“Stripping taught me that masculinity isn’t about being seen — it’s about staying conscious while you are.”
– Blake Diamond
The prologue isn’t an explanation.
It isn’t a summary.
It’s a moment.
It sets the tone for everything that follows—how rooms work, how attention moves, and what it takes to stay aware in places designed to distract.
Read it, and you’ll know whether this book is for you.
Prologue: I Call Myself a Stripper
I call myself a stripper. People dress it up, call it “exotic dancing,” but that never seemed quite right to me. What exactly is exotic about it? Stripping and dancing are two different things. You can dance all you want, but at some point, you have to strip. The skill sets overlap, but not everyone understands the art of stripping—there’s a subtle difference. A dancer needs to know how to strip, but a stripper doesn’t always need to know how to dance.
Tonight, I’ll walk into the club with the same mindset I always do: ready to hustle. It’s that time again. It’s time to pay the rent. I circled this weekend on my calendar two months ago, knowing I’d need to work hard to cover my monthly expenses. The last weekend of every month had become my regular grind, my go-to strategy for making sure the lights stayed on and my pad stayed mine. Maybe there’s a better way to do it, something less chaotic, for now, this is my reality. There’s no steady paycheck in my line of work. The unpredictability keeps me on my toes, it also makes planning ahead tough. Still, I’ve learned to adapt. I’ve built my own routine around it, and somehow, it works for me.
Luckily, last night was a good one. I made more than half of what I need, so this shift should seal the deal. I’m optimistic, I won’t get ahead of myself yet. Every night is different. Some nights, the crowd is lively, generous, and ready to spend. Other times, they’re tight-fisted, and no amount of effort I put in will work. It’s always a bit of a gamble. That’s part of what keeps me sharp. I’ve learned how to read the room, how to feel out the dynamic, adjust my approach accordingly. If it’s a slow night, I find ways to stand out, or change my hustle, and coax a few more bucks out of people. On nights when the money’s rolling, I ride the wave and maximize my earnings.
There are times when I catch myself wondering if this kind of life is something I can keep up with. Living day-to-day, planning everything around the next shift, the next weekend, and the next gig—I was walking a tightrope. Every time doubt creeps in, there’s one simple truth: I’ve always managed to make it work. No matter how unpredictable things got, I found ways to adapt, keep moving forward, and stay working. That realization has a way of steadying me, making me trust my ability to handle whatever comes next.
There’s a certain atmosphere to the end of the week. You can feel it in the air, not only from the workers, but from the customers. People are letting loose, shaking off the stress of the workweek, and that often translates into bigger tips and more generous attitudes.
Of course, there’s always the unknown. Maybe the crowd will be different. Maybe the regulars who are usually reliable tippers won’t show up. Maybe a high-roller will walk in and change the game entirely. That’s part of the excitement—you never knew what kind of night it’s going to be until you’re in the thick of it. Regardless of how the night unfolds, I’ll do what I always do: make the money.
You have to read the room, make a strategy, and figure out how to turn those interactions into income. Some nights, the conversations come easier, and the tips follow naturally. Other nights, it’s more of a grind. I remind myself that I’ve been in this game long enough to understand the rhythm. There are always highs and lows, the key is staying sharp, reading the room, and being ready for whatever the night brings. When I walk out of the club, cash in hand, I’ll have that familiar wave of relief wash over me. Another month, another rent payment secured, and one more step forward in this unpredictable, yet oddly reliable routine I’ve carved out for myself.
I sit on the edge of the bed in my dimly lit motel room, my bag empty and waiting for the second night of work. I need the bag to stash my clothes while I’m on the stage. I try to bring as little as possible. If something happens to the bag, I want it to be a small loss. I head out wearing only my g-string, boots, jeans and a t-shirt.
The low hum of the TV drifts through the room, a thin layer of comfort in a place that never feels like home. Still, the calm won’t last. I’ve got about ten minutes before the cab shows up to drag me into another night on the job.
As I wait, I can’t help but think about my plans after the shift ends. Will I head straight back to the motel? Go to a late-night-diner? Hang out at the club? Hookup? The ticking clock serves as a constant reminder that I have to factor in travel time between cities, a ritual I’ve grown accustomed to in my years of traveling. This life on the road has taught me to stay flexible, even when the hours blur together and the decisions are repetitive.
