From the moment I hit the floor, I was busy. I was glad because I was trying to earn money for the upcoming spring break with my girls. You can understand why I cringed when I saw the outfit lady –much like a traveling candy lady, but hustling stripper outfits instead– maneuvering her clothing racks through the dressing room door.

She knows I'm a sucker for a new fit, so when she spotted me: "My girl, Nikki! I was just telling my husband how I have the perfect outfit for you!"

The electric purple lil' number had mini rhinestones that spelled "Lick Me" across the front of the thongs. My heart was sold but my garter was not; it was saving my cash. A common rebuttal amongst outfit merchants: "Get a customer to buy it for you!"

Sold. I put the outfit and my double hustle on.

The first patron I spotted was at the pool table. Tall, dark, wearing dreads, tats on his neck. He aimed at the corner pocket while I stood with my rhinestoned crotch behind his target. The player grinned revealing his gold fronts, never taking his eye off the score.

He shot at the eight ball and scratched.

His name was Tech. I told him that I needed a favor: I was saving for spring break but really felt the outfit was made perfectly for my ass. Without any real consideration he replied "Damn, how much is the outfit?"

"$40 Dollars."

He handed me two twenties and despite losing the game at the pool table, he told his short, lesbian opponent to "Rack 'em up!"

Before, I could say thank you he'd walked away. Obviously this was too easy for me. I was intrigued – he brushed me off but I know he liked what he saw.

My motto is: see how far can I get or how much can I continue teasing you before you want to fuck. And when it gets to that, I will do the deciding on whether or not I'd fuck you despite your deeds.

After weeks of being a voyeur in the club and playing hard to get, Tech ended up taking me on another spring vacation, buying my roommate and I groceries -the much appreciated -"trickin off". Eventually, I let him spend the night and he didn't hesitate to dive under the covers to retrieve his midnight snack.

His dreadlocks itched against my thighs though I soon forgot as everything but my pussy grew numb. Concentrating on Tech's powerful tongue and lip combination, I yanked on his dreads until I couldn't stand the combo any longer.

The next day, to my dismay, there was a casualty; I found my thongs were no longer fit to be worn because Tech had tried to eat them off of me and apparently his gold teeth didn't play as nicely as they'd felt.

Strike one.

The next thing I know, Tech is showing up at my house unannounced and following me to the movies and God knows where else.

In conclusion. More often, rewards come before sharing the pussy; afterwards, all you get is psycho behavior and stretched out thongs.

Recently, I have found myself concerned for those pole dancing honeys out there who can't figure out why they're not making any money. Some of you are new to the game and some of you been just lettin' yo money walk out the door. Well, fret no more because the pole police is here to spit some knowledge. You ain't gonna make no money if:

• ..you don't fix yo' hair! Yeah, you do have a fat ass—which is the key to the safe in this business, but what about that hair clip holding up those scary dyed split ends. Get a regular hair dresser, a wig, or a Chi Iron. Chicken heads don't turn heads!

• I can't stress this enough: Buy some new outfits. You've gotta spend money to make money! I remember years ago, the house mom embarrassed a vet dancer to tears because she wore the same blue sequence majorette outfit every shift for almost three months.

• ..you don't wash your ass! Make sure to freshen the kat with baby wipes every couple of hours. Clients expect a woman … a flower. Otherwise, you'll regret it financially. Clients are not shy when it comes to critiquing the girls and sharing their views with others.

• ..you don't smile. Even though many guys like to be handled, they also want the girl handling them to be inviting.

• ..you involve customers in spats with other dancers. Clients want to maintain the possibility of seeing the cunt of every dancer on the floor so he isn't interested in how Tangaurey broke your flat irons and won't own up to it.

• ..don't act a little trashy. Customers admire the more average brained dancers. No one really appreciates an intellectual stripper unless they are acquainted with the girl outside the club or they specifically prefer such a type.

• ..you sit and talk too much. Clients will talk your ear off and end up not paying you a thing for your time if you aren't careful. Conversations should be limited to eight minutes, then there should be talk of exchanging money for a VIP or a table dance. So, a good part of the work is done from a distance before you even get to the table.

• ..you wait on someone to ask you for your services. You've got to convince yourself and him that he wants to know what your pussy looks like.

• ..you spend all your time in the dressing room styling your weave and talking on the phone with your baby's daddy. Sorry, but no one tips a naked women in the dressing room.

• ..you are shit faced! If you get so fucked up that you can't even stand, then work is over for you. Thus, a girl's gotta know her limit. I remember how Tasty popped on too many muscle relaxers one night. This broad walked up to the pole and her knees became mush. Then, she tried crawling off the stage and ended up falling off the edge of the stage onto two nearby customers.

