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SHAINDEL BEERS Why It Almost Never Ends with Stripping You start out doing it for the bucks— more than you’d ever imagined, enough, at first, to make up for the rest of the shit that comes along with the job— the groping despite the “No Touching” sign, the bastards who bring in straight girls to convince them they’re bi, the girls nervous and continously fidgeting, while cash— sweat-stained tens—shake in their hands, signaling you over to dance while they imagine themselves anywhere but there. “It’s a job,” you tell yourself, you’ll just hold out the rest of the summer. But you realize the rest of the girls said the same thing, and they’ve contemplated quitting for years, give blowjobs in the back for fucking crazy money. You don’t want to be them but imagine living the way they do, see them signing five-figure checks on shopping sprees, signing feature dancer contracts at clubs. You wrest with the fact that girls who have the image of putting out make ten times more. Buy condoms . Keep them on you just in case. The sugar’s pouring in—you’re only giving handjobs. You hear what you can make at outside jobs doing bachelor parties, you’re signing on for three most weekends, making it hand over fist, stripping at clubs the rest of the week. The girl who dances as Consuela Cummings says she can imagine you being “the next big thing. Imagine your picture on boxes—Not just a job, a career!” You read over the contract— mark Xs for things you’ll do, or not, sign on the line—$5K if you check the rest— anal, gangbang, scat bring in the greenbacks. These days you don’t read contracts, you just sign to compete with the rest of the gravystarved girls who try to imagine it’s just a job. LOVE AND SEX ...

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