RULE #1
NEVER sleep with a client.

RULE #2
ALWAYS make sure you're safe before you begin.

RULE #3
Make sure the pay is right.

RULE #4
Bring the fire.

RULE #5
No matter the pay, NEVER suffer a bitch/bastard.

Plain and simple. Those five rules up there are what I've been basing my entire life around for the past few years... and honestly? Of all the livings to be had in this modern day horse race, it's certainly one of the least boring professions that exist today for stallions like myself.

I have no idea why my mother decided on the name 'Full Monty' for me; maybe she was feeling weird and chipper, the day she had me. Maybe she just wanted to go with something unusual and unique, in order to help facilitate an interesting future for me. Maybe she couldn't have any way of knowing what the terminology meant, and simply did so because it sounded good.

Most likely, she'd been hammered on moonshine again and thought it would be fucking hilarious.

Growing up in the hills of Appleloosa, I didn't have a clue of what it meant either - not until I went to the big city, the Big Applecore, The City That Never Sleeps - Manehattan. I can still remember it like it had happened just the other day, how I tooled into town on a bus with seventy bits in my pocket, looking for whatever work would have me.

Construction work was at a premium, and so was the pay - I was hauling beams and shoveling concrete in no time. Good thing, too - I'd been broke since day two in the big city, and had been frequenting a hollow spot under a bridge for a few days until my first check came in.

Now, understand that, as an Earth Pony, I'd spent a number of years on my family's farm, digging and planting and herding and bucking and so on - and because of such, I was a BIG colt. I easily stood at least three or four apples taller than the average stallion, and I certainly had enough muscle to fill out my large frame. This was one of the reasons my foremare - Dusty Crane - made sure to put me where I was needed most, where my strength was used most efficiently to get the job done.

At the time, I didn't notice - but she also made sure that, wherever I was working, SHE was working too.

I tended to lose myself in my work, for the most part. Never was much for gossip or hobnobbing with others - not that I'm anti-social, mind you; more like I find others to be... frustrating, let's say? Seriously, other folks complicate everything. The more that others get involved in a situation, the more that situation spirals out of control. So, yeah - I'd rather spend the day alone than with anyone else.

But working by myself, I started to notice that I STILL wasn't quite alone. Eventually, after some time had passed with me working at this one particular site, I noticed that there was a group of three mares, all of which seemed to materialize each and every day, right around where I was working, and began calling out to me.

If it wasn't 'Hot Helmet' or 'Nummy Buns' or 'Big Studly', there were a million other nicknames the mares had for me, each one usually shouted at me louder than the one before it. Then other mares eventually came by and joined suit, and soon I found myself as the center of so much attention, I could no longer do my job safely.

Dusty pulled me to the side after a particularly active day for my 'admirers' (one of 'em had tried to grab my flank - and I don't put up with that shit, so it had devolved into a yelling match), and let me in on a little secret of her own as she told me SHE had been staring at my flank for weeks - and that no less than TWO of the mares in my little fan club were her sisters.

"Monty," she told me in that Manehattan drawl she had, "you got somethin' heah - somethin' you could make a TON o' bits wit, if ya know what yer doin'. An' what yer doin' heah? Well, s'good woik, but I don't think we can get any more o' dat city centah done wit you workin' it like ya do - as it is, we got complaints dat yer makin' it hard ta woik heah... 'course, dats mostly from da udder fellas - dey're a jealous bunch, dey are."

"Whatchoo need," she told me after scanning the area to make sure we were alone, "izza job dat'll put dat fine flank o' yours ta good use fer YOU, dere! I gots a bruddah - he runs a place what could put yaz where ya need ta be, where you can make lotsa bits! All YOU gotta do's shake yer booty, an' I promise ya - you'll be swimmin' in dough!"

The encouragement was intriguing (not to mention pretty damned flattering as well), so I went after work to check the address she'd given me... along with her number, which I promptly 'lost'; dating someone who always smelled like sour sweat and onions just didn't hold any appeal for me.

It was a nightclub named 'Back In The Saddle', and the owner was this rather chill stallion who took one look at me and said, "Heh - Dusty weren't lyin', were she?" His name was Domino Fortune, and he kept a stable of both mares and stallions at the ready to dance their asses off onstage for beaucoup bits - at least, that's how HE told it.

Now dancing? THAT, I'd enjoyed a good bit in my younger years; farm colt or not, there was just something about a good, strong beat that made me sway with the music... and well, when you sway, you eventually learn to do more. And that's how I learned to dance - eventually, with slow and steady progress over the years spent in the barn's hayloft, enjoying the radio while I perfected my moves.

So, I started my new job that night - and as fate would have it, I made a KILLING on the dance floor. Domino said he'd never seen a newbie rack up so much revenue on their first night, and offered me a permanent position at the club. I took it - I mean, was I REALLY going to turn down a job where all I had to do was dance in next-to-nothing all night long?