Stripping definitely puts you face to face with all kinds of people. I found myself befriending girls that usually I would separate myself from. Jersey, one of my fellow dancers, was one of them. Before I even worked with her, Jream had already told me the girl was a $2 ho. I hate women who sell themselves short.

Jream told me of the day her and Jersey first met: Jream was sitting with a customer smoking a blunt, disguised as a black and mild. She spoke with the customer about sex and things. The customer asked Jream, "Would you be interested in filming a porno?" Jream laugh hysterically. "What?" Before he could ask Jream again, Jersey, a fellow dancer, a ghetto white girl- plopped down next to her. The customer asked Jersey: "Would you be interested in filming a porno with her [Jream]?" Jersey replied eagerly, "Hell yeah! Just give me 500 and it's on. Shit!" I guess immortalizing oneself in film costs only half a G.

Jream scoffed at the statement and calmly said, "Girl, you done lost you damn mind!" The customer, distracted by Jream uncrossing and spreading her skirted legs, signaled for Jream and Jersey to dance for him as if he were a sultan. Jersey exclaimed, "Shit, I'm just to to get this money! My lil boy's birthday comin' up."  Then she spread her surprisingly huge ass cheeks to show Jream and client her new glow-in-the-dark clit ring number 3.

When I finally took my place at the club, Jersey was my first ally. She was alley, but as real as it got. Jersey talked like she was black and would proudly rant of how "I don‚t fuck with nothing but black guys. Whatever is smaller can't do anything for me!"

So, right before Thanksgiving, when an all black bachelor party came in, I wasn't surprised she was with the groom on the way out. We'd partied pretty hard that night. Jersey and I had made all the money they could fit in their wallets and even a good chunk out the ATM. The groomsmen insisted that I join them for breakfast in order for them to further convince me to go out with the best man next weekend. While loud and laughing at the local Waffle King, I saw Jersey's car creep up and out jumped the husband-to-be.

The night we worked together; I could tell she was anticipating me asking her the dirty details. I didn't because I didn't want her to think she could ask me about my business that didn't concern her. Once we were dressed, she was damn near stumbling with fervor to tell me. Wide-eyed and holding back laughter Jersey poured, "This muthafucka had me doing some crazy shit. Girl, he asked me to bite up n down his dick like corn on the cob."

I said to her, "You're laughing but I know you did it."

Ignoring me, she continued: "I told him I was gonna gobble his dick up with my pussy. Why did I say that, cause then he asked me to go 'gobble, gobble' whenever he went deep." Such a performance cost only $80. She assured me it would be a good Thanksgiving for her and her son this year.

Strippers get nervous when there's a new girl on the floor. More girls mean less money. Dancers especially hate when the new girl is already a pro.

I remember a time when Lonna, the highest paid dancer at my club, was out of town, so, the girls and I were on a make-money spree.

Then, in walked Dana — and all our jaws dropped. She sashayed in, to our dismay, with her bleached blond hair and double D's (courtesy of her best customer from her old club in Michigan). Like an experienced new girl, she refused to make eye contact. Eye contact with the wrong girl can get yo' ass kicked. It would go something like: "What the fuck is she looking at?" And before you know it, "You don't know me, Bitch!" starts flying. But obviously Dana knew better.

She picked the empty locker next to mine and immediately began undressing. She peeled off her oversized hoodie, exposing a tight Mickey Mouse T-shirt and arms muscular enough to crush any bitch or slimy customer who dared try her. Thus, none of the usual shit-starting suspects stepped to her. Like every time there's a new girl, we all waited to see if she's any good so all the girls give the illusion of being too busy to notice, but when Dana hit the stage we all watched out the corners of our eyes. She burst onto the stage as if she had been searching for the pole everywhere and she sported a Bud Light Girl mini dress that rounded every curve. She was performing, showing off her with physically inconceivable pole tricks. She even dropped down and completed 10 pushups. Finally, Dana's routine revealed her shaven pussy, which brandishes a tattoo that reads, "If you don't eat it, you don't need it." How could I not like this girl?! Guys loved her: she was blond, a bit of a redneck and in the best shape you ever seen for a feminine woman.

Dana was successful so most girls hated her, but we became great pals. When her and Lonna met they were serious rivals and didn't finish a shift together without accusing the other of trickin' off in the VIP or some shit. Personally, I never get involved with rivalries; my concern, as always, was money. Nevertheless, it took one to know one, in this case. I witnessed Lonna exhibiting the works of her vibrating tongue ring on countless occasions. Once I walked in on Dana sucking and jerking her damndest out of two dicks. The customers were seated side by side as she spat on each head over and over. Her stamina was impressive.

