Page 5 of Deliah
“You mean I look iconic.”
“You look like someone who’s about to bankrupt a man named Keith.”
We were pissing ourselves laughing, trying on pair after pair, until we’d racked up more debt than dignity. We left the shop with a bag full of lingerie, sky-high heels, and nerves you could only cure with vodka.
Back at the flat, Aneeka poured us both shots while I started getting ready. “Dutch courage,” she declared, sliding a glass my way.
I pulled on my long t-shirt dress over the new lingerie set, stuffed the heels in my tote, and took one last deep breath before heading out.
I arrived at the club just before nine and was greeted at the door by a walking Barbie doll with long platinum hair, a cigarette hanging from her mouth, and the brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen. “Deliah?” she asked, exhaling smoke through glossy pink lips. She was wearing a neon pink thong and not much else—massive fake tits, six-inch heels, and an attitude you could smell before she spoke. “I’m Crystal. You’re the new girl, yeah? Come on, I’ll show you round.”
The entrance was drenched in red and purple light, casting everything in that sultry, back-alley glow that whispered you probably shouldn’t be here. The stairwell was narrow, claustrophobic almost, lit by flickering bulbs that buzzed like dying insects. The smell hit me halfway down—cheap perfume, sweat, bleach, and something sickly-sweet underneath it, like prosecco spilled six shifts ago and never properly cleaned up. The walls were lined with mirrors and dusted in glitter—actual fucking glitter—clinging to the corners like the ghosts of strippers’ past still doing body rolls. It shimmered when you moved, as if the walls themselves were watching. I followed Crystal down the winding staircase, heels clacking with every step, until she pushed open a pair of padded black leather doors—and just like that, silence. About a dozen girls sat across black leather couches in the lounge area, all heads turning as we walked in. It felt like the first day of school—if school involved thongs, poles, and a soundtrack of Chris Brown playing in the background.
“Girls, this is Deliah—she’s starting tonight,” Crystal announced.
A few of them smiled or nodded. Some just stared. I introduced myself, trying to act breezy, but I was sweating bullets. The girls all had stage names—Portia, Lola, Candy, things I wouldn’t remember in five minutes. No one used their real name, apparently. Something about safety. Or fantasy. Or both.
Crystal nudged me towards the dressing room. “Go get changed, then we’ll get a drink, yeah?”
I slipped into my new set—lace, clear heels, the whole shebang—and took a moment in the mirror to breathe. I looked hot, sure, but I felt like a fraud. When I came back out, the girls were waiting.
“So,” one of them—Portia, I think—said. “Ever danced before?”
“Nope,” I said. “First time.”
They exchanged looks. “You’re brave,” said another. “First night’s always the worst.”
Crystal threw her arm around my shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll look after her.” They started grilling me—Where are you from? Why stripping? What’s your stripper name? What does your mum think? I dodged and danced through them like I was already on stage, giving just enough to be polite but not enough to be picked apart.
Crystal was hilarious. Every few minutes, she’d interrupt with some joke about a pervy regular or a horror story about falling off stage mid-spin. “Oh, and don’t let Barry near your drink,” she warned. “He’s harmless but a total bore. Talks about boats all night and tips in five-cent coins.” The girls laughed and rolled their eyes. “You’ll be fine,” Crystal said. “Just smile, be a tease,and if someone touches you, tell security. No one touches unless you say so.”
That part hit me. It was the first time in ages I felt like I’d be in control of something.
By the time the first few customers came in, I wasn’t shaking anymore. I was ready. Sort of. Okay, maybe still bricking it—but at least now I looked the part.
After my grilling, Crystal handed me a vodka cranberry—strong, tart, and exactly what my nerves needed. With a flick of her wrist, she waved me to follow her deeper into the velvet-draped world that was about to become my life.She walked me through the club like a tour guide in six-inch heels. There were private rooms with black satin curtains and sleek poles, tiny boxes of fantasy wrapped in soft lighting and perfume haze. Then the VIP section: velvet armchairs, mirrored ceilings, and low golden lighting. It was like a palace for misbehaviour. We passed through the open group room—a wide circular bench surrounded the raised pole stage in the centre, all spotlighted from below like a halo straight out of a music video. “This,” Crystal said, flicking ash from her cigarette into a tray shaped like a stiletto, “is where the magic happens.”
She broke down the money fast, all business. “Thirty euros a private dance—you get half. Ten euros for every drink a customer buys you. Champagne is the goldmine. The bigbottles? They go for two grand. You land one, you walk away with a grand.”
My eyebrows hit my hairline. “A thousand?”
She grinned. “If you’re good.”
The club was still quiet, staff buzzing around lighting candles and wiping surfaces. The official opening was from 9 p.m. to 6 a.m. Six nights a week. Crystal said you’d need stamina, “like stripper cardio,” but if you could handle it? The money was mental.
Girls started prepping like athletes—touching up gloss, stretching hamstrings, fixing g-strings. Some were sipping shots, laughing in a way that said nerves were normal.
Then came the pole rota. Each girl did two songs at a time, back to back, and it wasn’t just “wriggle and wink” like I imagined. It was insane. Ash was first. Tall, dark hair slicked into a bun and legs that could choke a man. She glided across the stage like it was hers, twirling into a seamless spin, then lifted—upside down—gripping only with her thighs. She flipped back, dropped into a floor split, then onto her back with one leg in the air so straight it made your eyes water. It wasn’t just sexy. It was... ballet. With attitude. She lay there, glistening under the spotlight, then spun upright with a final swing of her hips that sent a ripple through the room.
When she walked off, I caught her by the dressing table. “How the hell do you do that?” I asked, wide-eyed.
She laughed, wiping sweat from her brow. “Ten years of ballet.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Swan Lake to strip clubs. Who knew?”
I smiled, but inside, my brain short-circuited. How the hell did you go from pliés to poles? From pirouettes to pulling tips out of your thong? It didn’t feel normal—but then again, nothing about this place did. Still, she looked... happy. Powerful, even. Then there was Lola—wild, laughing, spinning like a woman possessed. She bit her lip when she dropped into a split and winked at the bar mid-slide. The other girls followed with their own styles—some fierce and wild, hair flying and heels clacking; others smooth, slow, hypnotic. It was a show. A spectacle. I was watching athletes in glitter. And me? I suddenly felt like a baby giraffe in rhinestones—long legs, no coordination, and no idea what I’d just signed up for.
