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The most lucrative outfit I’ve ever seen a girl wear at any club can be rolled up tight into a clenched fist.

This is a photo of Tiffany, a colleague of mine from my Sydney dancing days. She has since retired, but her boobs live on in the spank banks of every thirty-something bachelor in New South Wales.

At first, Tiffany hated this dress. I hated it. Every dancer seemed to hate it. We thought it looked cheap and trashy and just…. not pretty. Because rookie strippers think selling a fantasy is about looking pretty. And it can be, sometimes. But desire can also be filthy, fun, fucked up and creatively dank.

The dress Tiffany is wearing isn’t even hers. She borrowed it from Angel, a veteran stripper who was already privy to the secrets of looking ragged in the name of her paycheque. One of Tiffany’s regulars made the request that she buy it. He gave her $100 to go to the sex shop and pick one up. Being the businesswoman that she is, Tiff pocketed the cash, threw Angel a tip and wore this one.

“I literally feel like a fish in a net,” she tells me as I snap the photo. “I feel disgusting, Jacq. Cheap. I mean it’s showing all my… lumps!”

We are about to learn a valuable lesson: Feeling cheap in the titty business usually means you’re about to make bank. And despite what Vogue will tell you, lumps are dope.

Tiffany trots out onto the floor and before she can rearrange her nipples so they poke through the dress holes at a symmetrical level, money is thrust into her garter belt. I don’t see her til last call.

By the end of the night Tiffany fucking loves this dress. It made her an effortless grand and all she had to do was feel like a trapped sea creature. I make a mental note to fetch one for myself.

Looking classy is overrated. Go dry-shampoo those greasy locks and go get whatever you’re after. A lap dance. A good lay. A raise.