I spent the better part of four years there, shakin' my groove thing and making the mares swoon and squee with delight. Didn't even have any incidents... until one particular night, where one of the mares managed to climb onstage and tried to grab my flank.

Like I said before, I don't put up with that shit.

When the cops finally got the whole story from me, the bartender kirin and Dom himself, they decided not to put me in a cell for the night; the drunken cunt, however, had purposely spit on one of the officers when they'd tried to calm her down. SHE was booked into the Iron Bar Hotel for her troubles.

That night, Dom cornered me and asked why I lost my shit and swung on her - his argument was on the side of the customers, of course; Dom was always about the bits, and didn't sit well with any sort of trouble that might lessen his revenue. Myself, I'd decided that it was time to move on - especially if Domino wasn't going to stand up for me.

But I'd learned a number of things during my time at Back In The Saddle, and had decided that I'd simply manage myself - I'd put out ads as an 'exotic dancer' in the Manehattan Times, and simply become what I figure would count as a 'male stripper', for all intents and purposes. I'd had plenty of business as a club dancer - maybe I'd get lucky and turn out to be successful.

And, well... I most certainly AM successful. Perhaps a bit TOO much.

See, the mare-to-stallion ratio in Equestria has always been rather mare-heavy: essentially three-to-one, in favor of the mares. Because of this, there's a LOT more Estrogen out there than you'd think - and as there's apparently a deficit of stallions willing to strip and dance for the mare-side of our populace, well...

I am a VERY busy stallion.

After all the bullshit that had happened to me during my club years, I came up with the five rules you read at the top of this... what? Missive? Report? Shit... might as well be my diary; I'm no egghead, but I'm okay enough with words NOT to look like an utter moron when I write my stuff.

Seems like it was about three years back when I started down this path in Life... and here I am now. Got myself a decent bank account - not rich by any means, but not living on noodles and crackers, either. Got a nice apartment for basically a song... and YES, I mean that almost literally; the landlady took one look at me and was practically drooling to have me move in right next to HER apartment.

A two bed, one bathroom slice of normalcy is where I live. Here, there's never any stripper music, there's no flashy or tacky decorations, clothes are all neatly picked up, sink stays empty of dishes, bed made every morning... basically, if you'd stepped into my place with no hint of what I did for a living, you'd assume I was ANYTHING BUT an exotic dancer.

But, the truth was what it was; I was a stud with nice buns, and I wiggled them for money. Like the idea, hate it... I don't really care. If you don't want to see it, then don't look - I don't have time for everyone else's idiosyncracies.

See, I know big words.

Rule Number One came to me after a particularly hot and heavy dance session with a client. One who was damn fine, herself - and when she offered herself up to me, I figured it would be okay this ONE time... and I was so very wrong. The bitch tried to sue me, then take me to court for child support - based on a LIE that I'd knocked her up - and continued to stalk me for a year or two before she finally found some other schmuck to make miserable.

Praise Celestia she did, too; I'd honestly been contemplating where to hide her corpse.

Rule Number Two was born from some of the nights I'd had to deal with 'occupational hazards' at the Saddle; beer bottles onstage to trip over, microphone wires that could trip OR shock you - depending on how cheap Dom had been with expenses - or even just the simple act of making sure the stripper pole was PROPERLY bolted to the stage.

Yeah, the old biddy whose lap I landed in loved it; I, on the other hand, most certainly DID NOT.

See, I don't like being touched. As a colt, my brothers made sure they were very physical with my upbringing; noogies, punches, kicks, swirlies, purple nurples, black eyes, bruises, et cetera... and that was the majority of my early years. Since then, I wasn't keen on being touched without expressing my permission first. Which I almost never gave.

Was it a lonely life? Eh, kinda. Really, I was okay being by myself... okay, but not really satisfied. But, with all the headache and hassle that a mare can be (plus the fact I don't swing to stallions), it's far easier on my peace of mind to simply keep to myself, not date, and just do the thing that pays the bills.

Rule Number Three was most certainly a result of Domino's 'finance techniques', as he was known for 'forgetting' to calculate out our tips for the night... just as we were known for reminding him about them. If he'd had his way, he probably would have paid us solely in food from the bar - IF he paid us at all!

I mean, the pay was what made me decide to take the job in the first place; scoff at the profession all you want to, but when you bring home that first three-thousand bit paycheck, it'll make you wonder why everyone wasn't doing it.

Rule Number Four is my personal reminder that, no matter how professional I have to be for a gig, when it comes to showtime, I need to make sure that I'M enjoying myself as much as my clients are. If they're happy with it or hate the fuck out of it, it doesn't matter; as long as I get my proper pay, there would be no issues... but if I had a good time doing my utmost best to entertain, then I usually got a tip of some sort.

