This year, as inflation rises and we head deeper and deeper into the consequences of the Printer Go Brrr economic era, I will be releasing a different “rule for stripping” in this magazine each month, with the intent on making millionaires out of at least a handful of the dancers reading this column in the dressing room, when they should be on the floor. All I ask is that you CashApp me some lunch money ($RayRaysPhone) if you end up adding a comma to your net income as a result of these columns.
There's no such thing as a bad economy. The economy goes to shit when people spend more than they can afford, and if the economy is shit, that means people are spending more than they can afford. How do you get them to do so? Simple: stop overthinking everything and focus on whatever the quickest route is from their wallet to your wallet. When it comes to what type of dancer most customers prefer, the easiest-to-cast, widest financial net is music—not how one dances to it, but simply what is coming out of the speakers while naked boobs are hypnotizing financially irresponsible men with disposable income.
You cannot pay your rent with props, nods, applause, social media likes, and go-girls. If your goal as a dancer is to show off your skills (and monetize them), I recommend competing in a pageant hosted by Exotic and/or Dick Hennessy, or getting into the more burlesque-adjacent shows like Sinferno Cabaret. These audiences will appreciate your dance moves because these venues and/or event themes are catered toward appreciating dance moves. Plus, there is upward mobility in these environments, as the crowd is more likely to be made up of industry connections and/or fellow burlesque/pole/actual dancers, who can recognize and appreciate your art form. By telling industry-typical strip club dancers to put music before dance moves, I'm not trying to take away from the burlesque legends, Miss Exotic Oregon and Polerotica winners, or the dancers who are legitimately good at dancing. It's just that this column is about making money at the club when everyone's wasted and there are ninety other girls on shift.
In the adult industry, where poles and holes are concerned, the term “dancer” is less a descriptor and more of a politically correct way of saying “stripper.” Yes, a lot of dancers are phenomenal at dancing, and I'm not gonna pretend I'm not constantly impressed by those of you with mad skills—I can barely do two pull-ups, so when I see a chick finish off an alcoholic beverage, extinguish a cigarette, walk to stage and then perform acrobatics like they were video game inputs, I'm in awe. But, I'm not turned on or inspired to get a private dance—I enjoy pole tricks for the same reason I enjoy drag shows, meaning that I have a ton of respect for the art, but am not interested in handing over my rent money in exchange for nudity (plus, those gigantic foam tits that queens wear take forever to remove). On the other hand, a topless woman and the right Type O Negative song can have me in short-term financial ruin within a matter of minutes.
The Venn diagram between men who are attracted to watching naked women bounce to Mötley Crüe and men who are attracted to the art of dance is basically a pair of fake boobs. I'm not saying to ignore your gay friends or yoga instructor if and when they come to watch your performance, but rather, to focus on the bulk of customers, made up of intoxicated straight men with disposable cash (we are simple, simple creatures). For the vast majority of dollar-wielding customers at the stage, the choice of music for entertainers is just as (if not exponentially more) important as dance moves. A stripper saying she “can't dance” to [insert Cannibal Corpse song] is like a dude saying, “Oh man, I bought her a ring, but got down on the wrong knee when I went to propose.”
Even as a dancer in name only, the fact that you even bother catering to the crowd's musical taste will balance out any missed dance moves or off-beat twerks. If I hear Wu-Tang, I head for the ATM, end of story—I could care less if the girl dancing to it is performing an off-beat Cabbage Patch. If the local biker club comes rolling in and you, the 22-year-old TikTok influencer (whose musical playlist consists of nothing but two-minute songs about drinking lean and eating ass), decide to throw on some ZZ Top or AC/DC, you will make rent money within minutes. Can't dance? No problem. Lean against the pole, smile, crawl around and talk to guys at the rack, twiddle with the dollars, and make sexy faces. You will make money by being the girl who doubles as a jukebox. It may take a few sets (folks know when they're being pandered to, shout out to the old (club) Exotica DJ who threw on Nickelback when me and a couple of other white dudes walked in one night), but it will work.
