Drew Carey

one of the city’s top three gentlemen’s clubs. Stripping had always been my happy place and the only arena I’d ever felt supremely confident in. Especially in early sobriety, it was the sole place I had any confidence at all, though what I had there I had in spades, for sure.

I’d been stripping for almost ten years at the time and was one of the best hustlers in the club (meaning I had a strong work ethic, not that I manipulated my customers in any way). Plus, I loved the work...or did until the customers started getting out of hand, thanks to the club’s (and industry’s) lazy, greedy management. Eventually every interaction became a physical negotiation between my body and the customer’s mouth, hands, and crotch. I certainly didn’t mind a little touching, but by 1998 when nipple sucking and digital penetration (fingering) became commonplace, and therefore expected, I knew my stripping days were numbered. I decided to work as much as I could for the rest of the year, before moving back to Austin and quitting the business for good.

As part of that plan, I gave myself a new nightly quota. Usually, I’d hit it by shift’s end, though some nights only after staying into the next shift by an hour or two. Even if I’d earned $999 at the end of my shift I wouldn’t leave—no matter how grueling those eight hours had been—until I’d scored that last one-dollar bill. One night I hit my quota around 8:30pm, all set to leave half an hour early when a waitress entered the dressing room and told me Drew Carey had just walked in.

I re-buckled my Lucite platforms, applied a fresh coat of lip-gloss, and strode back out to the main floor. I found Drew Carey alone in an out of the way spot near the back wall, ordering his first drink. Normally I hate to rush a guy, but competition could be fierce during shift change. I knew if I didn’t pounce I could lose him to a more aggressive nightshift girl, so I approached and leaned forward to ask in his ear if he’d like a little company. Drew replied sweetly that maybe later would be better, after he’d had time to settle in a bit.

I forget what witty sexy comeback I used to convince him otherwise—I had dozens of them—but whatever I said did the trick and he offered me a seat. Five minutes later I was on my feet again, positioned between his knees at the start of my first of several lap dances. With one swivel of my hips, before I’d removed my red bikini top or sheer hip scarf, his gaze locked on my body, his posture shifting accordingly. His entire countenance changed, just like every customer before him when I began lap dancing. It was my favorite thing about stripping—that delicious initial moment of utter surety that I had him right where I wanted him. And that he’d stay there until his wallet was empty. Not to be cocky (so to speak) but there’s a rather small handful of things I’m truly gifted at in this world and lap dancing tops the list. I knew it and for the next six songs so did comedian/actor/game show host Drew Carey.

At that point I took a break and sat back down to talk, finding him to be delightfully unassuming, thoughtful, and doting—not to mention generous. He’d already showered me with double what he owed for the first six dances, yet while we talked he continued passing twenties and then hundreds to me, tucking them gently into the side of my t-back, bikini, and shoe straps. That’s where the biggest bills went, in fact—all around my feet. And like any experienced stripper I took that cue from him and ran with it. During my next set of dances, I made a point of positioning one foot up on his seat as often as I could, next to his leg where Drew could discreetly caress and fondle it to his heart’s content. By the fourth or fifth song my feet had become the primary focus of his attention to the exclusion of my breasts, legs, ass, etc.

Yep, Drew Carey has a foot fetish. One I was delighted to indulge. Not just because the cash kept coming but because (a) being the object of someone’s sexual desire and pleasure is one of the greatest joys I know, and (b) Drew Carey was simply the sweetest, coolest, least entitled by far customer I’d come across in ages. After my second set of dances, I again took a rest, giving Drew a chance to sweep his gaze across the room and spy another dancer—a beautiful, graceful nightshift girl I’d never seen before, and a former ballerina, we discovered, after I called her over at his request.

Next thing I knew we were doing a few “double trouble” dances, but by the third one I could see his attentions had mostly shifted her way. I was fine with that, having worked nine hours straight by then. I bid them goodnight and headed back to the dressing room counting my new wad of twenties and hundreds, well past my self-imposed $1,000 nightly quota.

[As an aside, at the time I was fully aware that Drew Carey was friends with my ex-fiancé, Joe Walsh. And while I briefly considered dropping his name into the conversation between dances while we talked, in the end I decided not to. Because what happens between strippers and their customers sometimes is more fun, sexy, and glamorous than anything even rock stars like Joe get up to.]