Accept that Destiny, Crystal or Bubbles are our real names. Because, for at least the next few hours, they are.
Shower. I know, this seems like a given. But, two times out of seven, patrons smell like hangover, ball-sweat and deep fried mozzarella sticks.
Brush your teeth and gargle that rancid stench from beneath your tongue and between your molars. If you’re a smoker you should repeat this process twice. If you’ve been a smoker for more than fifteen years, make it thrice, because you probably couldn’t taste or smell the fart of a cow if you were standing six inches behind it’s asshole. But us young, lithe strippers sure can pick up on the stench of your heavy breathing and moaning murmurs as we get within a few centimetres of your guilt-ridden mug.
Wear cashmere. We like to rub up against soft things.
Do not wear jeans. The friction of our lyrca-covered cunts against rivets, zippers and industrial stitching results in unpleasant chafing. As a result, we won’t be grinding as hard against your cock as you might like.
Do not wear parachute pants, either. I refuse to explain this. Have some fucking common sense. That’s gross.
Do not over-do the cologne – roll around on your female roommate’s bed or nestle your upper body between you wife’s blouses in her closet. Women usually prefer the scent of other women. Aqua de Gio is not going to get you laid like in the commercials.
Bring lots of cash – not funny money and most definitely not your $100-a-day-withdrawal-limit debit card, and spend it liberally.