The Woman Giving Lap Dances All Night

Things you buy through our links may earn Vox Media a commission Every week, columnist Alyssa Shelasky asks anonymous city dwellers to record a week in their sex lives. The Cut’s Sex Diaries column, first published in 2007, was the basis of a 2022 HBO series. Photo-Illustration: Marylu Herrera This week, a woman’s crush talks to another dancer while she decides how to school him: 35, single, NYC DAY ONE 9:10 a.m. I keep my phone on Do Not Disturb for two hours as I drink coffee, burn palo santo, and finish Play It As It Lays.

I’ve been separated for over a year. The divorce has taken a while due to my ex dragging his feet on paperwork. We were married for 12 years until I discovered he’d had a string of girlfriends throughout our relationship. Noon Phone interview for a health-care job, which would be an industry change — I’m a stripper.

A day job sounds draining, but I don’t want to run through my savings. The interview goes well. The manager’s passing me through to the next round. 2 p.m.

Lie in bed watching The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. I love these women. Then I pack my work bag: eight-inch Pleasers, blackberry Uncrustable, three outfits separated in baggies, water bottle, deodorant, phone charger, garters, purse for the floor. That purse contains rubber bands, gum, lip liner, lipstick, travel size of my perfume, and a tampon.

5:40 p.m. Check in with the club’s manager for my stage set time. Hurry to get ready because I’m going up on the hour, my favorite. 5:58 p.m.

David texts asking when I’m free before he leaves for Asia for a month. We’ve hooked up weekly for five months. “Hooking up” doesn’t do our marathon sex justice. He’s sexy, exactly my size, and consistent.

When we met on Hinge, we agreed to keep it casual. Surprisingly enough, it worked. If I ever get a boyfriend, I hope I’m allowed to keep David. I text back options.

7:32 p.m. Lucky catches me up on her romantic life. We started in the same month, then bonded over club dynamics and dating while working as strippers. 11:27 p.m.

The club’s slow. Usually when there are no customers, I stretch and read, but I’m kicking myself — I didn’t bring a book. Scroll Reddit and think about who to text to come in and see me. Mentally willing the night to turn around.

2:12 a.m. Can’t bear it any longer. Ask my manager if I can leave early. He’s surprised I didn’t ask earlier.

Cash out and throw on sweats. Leftover mac ’n’ cheese calls my name. DAY TWO 3 p.m. Drag myself out of bed.

When I work back-to-back nights, I’m only capable of sleep, dance, repeat. Notice an Amazon package: rhinestones, boric-acid suppositories, and floss picks. Last week, I went to three stores for rhinestones before realizing it’s too close to Halloween. I despise Bezos, but I love glitter outfits.

5:40 p.m. Stop into Dunkin’ for an iced tiramisu latte and a sprinkle-frosted strawberry donut. I need the energy. 7:43 p.m.

Spot John down the bar. Saunter over. Saunter sounds cheesy, but that’s what I do, smiling and slowly adjusting the waistband of my panties. Men go crazy for that.

I win them over before I get there. John never buys dances but will stuff your outfit with singles if he likes you. He likes me because I’m quick-witted and can talk shit. I rotate in front of him like a rotisserie.

He shoves bills in my panties, then each triangle of my bikini top. It’s worth being felt up if he takes multiple trips to the ATM. He likes when I walk him over to the cash machine, but he’s touchy about money. You can’t directly ask.

He tells me to clear out my outfit so he can stuff it again. We do this for about an hour. I’ve always found making money sexy, so this job is exhausting but fun. 11:52 p.m.

I send Mark, an infatuated customer, my schedule every week. He texts that he’ll visit Thursday. Recently, he asked to see me outside the club. I’m trying to decide what that means in terms of payment, work, and my patience.

11:59 p.m. Lap dance, giggle, flirt. Nothing memorable happens, which is good. 2:59 a.m.

Ben texts asking if I’m working. He’s a pro skater I met at a bar. We see each other every few months for a little date and hookup. Last week, he came to the club and it was kind of a disaster.

On top of not buying me a drink or spending any money on me, he groped my ass and told me I needed to find a real job. I haven’t decided whether I’ll ghost him or write out a long message about how rude he was (not to mention he’s never gone down on me). I firmly believe men don’t read long texts. It only embarrasses the writer.

I don’t respond. 3:30 a.m. Home. I’ll sleep well knowing I made enough money to make up for yesterday.