It’s time to leave. I grab my bag to make my way outside. I’ve left the TV and the lights on in my room. I even slipped the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, a small precaution to keep prying eyes away in this sketchy area near the clubs. There’s always a nagging feeling of unease, but trust isn’t a luxury I can afford on the road.
The cab, as expected, is waiting. As I step into its cramped interior, the familiar scent of stale cigarettes and cheap air freshener greets me.
The cabbie doesn’t need directions—he already knows where I’m headed. The club is a regular stop for him, likely one of many trips he’ll make tonight. As we weave through the streets, the passing city is often my only real glimpse of where I am before vanishing into another chaotic evening. The cab pulls up in front of the club, the heavy bass of the music pounding through the walls. Even from inside the cab, you can feel the vibrations in your chest. I tip the driver and step out into the bustling night, the air thick with the scent of perfume, cologne, alcohol, and sweat. A cigarette smoke haze hangs over the crowd, lingering with the unmistakable reminder of a long night ahead.
The sidewalk outside clings underfoot, tacky with spilled booze and littered with crushed cigarette butts. Bodies press against the cold, smooth exterior walls of the club, which are illuminated by flashing, colorful lights. Neon signs advertise the club’s name and the latest events, painting the scene in an energetic, electric glow. For me, it’s just another night of work.
I make my way through the crowd gathered outside, brushing past the line of eager patrons. The bouncer, tall and intimidating, barely acknowledges me as I raise my bag and pass by. We do this routine every time. Inside, the door girl is indifferent, her focus solely on collecting cover charges. The club’s familiar chaos engulfs me the moment I step through the second set of doors—the pulsating bass swallows every sound, and flashing lights turn the dim room into a whirlwind of color. It’s loud, messy, and strangely comforting, a temporary world where conversations are fragmented and the language is one of gestures and glances. I’ve learned to smile and nod along, pretending to hear what’s being said.
The air hangs heavy, thick with fog machine haze and stale cigarette smoke. It hits you hard at first. It’s bitter, clinging, almost suffocating. After a while, you stop noticing. You breathe it in like it’s nothing.
The dance floor was the main attraction, its shining surface reflecting the colorful lights that flash and shine above. The tall tables and stools are strategically placed around the floor, offering the best views of the festivities. Beyond them are larger sit-down tables, perfect for larger parties. The DJ booth stands at one end of the floor, with the main bar stretching along the back wall. Next to the main bar is a doorway that leads to the dressing room, hidden behind the busy bartenders and servers.
The bar was alive with a feverish rhythm, music shaking the air until it seemed to breathe on its own. People swayed and spun across a dance floor nearly the size of a basketball court, their movements blurring into color and motion. It was a space where restraint dissolved and every pulse, every glance, carried the charge of possibility.
Tonight, I’m cage dancing. In each corner of the club stood a raised platform, each topped with a metal cage—four feet by four feet, eight feet high. That’s my office for the night. One side of each cage had wider bars so we could slip in and out between sets. We’d spend about an hour in one cage, then move to the next. I would pick a cage that would enable me to have a good location for prime time hours and near the main bar.
When you stepped off the dance floor and onto the carpeted area, you could sense the change in atmosphere. Dark carpet, chosen to conceal spilled drinks and dirt, led the way throughout the club. It was a stark contrast to the vibrant electricity of the dance floor, but just as vital to the overall ambiance of the establishment. And as the night wore on, the carpet would no doubt bear witness to all kinds of wild and reckless behavior, a silent accomplice to the passions and excesses of the night.
The dressing room is my destination. My home away from home. A temporary sanctuary from tonight’s chaos.
I keep my head down navigating the maze of chairs and tables, trying not to draw attention to myself. I make it to the dimly lit dressing room, broken chairs, boxes, and shelves line the walls, while cleaning supplies and dusty bar equipment are scattered across the floor. A locked liquor cabinet stands in the corner, a reminder of the temptations that await during our breaks. A solitary table in the corner, illuminated by a single light, with a cracked mirror propped up against the wall. The room has a musty, stale scent, a room that hasn’t been aired out in ages. The lingering scent of alcohol mixes with the sharp scent of cleaning supplies, creating a strange combination.
Levi, the other guy for the 9 p.m. to 1 a.m. early shift is already here, his face slightly haggard from working last night. We’ve worked together before and I can see the wear and tear on his body from years of dancing. Never a huge money maker, but always did well enough. I say hello and we make small talk about the previous night and wonder what tonight will be like. 9 p.m. is rolling up. I get undressed, down to g-string and cowboy boots, ready to go. I’m selective in my cage. I want to make sure I end the night in a cage near the main bar where customers tend to be more generous with their tips. We switch stages every hour so it was easy to predict where you would end up.
