Confessions of a Lapdancer

‘I’d be delighted to,’ he replied.

‘Listen, Declan, I really appreciate your confidence in my ability, but obviously I need to consider this really carefully,’ I told him. ‘I’d be risking my career if anyone found out that I was even speaking to you about this.’

‘Sure, Geri, I understand,’ he said. ‘You take your time.’

‘Thanks, Declan,’ I said, offering my hand. His was big, warm and pleasantly rough.

He escorted me to the door, which was the most gentlemanly act I had been on the receiving end of for some time.

I floated back to the office, buoyed by Declan’s flattery. He really was serious about the job offer, I knew that. But could I really hack it as a lap dancer?

There were a few puzzled faces at Sloane Brothers. Obviously they’d been expecting me to look crestfallen but I felt like I was coming back from a spa. Suddenly the world was full of options.

I closeted myself in my office and told Tania I wasn’t to be disturbed. I needed to think clearly.

You must be out of your mind, Geraldine Carson. Why the hell would a woman like me, who has fought so hard to succeed in a man’s world, go off and do the very thing that might unpick all her efforts?

I started to think about the consequences of being found out – what would happen at work, what would my poor parents think? This was a high-risk strategy, but isn’t that what had got me up the career ladder in the first place?

I had to be honest with myself – the danger factor was the most attractive part of it. I’d always enjoyed chasing a deal, but ever since I discovered my natural talent for riding, I’d also become hooked on the visceral rush.

I’d experienced the same kind of gut-level thrill after dancing at the Pearl, only this time the success of my performance was down to me and me alone. I was the thoroughbred, riding the pole, and it felt good. No, more than good – it felt great.

I had no worries about my physical abilities or showing off my body. Where the serious doubt kicked in was whether I could handle it mentally and emotionally. I imagined a scenario where I’d had a tough day at work and a customer got too familiar with me at the club. It could go one of two ways. Either I’d lose it and unleash a barrage of verbal abuse that might get me sacked, or burst into tears and run off stage.

I thought of Declan and his comforting presence, but he wouldn’t always be there to make sure I was OK.

However, it would be a particularly delicious sort of revenge on Luke and the Brothers to earn money out of using my sexuality when they thought I had zero sex appeal.

I knew I would face moments of self-doubt but getting in touch with my inner sex goddess and parading her in public was too much of an adrenalin high to resist. I just had to be ultra-careful that my two worlds never collided …

My mind was already made up. I picked up the telephone.

‘Declan? It’s Geri Carson here. Can you speak?’

‘I’m all yours.’

‘OK, good. What the hell. Screw the Brothers, screw them all. If the offer’s still there, I’m going to take it …’

Chapter Five

The morning sun streaming into my bedroom window helped me to jump out of bed on that crucial Saturday. In just a few hours, I would be taking my first steps towards becoming a professional lap dancer.

Declan had gotten down to business straight away. He told me there were no guarantees – I’d have to go through the training programme and audition like everyone else. I’d have to impress Jackie, who had been working at the Pearl for years, and if she thought I couldn’t hack it, I’d be out.

That didn’t frighten me – I was in good shape and wasn’t afraid of hard physical work. Declan didn’t seem to have any doubt I’d get through because he had already booked me in for a costume fitting at the suburban Pearl in north London, where I would be dancing.

I got up and switched on the TV to take my mind off the audition. I surfed the channels and found MTV and laughed out loud when the first video I saw was ‘Lap Dancer’ by NERD.

Maybe it was a sign that I’d found my calling.

I did a bit of a shimmy while I watched the lithe, tanned, surgically-enhanced LA chicks on the video and tried to pick up a few tips before jumping in the shower and then slathering myself in cocoa butter to make my skin feel soft and gleaming.

I’d been told to turn up in shorts, a vest top and trackie bottoms – with a pair of high heels – hardly a glamorous combination, but I knew it would be quite a workout.

I rolled out my yoga mat and did a few sun salutations and recited my mantra: ‘Geraldine, you have all the resources you need to succeed.’

I grabbed my gym bag, took a deep breath and shut the door behind me. Arriving in my BMW Z4 Roadster would only have aroused suspicion so I got the bus to the address Jackie had given me.

It turned out to be a nondescript-looking place in a grubby part of town. I rang the bell and someone buzzed me in. At the top of a short flight of claustrophobic stairs five other girls were sitting on plastic chairs outside a dance studio.

They all looked as apprehensive as I felt, so I clearly wasn’t the only beginner. A couple smiled and nodded but didn’t say anything. I wondered what had brought them to this point, whether they’d had an agonising choice to make.

I turned to the girl next to me. ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m Geri.’

‘Hello. My name is Irena,’ she said in halting English. ‘I am from Poland.’

‘Oh right, have you done this sort of thing before?’

‘Yes, I have danced, yes, but not in club like this. This scary, no?’

‘To be honest, I don’t know yet. I’m waiting to find out …’

Ten minutes went by. And then fifteen. I didn’t know what to do with myself. After all, fiddling with my BlackBerry or reading The Economist was out of the question.

I decided to repair some chips in my nail polish while I waited. The others watched me in silence. It didn’t seem the done thing to strike up a conversation, so I kept quiet.

Before long, the familiar riff of Beyoncé’s ‘Crazy in Love’ came wafting into the corridor and the studio door opened.

A ball-breaking brunette in her mid-thirties, with the ramrod posture of a classical dancer and a hard, good-looking face, strutted in. She was dressed in skinny jeans, knee-high boots and a hip-hugging, roll-neck grey sweater, which she whipped off to reveal a leotard beneath.

Ignoring us, she stood at the side of the room, stretching.

She had a natural presence and there was no doubting that she was top cat.

So this was Jackie.

Finally she turned to face us, hands on each slender hip. No matter how much horse-riding I did I could never dream of having a figure as svelte, yet still curvy, as hers.

‘Ladies, welcome to the Pearl boot camp. I’m Jackie and I’m here to put you through your paces. Please strip down to your shorts and vests – no shoes at the moment, please – and take off any jewellery.’

I took the lead and wandered into the studio – a small space with polished wood floors and four metal poles placed at regular intervals.

‘OK, when you’re ready, please come and join me, standing in a circle,’ said Jackie.

There were six of us, plus Jackie.

‘Right, then,’ she continued. ‘Before we begin, I want to tell you a story. In the bad old days, you would all have been called strippers and you would have been paid by the owner of a strip joint to wiggle your ass and take your clothes off for a few dirty old men nursing cheap beer.