I’m trying to save, but a Marc Jacobs bag is calling me, as is a flight to San Francisco for a girls’ weekend. DAY THREE Noon This is my first week without therapy after my insurance ran out. I call my other therapist, my mom. I haven’t told her I’m dancing, so it’s difficult to describe what I do during the week.

I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m depressed. 12:30 p.m. Trek to Williamsburg to buy Uniqlo culottes, then Castelvetrano olives and 365 brand pretzels from Whole Foods. I’m wearing new boots that give me massive blisters; I’m dressed too warmly.

Buy a T-shirt to change into. My mood improves, but RIP to my ankles. 6:20 p.m. Meeting friends at a bar.

I’m nervous — I kissed the bartender earlier this year, then we stopped talking. (I have a thing for bartenders.) Nothing ended badly, but I’m uninterested in the awkward “Hiiii, how are you?” Duck in, see he isn’t working, order an old-fashioned, read by candlelight until my friends arrive. The bar’s cash only, so I cover our three rounds. DAY FOUR 11:20 a.m.

Buying Band-Aids for mutilated ankles. 5 p.m. Pack stripper bag. 7:56 p.m.

Mark texts: He’s coming in. Yes! I love when customers stop by just for me. It means great money.

9:15 p.m. Getting my phone out to send Mark an ass photo when he walks in. He buys me a tequila soda and gets three lap dances. He massages my thighs while I grind on him.

I make sure to tell him it feels like heaven so he keeps doing it. By the end of the night, my thighs could give out. A customer once asked if they’re rock hard because of muscle or knots. Thankfully muscle.

9:40 p.m. Between dances, Mark and I talk about Emma Cline’s The Guest. I read it quickly last week after he mentioned it; I invest in repeat customers. We exchange theories about what happened to the protagonist after the book’s end.

10:10 p.m. Get offstage after a set and start walking over to Mark. Star intercepts him; they talk. I’m pissed and sulking that he’s not acting like he’s there for me.

I sit looking at my phone, stewing. Time is money. Try to decide if I should talk to someone else or wait it out. 10:41 p.m.

Still waiting on Mark. Check my emails. One from my lawyer: My divorce is final. Text my friends those Nicole Kidman photos feeling minorly relieved, like when you cross an errand off your to-do list.

When I’ve been severely wronged, I sever ties easily. I like that about myself. 11:12 p.m. Finish another stage set.

Mark looks like a little boy who knows he misbehaved. I ask if he wants to hang out with me or other dancers. We get into a discussion about how he has a crush on me, is embarrassed other dancers know him, and only wants to spend time with me. He buys three more dances.

11:45 p.m. Mark wants to define our relationship, but I’m still annoyed. Unspoken club etiquette: Him conversing with another dancer shows he’s open to spending on other girls. I flirt along, hold his hand, and talk about movies we want to see.

12:55 a.m. Tell Mark to head home. During my next set, I need to make money off customers who still have full wallets. This sounds predatory, but I’m at work.

3:45 a.m. Shower and shove an Uncrustable into my mouth. One of the best things about dancing is the heavy calories you can pack in for energy: pizza rolls, Pop-Tarts, grilled cheese. A downside: I am nocturnal and can’t settle into sleep right away.

I watch Law & Order to bore myself into drifting off. 4:30 a.m. Send my friend a voice note recapping my night. I call these “Tales From the Strip.” DAY FIVE 10:30 a.m.

Call Dad and sing “Happy Birthday” obnoxious opera style. He lets me finish before telling me he’s at Home Depot and I’m on speaker. I think he’s lying, but he sounds amused. I tell him about the divorce being finalized and he congratulates me.

My dad likes to hear news before my mom. It makes him feel special. (I immediately call my mom after.) 3:42 p.m. David texts confirming tomorrow night.

He’s not drinking so will come right over. Efficient! 5 p.m. Two-hour dance workshop in the city.

My body’s exhausted, but I commit to dancing for myself at least once a week. The instructor lends me a ball to roll out a major knot in my calf from wearing heels so much. 8 p.m. Walk to a bar with friends.

I met the bartender a few weeks ago at the club. It was his birthday; we hit it off. He told me I should swing by sometime, so this is me swinging. This is the first time I’ve been open to meeting a guy out of the club.

Call it a dancer’s intuition, but it’s easy to discern who has a strip-club addiction and who goes for a special occasion. I’d never date a strip-club regular. 8:15 p.m. We see Bartender Eric, who says hi.

