Las Vegas Weekly

October 30, 2008 · 11:30 AM

First lap dance a biting experience

By Justice

Illustration: Justice

I remember the nervousness and excitement of giving my first lap dance. In retrospect, it was an unusually bad experience. The customer, I’m sure, knew better than to behave the way he did when he chose to bite me on the nipple. Since I was basically still in training for a strange new job, I didn’t necessarily want to complain. Was it standard practice to bite nipples as a customer? Rituals of the Las Vegas underworld were still unfamiliar to me. I noted that I would have to either keep my guard up as a precaution to keeping myself from losing blood or get used to being bitten. Biters are not common, I would later learn. In fact, I can’t even recall a single time anyone ever bit me since then. I did, however, recently see Mike Tyson at a strip club and I made it a point not to offer my lap dance services. Anyway, isn’t he completely broke? A biter with no cash is probably the worst strip club customer a stripper could ever encounter.

So the day of my first lap dance was my first day on the job and I was barely 21 years old. I went to work with my friend, who was also stripping for the first time that night. We were practically holding hands as we walked around the cavernous strip club on a guided tour. I was drunk on red wine and wide eyed from the sights. It was so dark and there were so many rooms. Just the VIP section was a labyrinth of walkways leading to little private chambers. The club was new or recently renovated and everything was state of the art. It even smelled “fresh” which I would later come to learn was not always the case for many musty old VIP rooms. There were brand new dark wood partitions and modern black leather couches. The club managers told us that there was even a heat sensitive surveillance system and to not try anything funny in the club. They would know about it, even in a pitch-black room.

“If you’re going to turn tricks, do it in the parking lot.” “Oh no. I hope that’s not something I have to do,” I thought as my friend and I received the grand tour. The manager showed us the dressing room and wrapped up the warm welcome. We were then instructed to get into our work clothes and to get to grinding.

We didn’t have professional stripper shoes or professional stripper clothes. We wore what we could find from the sock drawer and whatever remnants of leftover fishnets we still had from a goth phase. We wore clunky low heels and big excited smiles. It was painfully obvious that we weren’t experienced. We received comments in the locker room about our unorthodox choice of apparel. Tipsy and bursting with excitement, we walked out onto the main floor to search for someone to take away our desperately endangered lap dance virginity.

We found two men sitting together who would do the trick. It was a Wednesday night and the club was relatively quiet so our choices were limited. My friend talked to one of the gentleman and I talked to the biter. I was so nervous, I lost sight of my mission. Luckily, Mr. Biter remembered his mission and asked me for a lap dance. I let him know it might be sub par since I was new. The lap dance began with me fumbling to remove my top, a black wonder bra rigged into a halter top. The quick release technique was still something I needed to work on. I managed to Houdini out of my top and began to grind. Then I changed positions to give him a rear view and then switched back to a front view, and then again. Tits then ass, and around again like a rotisserie chicken. Through the course of the thing, he managed to take a bite. He didn’t believe it was my first night or my first dance, which I suppose is flattering. Many would believe that the “I’m new” line was just an act; another lie in the business of lies. Mr. Biter got a second dance and I made the fastest 40 bucks I’d ever made in my life. There was no turning back, there was just turning around again to change positions.

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