Plus, fun for fun's sake is a good way to get through your work; the hours might be great, but a number of the actual minutes could be really fucking tedious. Might as well find the fun and have at it.

And Rule Number Five... well, it sorts speaks for itself, right? I mean, yeah - they are the customer, and they should be catered to... but seriously, there's lines in the sand, buddy; cross one, and I promise that you'll find out what farm colts do to those who act like they're entitled and snotty.

After all, I'll put up with a lot - but some shit you have to nip in the bud to keep it from fucking over anyone else's day. I don't give a shit WHO the fuck you are; push me too far, and you'll find out personally how strong a farm colt really is. No apologies.

Once I'd managed to put together those rules into a coherent form, everything else fell into place. The jobs kept coming, and it felt like I was spending every single day gyrating and grinding for the entertainment of everyone from just-out-of-school we're-not-fillies, to lonely housewives, to tourists, to grandmares who were a bit too old to even be thinking about strippers.

And I have always done my absolute best to make sure no customer walked away feeling cheated; my own reputation was spotless, and word on the street was that I was both reliable and professional... which, in this line of work, that word of mouth advertising is essential to any 'personal catering' business.

Because of my rules, the police don't usually harass me - I'm no prostitute, and they know it. Still, I occasionally get the random officer looking to get details from me about some of the shady shit that goes on around me. And every time, I shrug at him and smile dumbly... and it tends to work, more often than not. I'm no snitch.

But along with everything else, the main reason I decided to keep doing it was because it was ALL ME; no boss to report to, no co-workers to gossip at you, no administrators hanging over your shoulder... it was as free as could be. I got to decide on my own schedules, and any requests that felt hinky weren't even considered for a callback.

Yeah, maybe it wasn't the most glamourous of professions... but I was in charge of myself, and answered only to the same. I didn't have to concern myself with quarterly reports or copier breakdowns or 'casual Fridays'; all I had to do was bring my outfit, my radio and myself to every job, and I'd be paid beautifully within a few hours of workin' and twerkin'.

Honestly, I can't say my life is bad. Not at all. My own place, my own money, my own work hours... it's all at my beck and call, and it's all mine. How could anypony ask for anything more?

...
...
... well...

Okay, so there's still some issues to deal with.

Really, deep in my heart, I want to find the right mare - just like any other stallion (or so-inclined mare) out there would. And yeah, okay - I might be just picky enough to never find the Perfect Match. And fine, so I'm not exactly the easiest stallion to get along with - especially after being so independent for so long. And Manehattan isn't exactly the nation's capital for 'good, honest, pretty mares'; more like 'choose two adjectives and pray that they're sane'.

But maybe someday, I'll find what I'm looking for out there. She'll be sweet as sugar, honest to a fault and as pretty as the day is long, and she'll fall for me just as hard as I fall for her. We'll date, cozy up, snuggle and kiss... she'll be the kind that loves to kiss... and we'll end up living happily ever after... with foals... and a house with a white picket fence...

... yeah right. And dragons might fly out of my butt.

Anyhow, so there you go - a country stallion with big-city ambitions who shows his muscley flank to the ladies and gets paid handsomely for it. Sounds like a dream job, doesn't it? Like the sort of thing that every mare-seeking pone out there would easily fit into and make tons of bits while having a grand time, right?

Yeah - let me dispel that illusion for you.

Because I promise you, as much freedom as I have in this profession... I have just as many headaches and stresses as any other job out there. It's not all it's cracked up to be, and I've had a number of experiences with trouble and pain to prove it. Not only that, but there's always the fact that NOTHING is set in stone, NOTHING is foolproof and NOTHING ever goes exactly as planned.

Don't believe me about all that? Well, then read on - and allow me to enlighten you as to what sort of things I have to go through on a daily basis, in the pages of this 'diary' of an Earth Pony stripper. After you've seen the kind of shit I have to deal with, feel free to make your own decisions as to how you want to perceive my workload.

Just keep those five rules above in mind... and enjoy the show.

Author's Note

Trying my hoof at a bit of side tomfoolery; from time to time, I'll toss in a chapter here to offset my other stories - mostly so I don't get burned out doing the same thing, over and over. Plans currently include at least four more chapters - possibly more, if folks take a liking to it. But for the most part, this is more like a fluff piece I can work on to keep me from growing to loathe my own typical fare.

And yes, anthro - because to me, feral equines aren't my go-to for being sexy; others may decide on that for themselves, and that's fine for them. But for me, I think I have too much of an attachment to humanoid characteristics... and their appropriate locations on humanoid forms. So, to be clear, NOT hating on feral-fluffers... just not my thing, is all.

Yeah, Monty's a bit of a grumble-puppy, but he does his job, and knows what he's doing. Through the course of the story, keep those five rules in mind - because as it unfolds, he'll have to work hard to keep those simple rules from being broken like a Crystal Heart after a Royal Canterlot Wail from an alicorn foal.