My friends and I quietly toast my divorce so Eric doesn’t overhear. He comps two rounds and shots. We chat and realize we live very close to each other. He asks me to dinner.

I give him my number and real name. 9:30 p.m. My friends leave. Eric sits on the barstool next to mine and holds my hand, asking what music I like and where I grew up.

I’m at risk of kissing him at his workplace, so it’s time to go. Outside, we hug in front of his smoking co-workers. 10 p.m. Home posting my workshop videos to Stories.

I dislike social media, but it’s important to stay connected to my dance community. I don’t let men follow me until we sleep together. I’ve had lurkers who never text me but instantly watch Stories of me dancing — ew. 10:30 p.m.

Eric texts proposing a restaurant and time. He’ll walk to pick me up, then we’ll take a car to dinner. Maybe this will go somewhere. I haven’t had a second date in months, which is damaging my self-confidence.

I can’t blame my looks … The issue must boil down to my personality. DAY SIX 10:10 a.m. Mark sends a photo of the book he’s reading. Decide to make him wait.

Texting back inconsistently makes him respond faster. 2:45 p.m. Walk to the local diner with just-okay food. Order a veggie burger with cheese, fries, coffee, and a Bloody Mary.

I could drink tomato juice all day. Read Lisa Taddeo’s Animal while I wait for my food, which is actually excellent today. 8:22 p.m. David arrives.

He asks for a seltzer. I ask him to get in bed to warm me up. I keep my apartment cold but kept the windows open for too long today. Under my covers, he tells me about his week.

Then a constant stream of kissing and touching. I’m on top, sliding his dick hot-dog-bunned between my ass cheeks. It’s sexy. I don’t question it.

I love sex with David because there’s no judgment. Things get weird; we discover what feels good, then do it until our legs get too tired and we have to switch. 11:27 p.m. David and I have an unspoken mutual agreement that he doesn’t spend the night.

I enjoy his company, but sleeping over’s too intimate. Before he leaves, I tell him I’ll miss him while he’s traveling, which is true. 11:30 p.m. I inhale everything in my fridge: a handful of shredded cheese, lemon-dill hummus, pretzels.

Take magnesium and tuck myself in. It’s a new moon, and my astrology app told me to manifest what I want in relationships, so I try and figure that out before falling asleep. DAY SEVEN 10:24 a.m. I continue with Animal.

It’s not lost on me that I’ve been reading a lot about sex workers. My next book is Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove, recommended by several people, so I have high hopes. It’s nice to have something to look forward to. 1:55 p.m.

Text my friends a draft of a message to Mark about him talking to other dancers. The tone is serious and sets boundaries (not my strength), but I think it’s too long and finger-wagging. They agree it’s not going to be effective. We brainstorm via voice notes.

We conclude I should come across as flirty, not mention money, and keep trying to get him to come in to see me. I’m selling “fantasy girl who never gets annoyed” even though I’m consistently irked by men. 2:26 p.m. Instead of the workshopped text, I write Mark, “Since you showed me yours, I’ll show you mine,” with a photo of Animal.

He replies right away saying he can’t wait to hear about it. Ugh. I’ll send the other text later. 3 p.m.

Get ready listening to Dame Atlas. 4:30 p.m. Meet a friend for martinis and fries before we see Silence of the Lambs. We discuss the merits of dating an ugly man if he has money and is nice, then get into the different tiers of attractiveness.

We settle on highest to lowest: gorgeous, sexy, hot, attractive, not ugly, ugly. We agree you never go for gorgeous but ideally land someone in the sexy-to-attractive range. 8:04 p.m. Walk to another bar after the movie.

We smoke Chinese cigarettes and text our friend working a pop-up queer strip club about how it’s going. Conversation turns to how Pride & Prejudice (Keira Knightley version) and Silence of the Lambs are perfect movies. We laugh like maniacs over getting chills during P&P scenes we love. We both have obnoxious laughs — and we’re cheap laughs at that, so it becomes a cackle session.

9:13 p.m. Text Mark, “I want you to come in this week, but selfishly, I don’t want to share you with other dancers.” Sexy, flirty, making him feel wanted, and conveying my point. I don’t tell him when my shifts are. This way, he has to reply.

More From This Series The Guy Having Sex Behind a Curtain at the Club The Man Keeping His Suit on for a Booty Call The Woman Sleeping With Her Married Neighbor See All Don’t miss a Sex Diary. Sign up to receive new entries right in your inbox.

Source: The Cut