Page 8 of Deliah
But I never felt lost in it. Not anymore. I was there by choice. I was learning, growing, earning. I had a purpose. I had control. And for the first time in a long time, I felt powerful.
Here was what I wasn’t prepared for: what it taught me about men. When you’re on the outside, men seem complex. They’re your dad, your mates, your exes. Flawed, maybe, but human. Capable of love. Capable of kindness. You think of them as deep, layered people, even when they mess up. But from inside that club? With your tits out, your makeup set like armour, and heels that turned your calves into steel—you saw them for what they really were. Animals.
We had them in every night. Lads on stag dos, stumbling in with sweat on their backs and “one last night of freedom” written across their smug faces. Some even had rings in their pockets—giggling as they asked what we charged for a private dance, if we’d “go the extra mile,” like their fiancé didn’t exist beyond the flight home. But we got our own back. There was a tradition: whipping the stag. We’d drag him on stage, tie him to the pole with his belt or his mate’s tie, and give him a proper lashing. Notplayful. Not cute. Full-on sting-your-skin whips. Crack. Laugh. Crack again. The crowd loved it. His mates would cheer and film it while he flinched and screamed and pretended to laugh through the pain. And honestly? It was satisfying. Every belt crack felt like letting something out. Anger. Bitterness. Payback. A “fuck you” to the creep who groped me last week. To the businessman who offered €500 to “just sit on his lap” while he slagged off his wife. To the teenage toerag who shoved his hand between my legs in a group room and got dragged out by security, grinning. We weren’t allowed to fight back most nights. Had to smile. Had to keep the fantasy going. But stag nights? We hit back—and they paid for the privilege.
What messed with my head was how quickly the masks slipped. That low-lit, bass-thumping, sweat-slicked club turned men into something else. Hollow. Unrecognisable. The moment they thought no one was watching, they changed. Not all men, sure. That old chestnut. But enough. Enough to make me question everything I thought I knew about them.
There were nights I’d sit in the dressing room, peeling off lashes, wiping the makeup from my cheeks, cash stuffed in my bra, and think:How could I ever let one of them in again?The idea of some man—real, breathing, sloppy—coming home to me, socks on the floor, sambuca breath in my ear… It made me gag.
I watched them stumble in, drunk and desperate, waving €50 notes like affection was for sale. I saw them slur, beg, confess secrets their wives probably didn’t know. Cry—actual, snotty crying over exes, dead dogs, failing erections. And then ask to sniff my knickers. They stopped being people. They were customers. Loud ones. Quiet ones. Creepy ones. Ones who tipped well. Ones who smelled. Ones who didn’t. They walked in thinking they were kings and left having paid to be ignored. And I liked it that way. I wasn’t there for love or even to flirt.I was there for the money. And I was fucking good at getting it. The idea of letting one of them touch me outside that club? No chance. Their sweat, their entitlement, their price-tag stares? No fucking way. I’d rather sleep with the pole—at least that respected me.
And no—before anyone gets clever—none of us were sleeping with the customers. Club policy was strict. One whisper of “extras” and you were gone. But even without the rule, we didn’t want to. Not even the rare fit ones because even the hot ones were still men. Still capable of switching off empathy the second you became “just a dancer.” We weren’t there for them. We were there for the grind, the money, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing they’d spent their rent on ten minutes with a girl who couldn’t even remember their name. That was power. That was survival. That was enough.
Now, saying that, there was a particular group of lads who needed their own introduction. We called them the Boiler Boys. To this day, I’ve got no idea why. Not one of them was a plumber. They were all traders—Forex, crypto, stocks, NFTs, whatever the buzzword of the month was. They worked in some flashy office in the city and operated like a pack: tight-knit, cocky, and absolutely loaded. They’d roll into the club once a week without fail—usually a Thursday or a Sunday—and the minute they walked in, the whole vibe shifted. You’d see the girls dash backstage to reapply lip gloss, hike up their dresses, and start whispering, “Who’s got who tonight?”
