Page 6 of Deliah

D ays at the club turned into weeks. Weeks blurred into months.

And somewhere between vodka shots, stilettos, and neon lights—I found myself.

What once felt terrifying had become instinct.

My body moved like it belonged there, hips swaying to basslines I didn’t even register anymore.

Seduction wasn’t something I had to think about—it just was.

My confidence wasn’t a costume I put on at the door.

It was in my bones now. And I was making a fortune.

I’d gone from shy rookie to one of the top earners faster than I could’ve imagined.

Weekends were electric—packed booths, champagne by the bucket, and men throwing money around like it grew on trees.

On Sundays, I’d stuff cash into an old makeup bag I kept in my drawer and count it twice just to be sure.

Two grand, three grand. Some weeks, I made more than I had in months back home.

But it wasn’t just about the money. I’d become obsessed, not just with the girls and the drama but with the pole.

When the club was quiet, I’d sneak onto the stage and spend hours practising.

I’d be in the far corner, bruised legs wrapped around cold metal, trying to nail the same spin for the fiftieth time.

I wasn’t graceful. Not yet. But I was determined.

Ash, one of the best dancers, started giving me lessons during the day.

She was tall, lean, and could hold herself sideways on the pole like she defied gravity.

“You need to own it,” she said, gripping the pole with her inner thigh. “The pole doesn’t move—you do. Let it bruise you. Let it train you.” And fuck, did it bruise me.

My legs were covered in angry purple patches.

My inner thighs, shins, even my ribs looked like I’d been in a street fight.

I’d limp home some nights and crash into bed, body aching in places I didn’t know existed.

But slowly, the bruises faded. My body toughened up.

I built strength. My arms grew leaner. I could finally pull myself up without grunting like a feral animal.

I even noticed the faint outlines of abs forming across my stomach—real ones.

I’d never had those before. My body was becoming something else, something strong, sculpted, sexy.

I felt like an athlete. A warrior in glitter and heels.

Ash would meet me at the club mid-morning, keys in one hand and two coffees in the other.

“Ready to sweat?” She’d grin.

Always. I started documenting my progress in a little notebook—moves I wanted to learn, tricks I’d almost nailed, stretches that didn’t kill me as much anymore. It gave me purpose. Structure. I wasn’t just surviving; I was building something.

And outside of the club? Life ticked along in its own strange rhythm. I’d check in with Mum and Dad once or twice a week. Usually a quick video call or a voice note when I was walking to the shop or getting ready for work.

“How’s the posh bar job?” Mum would ask, eyes bright with pride.

“Oh, it’s good,” I’d say, forcing a smile. “Busy. Lots of tourists.”

They thought I was working in a classy beachside cocktail bar—something respectable and easy to brag about at the pub.

I hadn’t corrected them. How could I? My dad would’ve had a heart attack.

And my mum… well, she just wouldn’t understand.

So I lied. Softly. Still, I tried to make up for it in other ways.

I sent Mum little gifts in the post, a new scarf, some perfume, a bracelet I knew she’d love.

She’d send back boxes of British snacks and handwritten notes with kisses at the bottom. “Hope you’re eating properly x”

I missed them. But I couldn’t let them see this side of me. Not yet. They’d mentioned visiting.

“We’ll book something soon to pop and see you,” Dad had said. “Bring your mum out. See your fancy bar. Maybe hit the beach.”

I nodded along, but my stomach twisted. I wasn’t ready for them to see the truth. Not while I was still figuring it out myself.

Back at the club, everything felt easier now. The girls had embraced me. We were a crew—a chaotic, glittery, foul-mouthed family. We shared makeup, secrets, and sometimes customers. Crystal called me “baby stripper,” even though I was raking in more and more each week.

“You’ve got something,” she said one night, handing me a vodka cranberry. “A fire. Keep that. This place will try to take it from you.”

I didn’t know what she meant at the time.

But I kept the words tucked away in the back of my mind.

There was always something happening at the club.

Hen parties. Football lads. Couples who wanted something wild to spice up their honeymoon.

The nights blurred together in a kaleidoscope of neon and sweat and laughter and lust.

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.

Not playful. 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? ”