No Sex in the Tampon Room

Below is the second guest post written by my friend, the fabulous sex blogger Sugar Tits. (If you have yet to read her first post, you can do so HERE. #raunchy) This post has prompted me to seriously consider becoming a stripper.

Arriving last night worried about my period, I whisper to the Blonde girl for advice. She laughs. “Just hide the string and change the tampon often, but be careful when using the bathroom.” We have a separate bathroom from the clients, disguised as a closet, to which the owners recently removed the lock, in attempts to “prevent drug use,” aka eliminate all our privacy. I’ve already gotten walked-in on at least ten times. “Don’t worry, they’re all perverts here, you could be covered in shit and they’d probably like it.” With thirty minutes to go, we prepare via rubbing ourselves in baby oil, glitter, powder, makeup, tons of perfume and fruity body sprays. Cigarettes are being passed around, as well as shots of cheap tequila from a flask, provided by the Mexican girl who looks like Eva Mendes would look, if playing a role of a girl in a gang. I take a shot and the Brazilian turns around, to give me fashion advice.

“Don’t you have other undies?”

“Why? What’s wrong with these?”

“They’re too big, you need to wear thongs!”

She’s referring to my high-waisted, black lace panties, from American Apparel.

“But they’re transparent! I mean, they’re sexy, in a 50s pin-up kind of way?”

“Yeah, well we aren’t in the 50s.”

“Leave her alone!” Eva Mendes defends me. “It’s important to have our own style, like this she’s different, she’s like our little Gaga.” She puts her arm around me, and at that moment, I’m so happy I could cry.

I’ve already gotten used to sitting on strange men. I try to think of them as sweaty chairs. Most are pretty simple-minded and easily put at ease, turned on, and persuaded to buy drinks. I count, in my head, my money, as we raise our glasses to “cheers.”  My dancing is also improving-and it would be fun, if not for the DJ.

A big, bald jackass, it’s the DJ who calls us each up to strip, yelling our names over the microphone. He also tells us when to remove our tops, bottoms and get off stage. Meanwhile, he comments on our tits, asses, pussies, makes fun of our weight and suggests to lewd behavior. And of course he’s racist. He calls us to dance based on ethnicity, I’ve noticed, as the Russians always dance together, followed by the black girls, before the South Americans, the Italians, the Eastern Europeans. I’m the only “American,” so for me, he plays Britney. The black girls dance to Rihanna, South Americans get Shakira and the Italians get pretty much whatever they want. Then he makes his “jokes,” calling Eva Mendes “pregnant,” telling the Romanian to brush her hair and ordering the black girls to “smile,” because “it’s too dark to see them” when they don’t. The clients laugh, and the girls pretend to. I fantasize about ways he could burn.

With one hour left, I decide to relax, knowing I’ve already made enough money. Enough to afford a taxi home and get some groceries today. Walking around, I see an attractive young man, next to an empty seat.  So I come over and fall into it. “I’m so tired,” I say, to myself, not caring for his attention.

We start talking, but I don’t put my legs on his. I don’t play with his hair or rub his crotch. I don’t sit on him. I have my arms and my legs crossed and keep to myself while looking ahead. But I’m starting to like him, what he says is smart, rich in a Slavic accent.

“I not bought you drinks, and you still talking to me-don’t you need to working?”

“I don’t care, there’s like forty minutes left till we close, at most I could make like, five more euros. Anyway, I actually like talking to you, so I’ll just keep doing that, unless you mind. You don’t need to buy me shit.”

That makes him happy. So he buys me three drinks, and pays for a Prive’-eighty euros for just fifteen minutes. I give him “what he paid for,” getting fully naked, letting him touch me everywhere, and suck on my tits. I’m turned on, and if it weren’t for my tampon I probably wouldn’t have kept him from shoving his big, Romanian fingers inside me.

The light turns green, our fifteen is up, and it’s time for us to close.

“How are you get home?”


“Don’t pay for taxi, if you want, I wait for you with car outside.”

“Ok, but I still need to change, and wait to get paid.”

“Not problem.”

Breaking every Common Sense  Stripper Rule in the book, I get in his car, let him buy me coffee and makeout with me at my front door. He wants me to stay longer but I insist I must go-my instant noodles are waiting.



7 Replies to “No Sex in the Tampon Room”

  1. nicely put.
    just one thing though, Romanian language can’t and doesn’t sound Slavic, as it is a Latin Language. It’s true that it has Slavic influences, but its corpus is entirely Latin.

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