The Boiler Boys weren’t your average punters. They were mid to late twenties, loud London boys with money to burn, decked out in fresh Gucci trainers, slim Ralph Lauren polos, and watches they definitely didn’t need that early in life. But here’s the thing—they reminded me of my lad mates from back home. Same humour. Same energy. Just dressed in designerand drinking Dom instead of warm Stella. And they weren’t sleazy. That was the difference. They didn’t try to touch. They didn’t smell like regret and sambuca. They didn’t get handsy or ask for “extras.” They weren’t there for that. They were there for the party. And I think, in some weird way, they liked us because we were real. No fake giggles, no pretending we didn’t know what they were after. We were there to make money, and they respected that. They knew the game. We weren’t chasing them for free drinks or trying to sleep our way into their phone contacts. They weren’t going to wake up to a string of “what you doing?” texts and blurry selfies. There was comfort in that.
Maybe they liked it because, for once, they had the control. In the real world, girls probably chased them for the lifestyle—the holidays, the cars, the access. But in the club? The dynamic flipped. They had to pay for our time, just like everyone else. There was no illusion. They liked that honesty, and we liked the money. We made thousands when they were in; champagne bottles lined the VIP tables like trophies. One night, they ordered five bottles of Ace just to get the staff to carry them over with sparklers while the DJ shouted their name. Crystal danced on the couch in six-inch heels with a cigar in her mouth and nearly broke her ankle doing the splits. It was chaos. Fun chaos. And they were fun. Pure banter. The kind of lads you could rinse and they’d laugh about it, then tip you double.
Some weren’t much to look at—receding hairlines and beer bellies barely held together by their designer belts—but a few were fit. One of them, I swear, was a dead ringer for a young Tom Hardy. If Tom Hardy was a cocky shit with a perfect tan and the arrogance of someone who always gets what he wants. There were champagne-fuelled nights that turned into full-blown raves. And then the hangovers… We’d rock up to the café the next day in sunglasses and shame, ordering five coffeesand toasties while swearing we’d never touch Grey Goose again. Crystal would be half asleep in the corner muttering about “never drinking again”—until they messaged to say they were coming in that night, and the cycle started all over again.
Life, honestly, felt like a dream, picking up fat envelopes stuffed with cash every Sunday. I bought new heels in the city, treated myself to blow dries before work, and got my nails done every week like it was a religion. We’d head down to the port for sushi and espresso martinis in the afternoon like we were the Spanish cast ofSex and the City. We’d clink glasses over oysters and talk about renting boats or booking Ibiza villas like it was normal. Ash nearly convinced me to get a matching tattoo one night after three tequila shots and a screaming fit over who’d stolen her lipstick. We decided on a Christina piercing instead, but that’s a whole other fucking story.
Everything looked perfect. On the outside, anyway. But there was one thing. Sex. I wasn’t getting any. Between the late nights, the pole bruises, the hangovers, and the hustle, there just wasn’t time. I’d finish work at 6 a.m., crawl into bed with false lashes still stuck to my cheek, and sleep until it was time to do it all over again. And even if I did find a spare minute—what was the point? Most men outside the club were just as bad as the ones inside—if not worse. At least the guys in the club paid for the performance. Outside? They wanted the fantasy for free. Or worse—they’d fetishise what I did, act like I was some walking porno scene they could live out. The “I’ve always wanted to be with a stripper” types. Gag. The rest of them? They wanted to “save me.” Ugh. Like I was some fragile little flower that needed plucking out of the big bad strip club by a man with a car and an ego. They’d find out what I did and suddenly think I needed fixing. As if I hadn’t just made triple their salary in a weekend. As if I needed them to make me whole. No, thanks.
I’d tried to ignore the itch. I buried myself in routines—pole training, makeup rituals, stretching on the cold dressing room floor while the speakers thumped above. I’d stay late to practise spins, walk home in the sunrise, heels dangling from one hand, a Red Bull in the other. I cuddled my vibrator like it was a teddy bear. Gave it a pet name. Convinced myself I didn’t care.
But truthfully?
