When you have a stripper problem, as is the case with most problems, there are good times, and there are great times. But mostly, all of those times will include a shit ton of money spending. I can’t imagine how much better off I’d be financially had I never stepped foot into a club. That’s why when I came across this expose of strip clubs in the NY Mag, I had to give it a read. Well, as it turns out, strippers are the devil.
The story starts with a good joke: the main character, Rosie, a retired stripper, says she could have worked on Wall Street because she was good at math, had an entrepreneurial spirit, was smart, and that she used to buy candy as a kid and sell it for profit at school. Coincidentally, that’s the same story that billionaire hedge-fund manager John Paulson gave about his life, but that’s neither here nor there. But then Rosie went into detail on how these clubs operate and how the girls “steal” all of their clients’ money.
Most of the girls would have their own “money list” with a list of names of who they could call whenever they truly needed money. In fact, Rosie recounted a story in which she led a client to fall in love with her. He then spent all of his money and let his fiancee leave him because he thought she would fall for him. Turns out she left. Months later, she called to ask for money. She claimed she was in Arizona taking care of her friend’s baby and needed money because she just had to get back to New York. It turns out that it was her baby and she was still in New York — trying to lie her way into some cash. The man would turn her down. But many other clients of theirs would not, mainly because they were wealthy Wall Street workers.
Rosie had an interesting theory as to why they are easy targets.
“The reason why Wall Street guys party so hard is because they’re not happy with their jobs,” she explained to me. “You make money, but you’re not happy, so you go out and splurge on strip clubs and drinking and drugs, then the money depletes and you have to make it again.”
But the real fun of the story happens after the 2008 crash when clubs became desperate for clients since most of the Wall Street workers were no longer frequenting their clubs. One of the girls who took Rosie under her wing and taught her everything, Samantha Foxx, had devised a new plan to bring in clients and a boat load of cash. She would reach out to clients and ask if they would enjoy a night of fun, and the rest was history.
If the client Samantha reached out to expressed interest, she’d have Marsi or Karina meet him out. They’d wine and dine him, then the others would show up, and then, when he was drunk on alcohol and feminine attention, they’d steer him toward one of the clubs from which they had negotiated a lucrative percentage of his spending. Then they would proceed to run up his credit card as far as they could push it.
Of course, it didn’t always work. Sometimes they’d go through the whole performance and the guy would be too tired to go out; they would offer him drugs for extra energy, but he would be too lame to take them. In the face of such situations, Samantha had come up with the innovation that was making her rich: a special drink spiked with MDMA and ketamine.
Good God. That right there is wallet rape. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Heaven forbid the guy wasn’t down for some drugs and wanted to stop spending money so you have to go and drug them? Of course the guys weren’t going to go to the police and report it either because then they would have to tell their wives and that cost would get expensive too. Still fucked up, though.
Shame on you, strippers..
[via NY Mag]