The “dancing isn't the most important part of dancing” mantra applies to my job as well. When I DJ bars and nightclubs, I like to show off my “DJ” skills with mixes and transitions. But, when I'm spinning random industrial slime and the table of drunk girls sends their ambassador over to request A$AP Ke$ha or whatnot, I'm not gonna make tips if I refuse to play their request because it's not a good mix. Instead, I let the Skinny Puppy crash out (no one will notice anyhow) into a rough cut to “Vape Juice In My Booty” or whatever garbage these girls want. And then, for the rest of the night, I take their tips as I slowly introduce enough Mac Dre and/or Tupac to get back into a genre I appreciate. The paying customers are not in the club to hear my slick transitions and watch a middle-aged guy in an ICP shirt show off his appreciation for the finer arts of turntablism and beat-matching. The drunk girls want SZA, and the dudebros want that Creed song about being close to an edge. This applies most of the time, but I've always said that being a good DJ is like being a terrible cop: don't think—just profile, judge, and pull the trigger immediately. Assuming that the 60-something black dude with a mustache prefers Bill Withers over Skrillex isn't ageist or racist—forcing someone of his demographic to listen to shitty techno is.
If it's Tuesday afternoon on the edge of Gresham, and the only customers in The Sticky Kitten 2 are wearing overalls and Carhartt, refrain from connecting your phone to bluetooth, do your wallet a favor and ask your DJ (or jukebox) to play “Young Lust” by Pink Floyd, “Sweet Emotion” by Aerosmith and “La Grange” by ZZ Top. If it's a Friday night and the club is full of Gen Z dudes who require constant reminders to put their phones away, instead of your festival promoter boyfriend's underground downtempo vaporwave technoslut superhouse drugstep set, play “They Not Like Us,” whatever that new version of “Rack City” is, and anything by Bad Bunny. If you can't find the beat, don't worry—customers aren't timing your ballet routine. Most of these dudes are living out a music video in their head, and instinct will lead them to make it rain, just to show off in front of their friends. Plus, when they're out of cash and you want them gone, you can just tell the bouncer they're taking photos again.
As a bonus tip (especially for day shift dancers), make friends with the gopher-looking dude in the tan sports coat and New Balance sneakers, and let him be your DJ liaison. This guy is divorced, lonely, and willing to part with every nickel in his fanny pack. You just have to listen to his stories for the duration of a smoke break, before he starts treating you like a jukebox with a twenty-per-song fee. Talk about how his daughter won't come to Christmas anymore, laugh at his Facebook-tier jokes, and agree with his extremely bad takes on the latest social justice issues. Then, tell him you're going to be on stage soon and that you need help picking music. Also, you're late for rent, and your daughter needs new clothes (make this clear). Be warned: this dude likes the worst fucking music on the planet—Steely Dan, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Wings, latter-day Van Halen, and that weird genre of '90s techno that features an unknown guy rapping poorly in the middle of the song. Is it worth it? On the rare occasion, no, you just ruined the vibe, and now the other girls on shift hate you. But, most of the time? Yeah, it's worth it. He may end up sending you some Venmo loot, taking you out to dinner, throwing some rent money at you, etc. However, he's safe, and he usually understands boundaries, because most dancers don't even talk to him. I've known a few dozen iterations of this guy, and he's usually entirely aware of the transactional nature associated with “naked girl half my age dances to Sugar Ray for my entertainment while I treat her like my personal therapist.” You're not using him—you're using each other.
The best (and worst) part about musical selection is that it often balances out any attractiveness meter being used to judge a naked performer. If a chubby, asymmetrical girl with meth mouth and mom-bob hair does a set to golden-era '90s rap music, she might as well be Baywatch-era Pamela Anderson (hell, even Naked Gun 2025 Pamela Anderson...I wonder what she eats). On the same token, if Sydney Sweeney did a pop-up guest spot and danced to that new Will Smith song, I'd have to have a long, honest talk with myself about how the world is a cruel lie full of dead ends and broken dreams, while getting a dance with the fat girl from earlier, and telling her to sing Misfits songs to drown out the stage music.
My goal with this potentially ignorant take is not to piss off those dancers who take the term “dancer” to heart. I'm a middle-aged white guy, so my knowledge of dancing is limited to whatever I do while waiting in line to pee. But, let's be honest—no bachelor party has ever crawled into the back of an Uber while talking about how awesome it was when the one dancer swung around the pole with her ankles. Instead, they're making fun of Jeff for spending so much money on the girl who got naked to Gwar.
Of course, all of this requires a DJ who reminds customers that performers rely on (and, in the case of song requests, require) tips for their efforts. Any professional DJ will be the first to tell you that all of the above is a given, but there are a few of us/them who are stuck in the same mindset as the girl who insists on playing Cardi B for the Elks Lodge crew. So, this column is for DJs as much as it is for dancers. Trust me, as someone who can no longer listen to his favorite music without starting to panic at the three-minute mark, you do not want to mix business with pleasure. Play the stuff you like for buffer music, and limit the stage sets to overplayed garbage that makes drunk people throw money.
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