As her closest friend on the outside, we would work out together and hit the bars. Dana was good for taking me to country, hick, hole-in-the-walls where I'd be the only black person in joint. Dana: "You too damn fine to not show it off to all kinds of people." Despite how proud she was that I was graduating from college, she felt like attractiveness was a girl's passport for just about anywhere. Dana was a lady who admired my intolerance for no good men — but most of all she admired my natural chest. If she'd had her fill of White Russians, we couldn't leave a bar without her lipstick kisses scattered up my cleavage. She'd get wasted and practically chase me around asking guys if they wanted to see her plant a kiss between my tits. Once I let her take a shot off my neck and we'd have guys buying rounds and rounds for the bar. I never did get her hot pink lipstick out of my crème-colored blouse.

One night before my graduation, Dana cooked a good-bye dinner for me and we went out one last time. Her boyfriend at the time was a bartender at a local pub-Elliot. He was a hottie but dumber than a snowflake. When we arrived, he pulled her to the side and I could tell that he was up to something. Throughout the night, Dana draped my chest in lipstick but this time she couldn't keep her hands from under my blue jean mini skirt. At one point, I had to get serious with her to stop so I could finish a game of pool. Her passes were always so playful but now they seemed real. Soon, while I was leaning in for a eight ball shot, she had lifted up my skirt to reveal my thonged crotch and licked as far up as she could before I could reach under and grab her sternly by the chin. She was a gorgeous woman so my genitals were a little excited but I was not interested; I was more or less annoyed. My reflex was to slap the taste out her mouth but I refrained.

Come to find out, her boyfriend had pumped her up to initiate a goodbye threesome to go with my goodbye cake. I politely dropped her off at her boyfriend's trailer and assured her, "Next time."

Haven't seen her since.

Wise was the cook at my home club for what seemed like forever. He was definitely a fixture that helped keep me convinced that the owners weren't racists. He was white but he was a by-product of the hip-hop movement gone haywire. He was a lyricist, a drug dealer and the proud baby's daddy of a dramatic-ass black woman. He was always happy to see me in town, which helped make it a comfortable place to come back to.

One night, Wise introduced me to his best friend and rap partner Skills. He got his name from spinning records on the Eastern hip-hop club scene. Skills was tall and slim with large, brown, puppy-dog eyes and lips that called my name without moving. After a year of chasing me and begging me to call, I did. He was the first white guy I dated and the first of a few other things as well.

On my weekends back from school, Skills enjoyed picking me up from my shifts and dragging me from one late night DJ gig to another. He was a gentleman but very jealous. At one party, he left his tables to chuck a dart at a guy's head who was flirting with me. So, for him to visit me during my shift was rare. But on one of many nights at work, I was horny. So, I told Skills to come visit me at the club and said that I needed him to hold my legs while I reached this spot between my legs.

When Skills came in, I was wearing the old outfit that he'd met me in and swore that when he saw me in it, he wanted to violate me. I strutted over to and hugged him around his neck as he kissed my neck and gave both cheeks of my ass whole handed squeezes. Such a showoff! But I continued to egg him on.

So, I led him by his V.I.P. pass that hung from his neck down the dimly lit stairwell to the V.I.P. rooms. I stopped and backed him into the bottom corner of the stairwell and commanded him to give me the money for a V.I.P. We continued to the V.I.P. Wise was subbing for the downstairs' bartender so our payment was greeted with a sly giggle. I rolled my eyes and sustained my steps towards the purple couch behind the long velvet purple curtains.

Red Light Special by TLC began to play on speakers, and I got hotter … yet I was nervous. I had an idea of just giving him head and him fingering me, but I hadn't planned to get so turned on my own reaction to my request. V.I.P. with someone I was already attracted to? Yeah. I knew what was going to happen.

I pulled him down to sit on the glass table as I plopped down on the sofa. I propped my clear heel onto the table where he sat. Before I could execute my next move, Skills began rubbing his hand down my thigh until he reached the already drenched string between my legs. My eyes widened. Shit. I was really fucking nervous. I knew then that I would have to keep an eye out for the routine bouncer glance.

He played underneath my g-string, exclaiming. "Damn, Girl!" I told myself no moaning. … don't want to get caught. My clit grew and grew. I leaned back and quietly, subtley … I came.

