Confessions of a Lapdancer. Литагент HarperCollins USD

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СКАЧАТЬ the sort who’d terrify you half to death just by asking for a drink, then he’d smile, walk off and you’d find he’d left you wetter than the Little Mermaid.

      Fat Desmond was in charge of this crew, but I could see Tony was hungry for power, and maybe for me too. I found him intriguing and exciting. I began to look forward to the gangsters’ visits and found myself hoping Tony would make his move soon.

      My friends were the dancers, I learnt a lot from observing and talking to them. I learnt about pole dancing and lap dancing of course, but more importantly I learnt about people, and how to make money from them. How to spot the difference between a mark, who you could fleece, and a customer that you should look after so he’d come back. My best friend was named Jen, though her stage name was Alicia. She was a beautiful African girl, with a lovely round bottom and a heavy lower lip that men never failed to try and kiss, only to have her turn her head away as they lunged.

      I watched her, entranced, as she languidly swayed around the pole. Jen hardly seemed to do anything, but every angle, every pose, showed her assets off to their best advantage. Though undoubtedly attractive, she was far from the best-looking girl in the club, but she regularly pulled in more money than the others, however blonde and thin they were. She did it by picking her punters carefully and working them until they gave everything they were prepared to give, then leaving them wanting more, so they’d ask the bouncer on the way out when Alicia would be dancing again. Sometimes when watching her, I’d yearn to be up there, with her. I wanted to be her.

      One night she showed me part of the magic that enabled her to extract so much money from the punters. She’d been entangled with a group of noisy suits all night. They’d been trying to get her to let them touch her and she’d been trying to get them individually into the back room where the real money was made. They were upping the stakes. ‘I’ll go into the room if you kiss my mate’s knob in front of everyone. I’ll pay you £25 if you let me touch your pussy.’ They were determined not to go back there, aiming to keep it all public, probably to cash in on some bet.

      I was keeping half an eye on this as I stacked the dishwasher and eventually saw Jen look over at me and say something I couldn’t hear. The boys looked over at me, interested, and I wondered with trepidation what she was suggesting. Then she walked over to me. She leaned across the bar and whispered, ‘They think you’re my girlfriend. Would you mind playing along? I’ll give you a quarter of the tip I get.’

      I nodded dumbly, thinking I should probably have asked for more, but too keen to see what she had in mind. Then she leaned further over the bar, grabbed hold of my top and pulled me over to her. Then we were kissing. That soft, inviting lower lip mashed into mine and I felt her tongue slip softly into my open mouth. The boys erupted into cheers and I felt Jen, no Alicia’s, hand inside my top, fondling my right breast.

      Then she pulled away, but kept her huge brown eyes locked on mine for a few moments, a look of hunger on her face. She licked her teeth and walked back to the boys. She made a lot of tips that night and duly gave me a quarter of what she’d got from the suits.

      What I’m saying, ladies, is in this business, you’ve got to roll with what comes your way. There’s no room for prudishness here.

      I found out more about the gang as time went on, including the fact that Fat Desmond was under suspicion of murder. Apparently his brother Mike had been found floating face-down in a canal. ‘This ain’t EastEnders,’ Linda had said, ‘and Mike’s not ever coming back to Walford Square.’

      ‘Why do the police think Desmond killed him?’ I asked.

      ‘Because he’s as good as admitted it. They had a row over some bird and Des swore he’d kill him. Heard by a dozen punters in The Fox two weeks ago. Plenty of grasses around all too happy to put Fat Desmond away,’ Linda replied. ‘Too cocky for his own good, that Desmond, won’t be long before someone knocks him off his perch. He won’t go to jail though I reckon, he’ll end up in the canal next to his brother.’

      As she said this, I was watching Tony across the room. He was looking back at me. He smiled and winked, sending a thrill, or possibly a chill, down my spine.

      One night it came to a head. The gangsters showed up late, just as we were about to close. It had been a long night and we’d had some trouble with a group of businessmen. One of the bouncers had a split lip from the fight that followed and was in a foul mood. The other one had already gone home. Desmond’s crew came barging in, four of them, loud, half-drunk and triumphant. There had been some job go down that day and by the looks of it, they’d come away with whatever it was they were after and were in the mood to celebrate.

      The bouncer tried to stop them and ended up on the floor, curled up and gasping for breath. He’d had a rotten night, I thought. As the gang made their way to their favourite table, Linda shrugged and asked a few of the girls to stay on, telling them they could waive their club fees for that night if they did.

      I made my way over to the bouncer. Everyone called him Dublin, on account of his accent. God knows what his story was, he never told us anything about his background, but he’d certainly learned to fight somewhere, and the scars on his face showed it. He was a lovely bloke though, if you ignored the vicious beatings he gave to out-of-order punters from time to time. He loved the girls like an uncle and would do anything for them. I brought him a stiff drink and helped him back on to his feet. It always paid to keep the bouncer sweet.

      Dublin thanked me and raised the glass to his lips to take a slug when a hand appeared from nowhere and slapped the drink to the ground.

      ‘I think you should serve your customers before you serve the fucking heavies!’ Desmond spat. ‘Or we not good enough for you?’

      He was drunk, and high on something perhaps. I was scared but didn’t let him see. I stood straight-backed and looked him in the eye. ‘What can I get you, sir?’ I asked gently. Remember, ladies, the punter is always right. Especially when you know he has a switchblade in his boot.

      ‘Get us a bottle of champagne. Bring a glass for yourself too.’ I looked at Linda. I was allowed to accept drinks from the customers. Though not to dance, of course. She nodded, tonight was not the night to say no to Desmond. Dublin watched, eyes like gimlets, ready to take action should it come to it. I desperately hoped it wouldn’t, as Dublin wouldn’t have stood a chance against these four. I brought over the bottle and Desmond patted the banquette beside him. I sat down. Tony watched me from across the table, his face unreadable. I saw he had a cut over one eye. A big night for everyone.

      Desmond poured five glasses, overfilling them and finishing the bottle, which he tossed over the back of the banquette. ‘A toast,’ he said, eyes fixed on mine. ‘To getting what you want.’

      ‘To getting what you want,’ the gangsters chorused while I mouthed the words. I knew too well that getting what you wanted wasn’t always the best thing for you. I sipped the champagne and stared back at him coolly. He didn’t seem to like the fact I wasn’t simpering like some grateful, first-time hooker.

      ‘Dance for me,’ he said.

      ‘I’m not a dancer,’ I lied. Though, strangely, this time I wanted to do it. Not for him, but for myself, and maybe for Tony.

      He laughed. ‘Oh, I think you are, Jackie. I think you’re quite the little ballerina.’ He watched me react to this, champagne dripping off his double chin.

      I gasped in shock, despite myself. How on earth did he know that? My eyes flicked over to Linda, who shook her head slightly, as bemused as I. Desmond had obviously been doing some research. Hardly anyone knew about my past. But why would he take the time?

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