Excerpt of Diary of a Vampire Stripper by Cinsearae S.

I can definitely tell you I've had some real jackasses for boyfriends. In my newfound profession, that situation got a bit worse. But I'll digress for now.

I call myself Claudia, after that cute, little kid in the Interview with the Vampire movie. It's my stage name, complete with that same kind of persona for my character –– for that's exactly what I portray when I'm out on the stage, and ironically, keeps my secret well hidden. Plus, the guys seem to love it.

My boss strongly advised against us girls dating the clientele. Most of us do it anyway, and if our boss catches on, we either get a warning or fired. I never quite understood his policy, but thinking from a boss's point of view, it kinda made sense. If the relationship ended badly, it meant a loss of customers, a.k.a. revenue. Loose lips sink ships, and word of mouth still travels faster than any kind of online social networking. A bad date or relationship gone wrong with a stripper from the Hoochie Coochie Club would make the entire venue look bad.

Are you laughing at the name? I don't blame you; I share your sentiments. I hated the name of that place... it sounded so stupid. I would have loved to have known who made up that moniker just so I could slap them silly.

I was never big on dating; the young college guys who often came in the club were pretty stupid and easy to manipulate. They came to have their fantasies fulfilled, nothing more. But every now and then, there was some moron with an even bigger fantasy tumbling around in his twisted brain, and that's when the troubles would start. Some of the girls actually believed the guys were truly in love with them –or vice versa, which would spark a relationship in the first place. But I'm guessing that once the guys saw that their stripper girlfriends were actually human, things went downhill. What, did you think that we're not supposed to eat, poop or pee? That those dark, lush, extra–long eyelashes, wild eye colors and hair extensions are actually real? That we pranced around wearing corsets, garters, G–strings and stilettos 24–7? Hate to burst your bubble, guys. We exist as your temporary escape only. Key word... temporary. Engrave that on your brain with a hot poker so you don't forget, please.

So, I'm guessing you want to know more about me. I'm your average Jane, honest. Well, at least I was. This stripper gig is just a means to fund my way through college and pay the rent. I take evening classes now, naturally. I don't miss the daylight much, but I wouldn't be able to stay up to see the sun even if I tried. The moment those first rays of light hit the horizon, I simply drop like a puppet whose strings have been cut. My only saving grace is when there's an overcast or rainy morning, so I look forward to those days.

I didn't really think I'd fall headfirst into the nighttime lifestyle. I loved the darkness, but being a creature of one I did not foresee. I chose the stripper gig out of sheer desperation, trying out for the hell of it. I didn't know Jack or Squat about wrapping my legs around a pole, and the cattle call for ‘new blood' was the absolute worst. Just waiting for my turn made me want to crawl away in embarrassment. Our tryouts involved dancing in front of an actual crowd, and whoever got the loudest–sounding claps would be chosen. There were seven of us that particular night, including one tranny who knew exactly what the hell he was doing, too. But, as this was a club for ‘normies', the fact that he was on a more alternative level already exed him out. But no matter where he went afterwards, I was sure an LBGT venue would snatch him up in a heartbeat.

At six feet tall with mocha colored skin and sporting a blonde, bobbed–cut wig, he wore a white bra with matching panties, garters, stockings and heels. He had a dancer's body; wiry and muscular. I watched him work the pole as if he'd been doing it all his life, and envied him. It amazed me how anybody could climb up those things and twist and contort themselves around it as fluidly as a snake, with such grace and sensuality, not to mention total confidence. Already, I was feeling inadequate, and prayed someone else was inept as me.

I performed a few dinky moves, my sexuality having taken a backseat. I was wearing a two–piece, black, lace negligee with black heels that I was dying to take off after fifteen minutes. Why in hell did I try out for this crap? Oh yeah, I needed the money for school.

Ever see a kid swing themselves around a pole with one arm until they got themselves dizzy? That's pretty much what I did, minus the getting dizzy part. I focused more on doing what I considered sexy moves without the use of a pole. And thank goodness there were two others that followed my lead. I didn't feel as bad.

As we waited around for the other girls to finish with their auditions, I looked around the darkened warehouse–turned–strip joint, slash dive bar. Disco lights, mirror balls, multi–colored spotlights, and all the typical club junk was everywhere. The only difference was that there were tables all over the place for the patrons to sit at and watch the show. The stage had a catwalk, and the pole itself was at the end of it. Most of the tables surrounded the catwalk, and I got the creepy–crawlies knowing that so many eyes were on me. You can kinda ignore it, or not, depending on how nervous you actually are. I'm always nervous before I get on a stage, but once I'm on it, I ignore everything and focus on what I'm doing. At least the stuff I learned in high–school drama club was good for something.