I was gagging for it. And the plastic hum of a battery-powered boyfriend just wasn’t cutting the mustard anymore. I wanted more than a quick fix. More than dim lights and a ten-minute stress relief. I wanted heat. Skin. Teeth. Tongue. The weight of someone.
I was craving intimacy so bad that it made my eyes sting sometimes. But I couldn’t even think about getting close to a man. I was off them. Completely. The club had given me the ick. Not just a little one. A full-body, stomach-twisting ick that made me question whether I’d ever fancy someone again. They ruined themselves for me. It didn’t matter how fit someone was, if he so much as looked at me with that sleazy glint I saw every night in the club, I’d dry up quicker than sangria at a hen do.
And yet… I was feeling myself more than I ever had. My body was in the best shape of its life. My waist was tighter, my legs stronger, my arms leaner. I had abs—actual visible ones. I’d catch myself in the mirror while getting ready and double-take, like,who the fuck is that?I was glowing. My skin. My energy. My confidence. Not to be cocky, but I could make a man fall in love with me just by walking across the room. And I knew it. It was strange. The more men disgusted me, the more I turned myself on. I’d created myself from scratch and finally liked what I saw. That’s a thing with women, isn’t it? When we feel good, we’re unstoppable. We’re sexier, funnier, bolder. It’s not even aboutattention—it’s about the power of knowing you feel good, then looking in the mirror and thinking,Yes, bitch, that’s you.We’re weird creatures.
The more I danced, the more I worked, the more detached I became from the idea of letting anyone in. Because the truth was, I didn’t want just sex. Not really. I wanted to be wanted. But not in the sloppy, desperate way I saw every night. Not the beer-belly businessmen who whispered compliments they’d stolen from porn scripts. Not the boys on stag nights who couldn’t even say my name right. Not the ones who saw my body as a transaction.
I wanted something different. Something that crawled under your skin and lived there. A kind of want that made you feel ruined in the best way. That made your hands shake. That turned you inside out and left you desperate for more—not because of what they did but because of how they looked at you. I didn’t know it yet, but I wasn’t looking for a casual fuck. I was looking for someone to ruin me. Someone who wouldn’t beg or buy or rescue. Someone who would take. And I think, deep down, I knew he was coming. I just didn’t know when.
Chapter 5 –
Gasoline
It was official: I was on the hunt for some cock. I’m not even going to sugarcoat it. The vibrator had officially been overused, the batteries were limping, and I was at that level of frustration where everything started to feel like foreplay—the wind, a good song, the smell of aftershave in the street. I caught myself sighing at a perfume ad once. I was losing it. To be fair, if I’d wanted it badly enough, I could’ve walked down the strip and picked up some half-cut tourist, dragged him home, and had him out the door before the taxi had even arrived. But that wasn’t it. I didn’t want some sweaty lad on holiday who’d get overwhelmed when I took my bra off and ask if we could just “do it from behind.” I wasn’t after lazy, one-position sex with a man who called me “babes” and didn’t even ask what I liked. I needed more. Someone who could handle me. Someone who could giveas good as they got—who didn’t flinch when I pushed back or act surprised when I took control. Someone who could ruin me, if I let them.
So, I booked a night off and decided to go out with a couple of the girls. Just hit a few bars, see who was about. I didn’t usually go out on my nights off—those were sacred. The club already felt like a party, and I liked to spend my downtime in hoodies, knickers, and bed sheets. But that night, I needed a release. As I curled my hair, spritzed perfume on the backs of my knees, and slid into a tight dress I hadn’t worn in months, Aneeka sat on the edge of the bed sipping wine straight from the bottle.
“You look fit, babe.” She smirked. “Who are you trying to kill?”
“Hopefully myself.” I grinned, applying one last coat of mascara. “Through dick-induced obliteration.”
She cackled, then tilted her head. “Seriously, though, babe. You alright?”
I paused. Was I?
“I dunno,” I said honestly. “I think I’m just… tired of not being touched. Like, yeah, I touch me—a lot—but it’s not the same, is it?”
She nodded, still watching me. “You’ve just got to get laid.”