One of the girls from last night’s gig has arrived for the late shift, which runs from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. She’s accompanied by her so-called manager, who will likely sit in the corner and watch her all night again. I know it’s her boyfriend. Unfortunately, the other girl never showed up and they could only find a local guy to fill in at the last minute. It’s always a struggle to find female cage dancers, especially on short notice. The replacement is some new guy I’ve never seen. I don’t learn their names anymore. They’re all “new guy” to me. I’ll probably never see him again, and honestly, I don’t care. New guys are always the same—overconfident, drinking too much, thinking the night revolves around them. This one’s no different, downing drinks and burning through his paycheck before his night even starts. Many clubs allow the entertainers to drink on tab. The new guys often end up losing track, their paychecks disappearing into the bottom of a glass.
1 a.m. rolls around, signaling the end of my shift. I easily made the money I needed. I’m more than ready to go.
The whole night blended together in a blur of people, music, noise, and lights. It’s nice when things are uneventful; less drama that way. I make my way back to the dressing room. Levi also finished his shift. We get dressed in silence, grateful for the relative quiet of this space compared to the club floor. My ears are still numb from all the noise. As we sit across from each other, counting our tips, we chat about potential gigs. In this line of work, contacts mean everything—a new club, a fresh opportunity, always on the horizon.
With a sudden creak, the door swings open and breaks the heavy silence that had fallen over the room. As it swings shut again, our eyes turn to the new guy making his entrance. He walks confidently past us, heading straight for the table adorned with the broken mirror and flickering light. I can’t help but let out a chuckle at his choice of attire—a g-string and Capezios. Who wears those? Capezios are a soft dance shoe and kinda gay. He unzips his bag on the table, and I catch a glimpse of wads of money tossed inside. He empties the contents of his g-string into the bag, displaying his earnings with pride. Then he zips up his bag and leaves it on the table, as if it’s a trophy. It’s clear that this new guy is trying to show off all the money he made. The validation-seeking behavior of newbies never fails to amuse me. He turns to admire himself in the mirror, flexing a few muscles in satisfaction. He is particularly pleased with himself tonight. Without another word, he walks between Levi and myself and exits through the door back to work.
Normally I would say something if someone chose to invade my space intentionally. Tonight is different. I’m experienced. As the door slams shut, the room returns to its usual relative state of quiet. I lift my head to meet my friend’s gaze, both of us exchanging a small smile as we glance at the door and then back at each other. My eyes drift towards the bag, without hesitation, I reach for it and unzip it. We both swiftly take all the money, our hands moving quickly before zipping the bag back up and placing it back on the table in its original spot. In the dim light, I can see my friend’s mischievous grin. We both know the newbie will realize it was us. There is absolutely nothing he could do about it. No one cares about a drunk stripper losing his money.
We quickly gather our belongings, eager to leave the bustling bar and collect our pay. The club is still thick with chatter and the clinking of glasses, and we push through the throngs of people to reach the bar. As the bartender counts out our pay, I have a sense of invisibility with my clothes on and my hat pulled down. We get our pay and weave our way past the crowd towards the front door, the excitement of finishing work and receiving our bonus filling us with a rush of adrenaline. Finally, we burst outside into the cool night air, greeted by a refreshing breeze that adds to our elation. In a quiet corner away from prying eyes, we divide up the new guy’s money before parting ways. I never saw the new guy again after that night, and the club never mentioned him. It was as if he had disappeared into thin air, leaving behind only a memory and his money.
The new guy had to learn a lesson the hard way, it only cost him a couple hundred dollars. In the grand scheme of things, he should be thankful for the lesson taught. It’s especially true that when traveling in a distant town with no familiar faces, losing your money could have serious consequences. Managing your money wisely is absolutely crucial when you’re living life on the road. Every dollar counts because unforeseen expenses can pop up at any time—a tire blows out, travel delay, a last-minute hotel room, or even theft. Keeping tight control over your money ensures you’re always prepared. When you’re out here, it’s not only about grinding for every dollar. It’s about watching your money.
To continue, Stripped Memoir of a Male Stripper is available in print, ebook, and audiobook formats.
