I used to be so jealous of you. How did you do it? I would watch you stride through the club, so confident, the wad of cash strapped to your leg growing, like stripping is the easiest job in the world. Someone always wanted a dance from you. You made it look so easy. I thought you were brilliance walking.
Sure, the other girls whispered. There were rumors. I thought they were just jealous, I thought they were threatened. But I was in denial.
You are the Extras Girl: hated by your colleagues, but loved by men. You fuck and suck, blow and go.
Private dancing, though? Not really.
I’m sure you’ve heard what the other girls said. She’s a hooker. She has no morals. She’s dirty.
You know what? I think those are weak arguments. I think everyone reading Tits and Sass agrees that there’s nothing wrong with hooking and that there’s not some great moral chasm between simulating sex (what strippers do) and having sex (what hookers do).
Girl, none of us are innocent. Once, I tried to fuck my best stripper friend. On stage. In front of my boyfriend.
We’re all human.
I’ll be honest, though. Sometimes, you, the Extras Girl, make my night at work a little harder. Sometimes, I just wish you would go away. Sometimes, I even poke my voodoo doll of you with needles.
A strip club “extra” is hard to define. I’m sure you’ve heard a dancer snort, “I’m just selling a fantasy. I would never sell my body.” If her club is anything like my club—where high-mileage grinding is requisite—then she’s, uh, deluded. So, is an extra an act of defiance? Is it a dancer declaring to the world that she will capitalize her body the way she sees fit? Or is it a pathetic act of desperation, for the dancer so cash-strapped that anything will do, so long as she gets paid?
But here’s the rub (heh)—you’re undercutting my money. Your chummy blow job makes my private dance seem churchy. I have to race you to customers. I have to hustle twice as hard when you work. Frankly, it’s exhausting.
The market is highly competitive here in Detroit. We are home to over 30 strip clubs. That’s one strip club for every four square miles. For a city in permanent recession and once referred to as a ghost town, that is a lot of dancers!
And I’m proud to say that Detroit offers the best lap dances in the country, for only $20 a song!
Unless you’re working, Extras Girl. Then that crisp $20 might buy a blowjob, a handjob, or even sex.
But I guess I can’t blame you. A three minute handjob expends less energy than a three minute private dance. And who could say no? No thanks ma’am, I’d rather not cum.
Listen, Extras Girl, we’re kind of sick of you.
Maybe it’s the customers’ post-orgasm, shit-eating grins that annoy us. How proud they are to have scored at the titty bar. Maybe it’s the sense of entitlement they develop after a “dance” with you. But she let me take my dick out. Or maybe it’s because there’s just so many of you now and it’s starting to feel like the dancers who only provide lapdances are outnumbered.
Even though the club’s house girls would prefer to surround with you torches and pitchforks, I’ll offer you a peace treaty, Extras Girl.
The Unofficial, Unsolicited Guide to Being an Extras Girl, if you will.
Please be a team player. The best Extras Girls are polite, enthusiastic and genuinely want everyone to make money. Help us. Recommend us. Make sure your loyal fan club members tip us.
Please stay away from our regulars. Yes, I know, technically we don’t own any single customer, but I think hustling another girl’s regular is just poor form. I’ll just say it—please don’t fuck my regular. I need him.
Please consider our health. Use a condom. Dispose of it properly. Biffing on a fresh condom is not dignified. Neither is sitting in a pile of spooge.
Please, let’s learn to work together. Maybe I could refer some men to you. Maybe you hang back and let us fluff a few gents before you pounce. Maybe you could quit showing your pussy on stage.
And finally—this is important—charge more money. Seriously. Like a metric ton more. Please don’t make my $20 dance look like a ripoff. You’re performing sexual favors for men who should be grateful that you have even farted in their general direction. Your presence, your touch, your acknowledgement is a privilege and these guys should be paying royally for it. Have some business acumen! The strip club should not be a sexual-favors-buyers’-market.
I’m not jealous of you anymore, Extras Girl. I want to know why you choose to work differently than the rest of us.
I guess it’s not really my business.
But I do want to be friends with you, Extras Girl. There can be room for all the working girls.
We are seeking a dancer who provides “extras” in the club to write for us. Please get in touch at firstname.lastname@example.org.