Pt. 2: Pay Me To Drink My Tears

If I hadn’t needed to work to earn money, I probably would have stayed home and wallowed in the dampness of grief. In a way, it was good for me to get out and have some sense of purpose–to have to do my hair and shower. Revenge continued lurking in the back of my mind, even though I hardly felt entitled to it. I wanted to fuck people, not out of joy, but instead as a destructive expression of my pain.

“Come pay me to drink my tears,” I posted in my story.

I didn’t know if anybody would respond. I didn’t know if I wanted anybody to respond. It was a cry for attention, but whose attention, I couldn’t say. As I typed it, I felt tears well in my eyes. At least it was an authentic cry for help. I took a deep breath, and leaned into my impulsive mood.

For almost a year now, I’ve had a crush on Rose. It’s been a chaste affair of furtive looks, secret touches, and vague hints that led me down a confused rabbit hole. Did she feel how I felt? What did the feelings mean? Was it enough just to fantasize about her from afar? Rose crept into my dreams, beckoning me even in slumber. At first, I tried to distract myself. I got on Her and Lex, searching for someone like her. I didn’t want to mix business and pleasure, and besides, I didn’t know if she liked me or if it was one of those terrible “girl crush” situations. What if she wasn’t queer? Creep that I am, I’d kept an eye on Rose. I watched her drape herself over one of the out lesbians at the club. Were they a couple? I had so many questions, and yet I wasn’t explicitly asking any of them. Instead, I started seeing other femmes, only to find that the absence she created remained painfully vacant.

After months of beating around the bush (unfortunately an inaccurate pun), I gathered the nerve to ask her.

“Hey… Are you gay?”

Rose blushed and covered her face, “Uh, yeah. I am. Are you?”

I’d put her on the spot, only to also be put on the spot. I’m not gay, but I’m not straight. I’ve slept with all kinds of people with a variety of genitalia and gender expressions.

“I’m bisexual,” I replied, suddenly embarrassed.

The awkward tension between us was palpable. There was so much to say, and yet neither of us seemed keen on going too far out on a limb for fear of falling off. But I needed to know more.

“Are you dating Bunny?” I asked.

“No,” Rose looked off, thoughtfully, “I don’t have time to date anybody right now. All I do is work, and if I was with her, I’d want to really be present for it.”

Another pregnant pause.

“Can I see your finger tattoos?” I asked.

“God, you’re making me nervous,” Rose giggled.

She held out her hand and I took it, examining her slender fingers. What had started off as looking became warm and different. Her hand lingered in mine, even after I finished inspecting her tattoos. We looked away, then back at our hands woven together.

“Do you watch The L Word?” she asked.

“Yes! Well, I had to stop around Papi’s season. It just got a little too cheesy for me.”

“Oh, Papi! The L Word is so hot. Sometimes, I feel like I’m not sure if I should just watch or if I should grab my vibrator.”

“It’s pretty steamy.”

“Which character do you think is the hottest?”

“Hmm…”

“I think Jenny is so gorgeous.”

“No! Oh my god,” I rolled my eyes, “Jenny is the most annoying!”

“I know, but–”

“I like Bette. It was hot when she hooked up with the carpenter.”

“It was like she was fucking herself,” Rose snorted, “I like contrast. They were too similar.”

Her hand remained in mine. I was sweating. It’s one thing pursuing men: they’re simple and easy to read. Even though I knew Rose and I had chemistry, I couldn’t get a read on where she was. Did she just enjoy the tension between us? Would asking for more be too much? Did I even want more? Did I have the capacity for more?

“Selena to the DJ booth, oh yeah. Some more sexy ladies, coming right up!” The DJ cruned.

“Gotta go dance,” I said, stating the obvious as I freed my hand.

Rose nodded. Her sweat had mingled with mine. I felt dizzy. What now? Nothing? I hoped for something.

When I finished my stage set, Rose was gone. She spends half of her shift outside on the patio, smoking joints and watching things on her phone. On a whim, I went to see if she was there. I poked my head out and with every ounce of awkwardness, tapped her on the shoulder.

“Heyyy…” I said.

“Hey!” she replied.

“Can I… kiss you?”

Rose blinked, surprised by the question. I had fully put myself out on the limb, and felt like I had just looked down and noticed the depth of the plunge I risked taking. I watched her eyes, searching them as she giggled nervously.

I backpedaled, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“Sorry! I just… you surprised me,” she smiled.

She stood up and we stared at each other, then rushed into a quick peck, then pulled back and looked at each other, disoriented. I felt a hot blush cover my neck.

“Uh, I’m GoNNa gO bAck iN,” I half whispered.

Rose smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear as I backed away. I didn’t know how I ended up being the bold one, or if I was the bold one. I’d certainly escalated things, but in the clumsiest way imaginable. I felt like I was in a teen movie, figuring out the difference between the kiss you give your grandma and the one you give to a lover. I’d given Rose a granny peck, and hated myself for it, but what could I do?

***

Inside, I surveyed the room and caught the eye of a tall man in a neat, short sleeved button down shirt, sitting by himself with a mask covering his face. While there are many customers who are still Covid-cautious, face masks have also become an excellent tool for remaining incognito. After my usual introduction, I took a seat in his lap. I was having trouble breathing, definitely not feeling at ease but trying my best to project an air of confidence. Still, my mind was busy. I felt insecure and struggled to maintain even our basic conversation. The normally simple back and forth was stilted.

“What’s your name?”

“Rick”

“What do you do?”

“I run a logistics company.”

“Oh, that’s cool.”

Pause

“Where is it located?”

“Oregon for now, but we’re adding a location here.”

“Oh, cool.”

Pause

“What do you do?”

I looked at him blankly.

“Other than this?”

