I step off the stage after my show, and I’m instantly surrounded by the most enthusiastic pole-dance admirers, all of them short, overweight and full of alcohol-fueled lust. I’m acutely aware of Guillermo as I steer the guys in the direction of the dance booths, reminding myself of the key reason why boyfriends are banned from entering the workplace of their dancing consorts. It’s an emotional minefield.
I pause by a pillar and offer the guys my best and most coquettish smile. They all want a dance and begin fishing out their wallets and thrusting money at me. I feel like a bookmaker at the races. Instantly managerial – another stripper persona – I tuck the bills into my wristband and tell two of the men to wait while I lead the third into the corridor.
The dance booths are as dimly lit
