The Many Lives We’ve Lived Together

Actually, let me backtrack a bit. It’s hard to keep track of the exact sequence of events when Danny is involved. Before I helped him find his own party favors, I took him for a half hour room. He hadn’t brought enough cash, impulsive visit that this was, so he was forced to eat the 17% surcharge for running his credit card. I watched him whisper into Axel’s ear as I waited for the transaction to process. They were clearly up to something, although I wasn’t sure what.

“You’re all set, sweetie. Pick whichever room you want.”

I chose the middle room with a view out to the floor. Axel followed us and shut the door.

“Sweetie, I’m gonna need you to bend over so we can do a few bumps off of your ass,” Axel declared, fishing out a baggie from his pocket.

I obliged, intrigued by what was happening. Axel was crossing a line, and while I wasn’t particularly bothered by it, it was not something I would agree to without Danny there to witness. I knelt on the couch and bent over, and watched as Axel poured a little snowcap onto one buttcheek. He snorted it, then licked the remaining dust from my skin. Danny followed suit, pouring himself a generous bump.

“That’s a big one,” Axel remarked as he watched a quarter of his baggie disappear.

Danny inhaled the tiny mountain, but I don’t recall him licking my ass. Strip clubs are a gray zone of legality and illegality, and this was definitely one of those instances where we lept into the zone of illegality and EEOC violations. In a normal workplace (with the exception of maybe a high stakes litigation office or people working the stock exchange), you don’t interact with your coworker’s bare ass, let alone lick drugs off of it. In a way it was like Axel and I made an oath not to speak of this moment or any other moment. We both certainly knew we were regularly engaged in a variety of illegal activities, but we hadn’t done anything illegal together. The seal was now broken. If I went down, Axel was coming with me.

Axel excused himself and left Danny and me alone. I was a little grateful Danny had something in his system, just to take the edge off. He wrapped his arms around me and gathered my nipple into his mouth. It was a stark contrast to his normal MO. Usually Danny is too blitzed out for any kind of aggressive action, but this evening he was sober enough for an erection, which he proudly demonstrated, whipping out his sizable dick. I wasn’t entirely prepared for this version of Danny. Usually he’s cerebral, more interested in articulating a fantasy than diving straight in without buildup. We hardly spoke. He pulled me close and rubbed against me with a nonverbal intensity. Yet, just as quickly as he dove into our passionate play, he pulled away and dressed himself.

“I don’t want to come so early,” he explained.

We still had a while left on the clock, but Danny had decided he’d had enough for now. It always feels a little suspicious to leave a room early. They’re expensive, so most of the time if a customer decides to leave early, it’s either because they’re pissed or because they’ve just shot their load and want to escape the post nut shame. Somehow Danny had chosen the “none of the above” option. He was wealthy enough not to think about how much time he’d paid for or how he was shorting himself.

I dutifully followed him out of the room, back to sit at the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mr. Tuesday Night grabbing his nonalcoholic beer at the bar. It’s the start of his ritual. He sits and drinks his beer, imagining how much of a relief he would feel if it was actually alcoholic.

“How much longer do you have left?” Danny asked.

“Technically, I have to be here until 11, but maybe I could leave a little early…” I watched Mr. Tuesday sit and fiddle with this phone, “I have a few customers coming through tonight, so once they leave, I can leave.”

“I understand. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Danny gracefully excused himself without a fuss.

I made my way over to Mr. Tuesday Night, unsure of how he felt about the visible nonmonogamy of the club. Most customers are realistic and understand that this is a job: we work for the men who pay us and move on once the money dries out. I was Danny’s while he was around, now I was Mr. Tuesday Night’s. Still, I get a bit anxious about the transition. I’m an awkward stripper. I’m self-conscious, hypervigilant of everything going on around me, and too aware that I don’t have the easy-breezy airheaded bimbo facade down to a science. Being a bimbo is a talent. It’s an asset for people to think that you’re less intelligent or cognizant than you are, particularly in the sex industry. It’s disarming when a bimbo reveals their true intensity. Bimbos put people at ease by allowing others to feel like they have the upper hand.

