Whether you’re willing to admit it or not, most of us love reading about other people’s sexual escapades and the cold, ahem, hard truth is; the raunchier the reading, the better. Cue the memoir Sunshine: The Diary of a Lap Dancer, by Samantha C Ross.
The newly released memoir follows exotic dancer, Sunshine, through dimly lit gentlemen’s clubs, red velvet ropes, and all around the world detailing her erotic work. The addictive read provides insight into the adult industry with the endearingly candid perspective that can only be delivered by someone who’s spent years working in it.
From pubic hair maintenance to celebrity encounters, Sunshine: The Diary of a Lap Dancer is delightfully indulgent and brutally honest.
The below is an extract from Sunshine: The Diary of a Lap Dancer, by Samantha C Ross, published by Allen & Unwin, and is on sale now.
Extract from the memoir: Sunshine: The Diary of a Lap Dancer by Samantha C. Ross.
This is an edited extract from Sunshine: The Diary of a Lap Dancer by Samantha C. Ross, published by Allen and Unwin, and is on sale now.
‘Hey, Sunshine!’ Tara hollered over the music. ‘You’ll never believe who’s here. Come and look!’
I couldn’t help grinning when I saw the patrons—finally, something positive. If one thing could lift my rock-chick best friend’s spirits, it was a band who, once upon a time, were labelled the most famous in the world. There they stood in our little Queensland club. For the sake of Tara’s happiness, I put my celebrity prejudice on hold and promised to hang with the band.
This didn’t please Soleil, the fame-hungry Penthouse Pet. She cornered me on my way over. ‘Is that who I think it is?’
‘Yep.’
‘Hang on a minute. Why are you headed their way? I told our bosses any celebrities should be greeted by me first. They’re more relaxed around other famous people.’
‘Meaning you?’
‘Exactly.’
I sneered. ‘In the words of another famous witch, you have no power here.’
I was soon surprised to find myself forming a positive view of celebrity hype. It seems once you get to the point where you can’t be any more famous, you return to earth. After the supermodels, drugs, mansions, Ferraris and private jets wear thin, maybe all you have left is a clearer view of what’s true. Perhaps real people become appealing again over sycophants and groupies. That’s the only way I can explain why these rock-royalty figures were so normal—except for the limitless wads of cash, of course.
Much to the Penthouse Pet’s fury, the band booked only me and Tara to keep them company in the club’s prestigious Glass Room: a decadent space lined with cushions and mirrors that costs three hundred per hour, plus the price of champagne and the strippers’ time.
As we sat on the floor like a yoga group, we discussed the perks and perils of fame. It was a much more desirable way to spend time than being groped and propositioned on the main floor. The band didn’t even want us to dance for them, quite content to pay me and Tara five hundred bucks each to ‘shoot the shit with ordinary people’.
Nobody entered the Glass Room while it was booked, so I was surprised when the door opened and a drunken dude lurched in. I was about to call for security when the band broke into indulgent smiles. Here to join them was one of the planet’s most well-known music producers, who now produced a big bag of coke. The band refused, happy with their Grey Goose.
Once they’d grown bored with the strip club, they wondered if we might like to escort them to our local bar, Coconuts.
‘Is Keith Richards the man who death forgot?’ I answered happily.
Since the hour was late, our bosses let Tara, myself, and a handful of stripper-friends leave early. The thousand dollars they were tipped probably helped sway their decision.
At Coconuts we’re usually treated like slightly insane royalty. But when we walked through the door with the band and illustrious producer, we were overwhelmed by adulation. Security ushered us to the lounge area, which was sectioned off with ropes. Buckets of champagne appeared on the tables, and fans screamed across the room trying to get the band’s attention.
By the time daylight surfaced, I had drunk myself straight. The band had left with some female fans from the crowd, and I couldn’t find Tara anywhere.
But at the front of my mind was the knowledge that the girls and I would be expected at work again this evening. ‘Let’s go home and drink water,’ I suggested to my remaining friends. ‘There’s no way I can face the club tonight in the same state I did yesterday—and I don’t have a spare liver to carry me through.’
However, as my grandmother always said, if you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.
My phone rang.
I listened in horror for a few moments before hanging up.
‘We need a car! And someone to drive it—preferably sober!’ I shouted at the girls in panic. ‘The producer is holding Tara hostage!’