He placed my fingers on my pulsating pussy lips and told me, "Keep it warm, for me." Skills stood and searched his person for what I already knew was going to be a condom. How the fuck was I gonna pull this off without ending up indebted to the V.I.P. security? I was going to have to be in control. So, when he found the condom I quickly sat him in my place on the sofa and straddled his lap. He guided my hands to his bulging pants. Despite my anxiety, I unzipped his pants and put the condom on. I was excited because of what lie in my hands; he was crushing the white boy stereotype for sure. I glanced back at the uninhabited curtain one more time ... and then got back to the dick. Slowly, I sat on his dick and we both watched as if disarming a bomb. I couldn't achieve the whole thing on the first stroke, so I arched my back and went it again.

From time to time, I would come to my senses for a brief second and stare into the mirror behind the sofa that gave me a great view of any neon light that penetrated the curtain. Feeling cocky, I placed one foot by his ear atop the sofa and propped myself up by grabbing his knees behind me. I bounced my ass against Skills' flat pale stomach. I threw my head back and thought I saw a shadow. I returned to my original straddle and waved one arm, grinding my hips hard in a pretend dance motion. Finally, he could take it no more; while sucking my healthy nipples … he came and didn't restrict his moan of pleasure. I loved it.

Skills inched his pants back around his waist I jumped up and continued trying to give the illusion as if I were dancing. He was my first white guy, and my first double dirty V.I.P. He quickly retreated to the neighboring bathroom as I coyly rushed to the dressing room. But I was stopped by the downstairs bartender Vee, saying, "Nikki, you forgot your money for your V.I.P., honey!"

• A bartender, Becca, slipped me a "mickey." I finished the night on the club's bathroom floor where I woke up (wearing just a tube top) to the sound of another dancer snorting coke in the stall next to me. I'd been there for almost two hours.

• My cycle came on while I was taking off my clothes for a big time dope boy with big time dope money. He informed me of my state after the dance. He discouraged my embarrassment and informed me that men were "actually turned on by the smell of a woman on her period." Whether that was true or not, I was disgusted and ran off to tend to my personal issue.

• One night, the manager put all the girls on stage and had customers pick out who they wanted to get a table dance from. Not only was I the last girl left on stage, but another dancer had to request me for herself. Needless to say, I went home immediately following. On the way home, my car broke down.

• If I recall correctly, the least I ever made stripping was $11, which eventually served as gas money for that night. It was a Tuesday, close to the holidays. The girls and I all agreed that we'd have been better off dancing in a graveyard. I had gone on stage practically six time … obviously without making even $1 on some sets. Holiday money sucks!

Best:

• When I made the most money I've ever made in one day: $940. It was my birthday and I had worked a double so, I had done "the birthday dance" twice and didn't have to pay tip-out to anyone that night. I'd finagled five V.I.P.'s and almost had my pussy eaten, by force, in one of them. He was sexy so I kinda liked it.

• Any day that I managed to get paid not to go into the club. Like when a regular client paid me $500 to leave work in order to give him and his girlfriend a private dance. Afterwards, I got to watch.

• The first time I fucked in the V.I.P.

• After dancing my ass off for two weeks straight, I made the remainder of my delinquent tuition payment in time for my second semester.

• When I learned how to booty clap and do pole tricks. Before, I would often claim that performing aerial shit was out of the question because the business didn't come with medical benefits. But when I started spreading my legs while twirling down the pole, my on stage tips increased. Making more money is the best of all.

9.) Bite his ear lobe or briskly brush it with your nipple: I would often molest the tips of clients noses with my hard nipples or linger close to their mouths. To be close and personal is key.

8.) Guys usually admire bald cunts: The older guys like it bushy; however, the majority just want to see pussy (often times, ANY pussy).

7.) Make your lips wet and plump: Play your lips up (the ones on your face). Guys admire the lips because theyll picture you sucking dick at some point.

6.) Smack your ass while making eye contact: And act like you fuckin love it.

5.) Remember his name: It never fails that guys are always impressed by this because they know that you meet guys all day every day. If not, theyll figure that you are only speaking to them because you want their money; true, but not the point. When they feel special, they get turned on.

4.) Dance with another girl: Show him some freaky shit, but dont drag it out unless he asks guys dont like you giving their attention away. Hes not paying for you to get your kicks.

3.) Sport a variety of ever-changing costumes: The same fantasy for eight hours can become a nightmare for customers. The less fabric, the better, but themed costumes are the most revered.

2.) Spread em, girls: Let them see the pink. I know it sounds ghastly, but it gets them every time. When I started dancing, my pussy was still so tight I didnt even know I had pink. So when asked to spread em, I was insulted and would refuse. In addition, if youre wet then you are assured to get more of his money but hell also, undoubtedly, beg you to go out with him. To them, wet says you like them. Im not making this shit up its true!

1.) After you mentally pin point where it ends and begins, grind on his dick (through his pants preferably): In every case folks, the dick acts as the money magnet. Now youve got his head; mentally and physically.