Strictly on business.

I caught the bouncers' looks of what the fuck? as we went down the stairs. That was okay. I was clearly not suitably attired, in my polka-dot dress and scruffy flats, for celebrations of the night.

The dimly-lit room was brought alive every night with swirling lights the exact shade of Barbie's heels. A rotating stage, adorned with padded stools and gold bars in the shape of a circular cage, formed the centrepiece and a group of eager beavers had laid claim to the prime seats - the sofas closest to the action. One of the dancers, her platinum blonde hair perfectly straightened and cascading over their laps, sat among them. Another man leaned heavily on a nearby bar table, ankles crossed and a beer in hand, unabashedly captivated by the figure gyrating on the stage.

We took a leaf out of their books and anchored ourselves to another table, with three tall bar stools, to the far left but close enough to be within arms' reach of the entertainment. Like we'd pressed a magic button for service, a busty waitress in black strappy lingerie, her hair in generous waves arranged tantalizingly down her front, paid us a visit.

'So, what are we doing here tonight?' Half-cheekily but more-than-half-curious.

My partner raised his eyebrows in a silent challenge, relegating all responsibility. Yeah, tell her.

I pursed my lips, took a moment to think through our agenda, then made it up. 'We're actually here on business.' Half-cheekily.

'Reeeally?' She giggled. She had this oh-so-annoying but endearingly ditzy way of elongating her e's that made me instinctively overprotective of her. 'So are you two together, or what?'

You answer this one. He stuttered, 'Yes. Yes, we are.'

'That's cute. You never see a girl bringing her boyfriend in here.' She draped a perfumed arm over my shoulder, almost lovingly, and the intoxicating scent of just over-ripened tropical fruit wafted in my direction. 'Well, if you need anything, give me a yell.'

$10 gets her bra off, $20 for her panties. Three tracks per dancer, then they swap. He brought us drinks - they were free before 7pm - and we watched some routines, with wide-eyed attentiveness, even picking favourites. Mine was the third: a smoky-eyed brunette who glided effortlessly though her dance with an air of exclusive indifference - setting her apart from other desperate, painstakingly practiced performers. He chose two: a blonde, and a dark-haired girl, but he also liked our waitress, who danced her turn as well, and I can't know for sure whether his marking criteria was based on technical finesse, or other physical attributes.

Ungluing my gaze, I scanned the bar. Two strippers chatted idly, one of them curling her ringlets around her middle finger, drawing attention to the heart-shaped tattoo on her right shoulder. To my amusement, another stripper, in red, was sitting at a bar stool, mesmerised by her friend's performance. I hadn't seen her dance, and I hadn't seen her come in. Through her lacy get-up she was visibly more wiry than lithe, her cheekbones and rib cage positively popping out from her body. By the time I'd taken my seat next to her, I had also become acutely aware of her age. She was in her late forties, at the earliest, maybe early fifties. Not too far from my own mother.

'Is she your favourite?' I probed tentatively.

'My favourite? Non,' she replied emphatically. The thick French accent was consistent with her husky voice. 'But she is good.'

'So you work here most days a week? Or just on the weekends?'

'Three days a week. Most girls make enough that three days is plenty - plus you have to rest in between. That -' she jerked her chin towards the stage, ' - is tiring. It is quiet now, but when it hits ten o'clock, eleven o'clock,' she shook her head. 'Very busy. We used to have more girls, but down time now. Wait for summer - busier season.'

'How long have you worked here?'

'About three years now. I've worked at other strip clubs before, here and overseas. I started in France, of course, worked in America for some time, and worked all around Brisbane. Sometimes I take weekday shifts at other clubs in Brisbane, for a change of scenery - but I always end up coming back here. This one's the best.'

'What's the best part? About working here - about this job?'

'There's good and bad.' She paused to think. 'It used to be better - more girls, not as tiring, and we all had our top off to start with. Easier to make money that way. But then they said we couldn't dance naked without being tipped first.
We also used to get training when we started. We had a dance teacher and lessons, twice a week. Now we don't - we just get the girls in for an audition, see how they go, and they learn and get better on the job. See, this one -' she interrupted to draw attention to my favourite dancer, who had just begun another routine, ' - I like her. She's very classy.'

'I admire her too. I think she's very skilled.'

'She is. She makes it look easy. Some girls try too hard, too much dancing, too much big hair and perfume and makeup. Anyone can have big tits!' She slapped her own in frustration (I was mildly alarmed). 'Anyone can have a pretty face! There are lots of boobs on the internet. Our job is not to look pretty. It's to entertain. That's why I like this job - I'm not a dancer, I'm not a stripper, I'm an entertainer. I like making people smile. You know, they teach us - not to dance, but how to talk to customers, how to make them feel at home.' I would later relate this to my friend, who would scoff and say, yeah, how to make them spend money and buy more drinks and lap dances. But I was intrigued. 'They teach us to be good company, how to make them enjoy themselves. That - I am good at.
So - how about you? What do you do?'

I told her.

She nodded sympathetically. 'I went to Chemist Warehouse the other day, to buy a cream, and I ask the girl what is in the cream, and she couldn't tell me! Nothing! And I think, Australian pharmacy - ' she made a rude gesture, ' - bullshit. No good. But yes, not enough work, and bad pay.' She pondered this. 'You have children?'

'Oh, god no.'

'Then move to France. Or to America. They make lots of money there. And the chemists in France - beautiful. But never have children. Never be tied down, that's what I say. That's why I've been everywhere - France, Italy, America, Thailand, Australia...as long as you don't have children, you can do whatever you like. Go wherever you like, anytime. Don't have to plan for school, or holidays. Just pack up and leave, with nothing in your suitcase, and start somewhere new. That's my life. Perfect.'

Her eyes lit up, and I almost saw sandy beaches and palm trees reflected in her irises. I thanked her for her company, and her advice, and she leaned in close, taking me by surprise, air-kissing my right cheek. 'No worries, darling - thank you. You take care.'

I watched her dance, later. She ended up getting enough tips to remove both her bra and panties, and I thought, good on you. Good on you.