“I uh…”

I felt like my brain was running on dialup. The screeching sound of a phone line connecting a thick Dell desktop computer to a pixelated internet experience. What did I do? What should I tell him? Was it better to tell the truth or lie and dumb down my life? When in doubt, I lie.

“Not much. I rock climb, watch boring stuff.”

I was absolutely selling it. Personality and wit for days. Who wouldn’t want to spend an exorbitant amount of money after the elaborate enticement of knowing I have two hobbies? Perhaps I was a rich array of pheromones screaming fertility. Perhaps he liked how hard my micro bikini was struggling to control my heaving breasts, regardless, he purchased a half hour dance with me.

He took off his mask and I realized he was not White, like I’d assumed. He stared at me with nervous intensity, and I couldn’t help but mirror, but for my own reasons. There are a number of expressions that are acceptable both when one is experiencing erotic bliss and when one is enduring agony. The lack of clear difference can be helpful when attempting to cover discomfort or mental anguish. Add a moan, and it’s just a fitful orgasm instead of pain creeping out. My hardened look met his: mine a combination of fear and vulnerability; his a thin layer concealing his lust. I began by holding him. I tucked my face into his neck so he couldn’t see me, so that I could rest for a moment and adjust to his body against mine. He wrapped himself around me like a large teddy bear. I knew it was work, but for a moment, I let myself absorb being held tightly. I imagined hovering above the two of us, lurking by the security camera catching every detail while some manager watched, touching himself in the upstairs office.

Sometimes I stare directly at the camera while I’m giving a dance. Customers don’t usually notice what I’m doing when I’m faced away from them. They’re engrossed in touching me or feeling my bottom rub against their groin. I’ve had customers ask me how I do it–how I handle being intimate with people even when they’re gross or unattractive. If you’ve ever performed on stage, you know the feeling. There is a trance-like nature to a well-rehearsed performance. When I was a theater kid, there were plenty of times when I felt like I only woke up at the end of the play, after I didn’t have to be in character anymore. I could come out and bow with the rest of the cast and be myself. There’s a meditative flow I enter into when giving lap dances that is so well choreographed at this point, I don’t even think about it. As my body moves, my mind drifts. I stare up at the camera and imagine who is watching. I think about problems at home. I focus on breathing, because time can feel as if it’s standing still in a thirty minute room, and there’s nothing to do other than grin and bear it, knowing you’re getting paid well.

When I shut my eyes, I imagined Evan and Eve together. In my fantasy, they weren’t doing anything devious or wrong, I just imagined them doing what Evan and I do together. I imagined them at the hotel where he and I stayed, the way he looks at me getting out of the shower, a lusty smile on his face as he reaches under her towel… My throat clenched. It was dangerous thinking. There’s nothing more dispiriting than a crying stripper. I wiped a tear on Rick’s shirt and kissed his neck, pretending it was nothing. I’ve been learning how physical grief can be. For years I handled my emotions in a cerebral way, not acknowledging the physical effects because I couldn’t identify them in my body. I felt cold or numb, and dizzy suppressing what I felt while I considered the repercussions of externalizing my inner turmoil. But lately I’ve been re-examining my body, reading books like Behave and The Body Keeps The Score, beginning overdue “inner child” work. At that moment, I needed to address the grief in my body. I needed an outlet, and here was my chance.

I could tell by the way Rick handled my body that he had an intuitive sense with touch. He massaged my back as I faced him, rubbing my thigh against his erection. He gathered my nipple into his mouth and surprised me. I know nipple sucking at the club is controversial, all strippers have different limits, blah blah. But as someone who enjoys getting my tits sucked if someone does it well, it’s never been a limit for me. I’ve also learned that it’s a good litmus test for oral: the better a person is at sucking tits, the better they are at sucking clits. Rick wasn’t the kind of man I would normally be attracted to, but he was illustrating that attraction doesn’t have much to do with coming. I felt myself getting wet, enjoying his touch and his persistent pursuit of my arousal.

Normally I stop myself from going too far. Having an orgasm in the club can be fun, but it also can hurt. There’s no aftercare. Customers hand you money and leave, often embarrassed and ashamed for having gone so far. Just like we have our limits, customers have theirs. You don’t get the safety or privacy to rest and recover or share the intimate stillness afterwards, instead you have to recover and press on, no matter how vulnerable you may feel. You have to keep your wits about you and hustle the customer into paying you for the experience or deal with the crushing betrayal of being stiffed. I was already wounded, I didn’t know how I would handle another blow.

The floater knocked on our door, “Ms. Selena, your time is up! Let me know if you both would like some more time!”

Rick and I exchanged a look.

“One more?” he asked.

“I’m down.”

He left the room to pay. I sat alone, considering everything, feeling the tingle between my legs. I knew at that moment, the money didn’t matter. He was purchasing another half hour, which was already a decent amount to spend. I didn’t feel like I was being shortchanged or taken advantage of. When he re-entered the room, he got on his knees and parted my legs.

“Can I?”

I stared at him. I always take my time to answer questions, no matter how banal they may be. It could be whether or not I want a turkey sandwich or wrap, it doesn’t matter. I weigh my options. Normally, I tell people this is impossible. I’m afraid of STI’s and having to take off from work for treatment. I don’t know you or your sexual history. Etc. But Rick seemed like someone I could trust, as foolhardy an instinct as that may be. He also seemed like he could make me cum, and at that moment, that was the priority.

“Yeah.”

***

He gave me his card and told me to call him, that he wanted to take me out to dinner the next time he visited. I took it, unsure of if I would ever call him. He tipped me less than I wanted, but I didn’t feel like fighting him over it, then left in a hurry. I took a seat at a table alone, feeling a mix of good and bad swirling in my body. What was done was done.