Page 7 of Deliah

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 designer and 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 coffees and 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 of Sex 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 about attention—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.