are making serious cash and now I believe my story might be my savior tonight. Thank you Jen I dedicate this one to you my friend.

The following changed my life forever! I was just a desperate jozy girl looking for a easy way out!

If you find yourself here for the first time please see my previous post: https://steemit.com/sex/@steemithotparis/welcome-to-the-secret-diary-of-a-south-african-stripper

“What do you feel about going topless?” he asked over the phone. I hesitantly replied, “Well, I guess I’m okay with it I think, But will they be able to touch me?” There was an awkward pause on the other end of the line and it felt like I waited forever. “Yes, but you’ll never have to do anything more. I promise he said.”

A few days earlier, I’d been scanning the Herald " SA News Paper " for part-time gigs and came across an ad that seemed too good to be true: “Beautiful college girls sought for nightclub modeling. Receive up to R2000/night. Email pics.” I answered and said that I was a 21-year-old student and attached some cheesy iPhoto shots.

It was January of my senior year of college in my home town city Johannesburg , and I was completely and utterly broke and half starved. I had been doing freelance work to keep me afloat, but things started to go downhill in December as the prices of everything shoot through the roof, when I only made R3800 for the entire month — not even enough to cover my rent really. One cold lonely night I huddled in the university library, answered every student job posting I could find and scanned Gumtree and OLX. Five minutes after answering the nightclub post, I received a response from a guy named Frik. He wanted me to call him. I ducked outside and dialed the number he sent me. I will never forget the butterflies in my stomach and thinking to myself, am I actually doing this!

Frik told me the job was actually for private lap dancing parties, he really liked my photos and thought I was a perfect candidate for the position. After explaining that the gig that entailed giving private patrons lap dances for R200/song, he reassured me, saying, “You’ll never have to do something you feel uncomfortable with I can promise you.” Upon learning that most girls went home with R4000–R6000 a night, I decided to dismiss my apprehension and try it out. I had a R7500 graduate school application fee to pay and didn’t know where that money would come from.

At 8 p.m. sharp the following Thursday night, I showed up to the address he texted me earlier that day. A upper market place in Pretoria. It was a nondescript black door on a nice street in a classy area. A large man dressed head-to-toe in black signaled that it was the right place. I opened the door and saw a coat-check area, which led to a huge nightclub-like room with a bar. Women milled about in nothing but thongs, bras, and stilettos. I asked one for Frik, and she pointed me to a man with a brown ponytail. He said that he was happy I showed up and introduced me to a few girls who’d show me the ropes. I changed into my uniform consisting of a bra really and some tiny underwear, and the nicest heels I had ever seen! Next I applied heavy eye makeup and red lipstick.

That first night I got incredibly drunk and learned how to give a decent lap dance. I let customers caress my ass, and probably because of the alcohol — let them take off my bra and touch my nipples. I even made the stupid mistake of giving one of them a handjob, just because he said he’d give me an extra R200.

After getting home at 5 a.m., I scrubbed myself raw in the shower and fell asleep. I woke up at noon and thought that it was all a dream, it felt so cereal. I tried to imagine my sore legs and headache were just figments of my imagination. When I looked in my purse and found R1900 wadded up, I knew that it had all been real, A little bit fuzzy nut incredibly so.

The club I worked for was essentially a secret lap dance party that changed locations each week. Guests had to be referred to a selective email list, and most of them were powerful types, lawyers, doctors, or real estate moguls.

I began working there two nights a week and quickly learned the tricks of the trade. The money felt like a godsend and I had enough spare time to work on school-related things. I mastered the art of chatting up potential customers in the lounge area on how to convince them that I was worth R200 a song. I spoke about how I was a struggling student, how my parents refused to help me out, etc. I learned that heavy doses of alcohol take the edge off grinding on a stranger’s hard d$%k, that it’s a lot easier to let a guy squeeze your ass when you’ve just taken a painkiller with a glass of wine.

From this point on one thing led to another. I had money and life was great, well so I thought.....

Luv you all xo Paris.

My next post, Dancing on the road to self discovery and freedom!