I almost gawked at one chick that had a little extra meat on her bones, shaking her ass at the guys, who whistled and made lewd calls at her. Her dress was skin tight and completely sheer, and I wondered where in hell she found that outfit. When she squatted and spread her legs, the dress raised itself up over her butt. Not only was she not wearing underwear, but she hadn't shaved down there, either. She'd put Sasquatch to shame with that matted muff. Hello, ever heard of a razor? Nair? Electrolysis? Something?! Naturally, the guys whooped and hollered again. How guys could love a crotch–tarantula was beyond my comprehension.

Oh dear Lord, remind me again... what the hell am I doing in here? That's right. School. Need the money for school...

When it was all over, I was among the ones not chosen, of course. In a way, I was glad, but again, I was screwed out of fast cash. We all were given twenty–five bucks apiece, so I surmised it was some sort of stipend for performing that night. Whatever. It would buy me dinner, probably for two nights, depending on where I went, so it wasn't a total loss.

Back in the dressing room, I couldn't change into my street clothes fast enough. Feeling like a piece a meat for eight hours a night I could do without. When I passed by the office of this hole–in–the–wall, I noticed Little Miss Hairy Cooch sitting in the office talking to the bossman, along with the others that were picked by the crowd. Funny, but I knew she wasn't one of the ‘official' chosen. Oh well, not my concern. She glanced at me as I kept going. As I left out of a side entrance and headed for the bus stop...

"Hey, wait a sec," a skinny, middle–aged woman called to me, trotting up to the stop. "Cal wants to see you."

I raised my eyebrow. Cal was the proprietor of the HCC. The woman, whose name I had forgotten five minutes after she first mentioned it, was like his second–in–command, or secretary, or whatever.

"Ohhhkay..." I started, looking unsure.

"C'mon." She waved me back, so reluctantly, I followed. Did I really need the money that badly?

Back in the office, I noticed the girls were now gone.

"Here she is," the woman said to Cal with a half–smile.

He folded his hands on his desk, resting them on top of my application. I swallowed. "Why'd you run off?" he asked me.

I tightened my grip on my messenger bag. "The auditions were over, and I knew I wasn't picked. No sense in hanging around, right?" I didn't need to be bounced out of there by a, well... bouncer. I noticed that they quickly escorted one girl out after she started whining and complaining about why she wasn't chosen. I didn't need that to be me as well.

He grinned. "Well, despite not being chosen, I see some potential in you. You have a nice figure, not too much here." He patted his hips and I raised my eyebrow again. That totally contradicted the fact that Little Miss Hairy Cooch was in this same office not too long ago, but I didn't pry. Again, none of my business. "But... don't gain any more weight," he continued. If there was a glass of water on his desk, I might have thrown it in his face and ran the hell out of there. Damn society to hell with their ‘everyone–should–be–skinny–as& ndash;a–stick' warning they constantly shoved down the public's throat. Body–image freaks. Didn't young girls have enough problems concerning that as it was?!

"You could take pole dancing classes, and be up to standard in a couple of weeks. What do you say?" Cal gave me a bit of an oily grin.

I almost laughed out loud. They actually had pole dancing classes? Well, I guess you had to learn somewhere...

My attitude became stoic. "I don't have the extra money to pay for––"

"You can take classes right here, taught by one of our retired dancers. It's what Maggie does for a living now. If you take the gig, your classes will be free."

I paused. My sub–conscious was screaming at me in my head to just walk out anyway, but my logical (albeit somewhat desperate) side was thinking that this was probably some twisted blessing in disguise.

I took a deep breath before nodding. "Alright."

Cal extended his hand, so I shook it. "Great. We'll see you back here on Thursday at noon, and we'll finish up with the paperwork."

"Okay," I mumbled, feeling far away. I had officially stepped into the Devil's den.

On the bus ride home, I was seriously conflicted about this new job. One thing was for sure, I'd never do something ‘just for the hell of it' again. I tried to think about the positives. One, I wouldn't have to get up at the butt–crack of dawn to rush to some zombified corporate job that would bore the hell out of me forty hours a week. Two, the pay was awesome. I'd make three to four times as much here in a day than I would a week at a corporate job. Three, I wouldn't have to worry about money for school. I tried hard to think of a fourth, and couldn't. Then my mind immediately thought of the negatives.

Guys would stare at me every night, some of them one can short of a six–pack. I still wasn't comfortable with being half–naked on a stage, showcased like a ham in a butcher's window. This was a job that had to be done at night, and I'd get home around two in the morning. Who knew what kinds of wackos were wandering around during that time? Maybe I'd have to start carrying a knife with me. Or pepper spray. Or a gun. I didn't like guns. Never fired one, never held one. Also, I'd need some skanky outfits, so that meant having to shop around in the red light district, which already looked like skid row as it was. Hmm, I'd be checking out Frederick's or Victoria's Secret online instead. It'd be a hell of a lot safer.

I sighed. I knew the cons would outweigh the pros....