I have a bad habit of intimidating customers if I’m not careful. Sometimes it’s my intellect, sometimes it’s how dark I can get when I’m honest. For the past three months I’ve been going through a precious little mental illness moment. I’ve been running on empty, taking time between endless Zoom meetings to have discreet panic attacks or to *controllably* cry uncontrollably when time permits. I’m in the middle of transitioning from one antidepressant to another, numbing myself with doctor prescribed benzos in the meantime. I haven’t felt this beholden to mental illness in a while, and yet here I am, almost two full decades of therapy in and still grappling with the remnants of childhood trauma. At this point, I’m pretty adept at keeping my internal chaos a secret to most people, with the exception of those closest to me. My partners bear the brunt of the burden. But most people probably assume I’m just shy and awkward.

I think Mr. Tuesday Night assumes I am the way I am because I’m shy and secretly smart. Brainy people are inherently a little socially awkward, right? I sat on his leg and attempted to gather myself. I took a deep breath and forced a smile to cover for my unintentional stiffness.

“Good to see you!”

“And you,” he smiled back, “What’s new?”

I considered the question. My mental health deteriorating was the newest thing, and yet there was no way I was bringing that up.

“Honestly, not much. I wish I had something new and exciting to share, but I’m doing the same things. What about you?”

“That’s hard to believe,” he said, “Nothing interesting on my end either. Just working.”

It wasn’t painful small talk, but it was small talk. Maybe it wasn’t important that we talk about anything too deep. Some of the best stripper/client relationships are entirely superficial. I don’t want to dream with him, because dreams are dangerous. Too many client dreams imagine me filling a role I’ll never fill. Their love, while respectful, comes at a cost. I can’t be everyone’s faefriend. Most of the time, I’d rather be their service provider from 6p-12a Tuesday’s and Thursdays.

“Wanna go for a dance?” Mr. Tuesday Night asked.

“Yes!”

He keeps it so simple. He arrives, we talk for five minutes tops, then he takes me for a Skybox. He tips me the same amount every time. We don’t bargain. He doesn’t complain. He’s respectful, and he leaves. I wish more clients were capable of such a straightforward arrangement. And yet the writer in me lives for the strangeness, the intrigue, the moments when an interaction veers off course into something unexpected. Which is why Danny and I have made it this long, in spite of our many conflicts.

After my shift, I threw my clothes on in a hurry and drove down to Marina Del Rey. The route reminded me a bit of visiting Mr. Robinson. I passed a few buildings that I recognized from those wild nights, but continued away from those haunts to the hotel where Danny was staying. I found him lounging at the hotel bar, tucked among what looked like an after-hours meet and greet for some otherwise buttoned up conference. A gaggle of mostly men and a handful of women stood around wearing eye masks as if they were attending some Eyes Wide Shut orgy. I sized up the walkway, and realized I’d have to interact with them to get through.

“Sorry, can I scoot past you real quick?” my Midwestern niceties seeping out.

“Are you sure you’re 21?” one man asked, teasingly.

“Yeah, you don’t look old enough to be here,” another man winked.

“Let her through, I’m sure she’s old enough,” a third man said.

I laughed uncomfortably, “Ha! I promise, I’m old enough to be here. Excuse me.”

The men obliged and watched me walk over to Danny, undoubtedly wondering who I was and how I ended up there. The ratio of men to women was not in their favor. I watched a few of the attendees dance to the quiet hotel muzak playing in the background. A few stared blankly as they sat alone at the bar, nursing a drink. There was an open seat beside Danny with a sweater draped over the back.

“Is someone sitting here?” I asked.

“Kinda, but he can move. It’s my friend, Vince, who you’ve met before.”

I’ve met a lot of Danny’s “friends” through the years. Oftentimes they’re acquaintances he met waiting for me at one bar or another, or potential investors he’s attempting to woo. The closest I’ve come to meeting a true Danny friend was meeting his business partner, and that was a mess. However, this time Danny’s friend (colleague in this case) was actually not a horrible person.

I had not met Vince before, but he and I immediately got on like old friends. Neither Danny nor I had to explain our relationship. Vince didn’t ask and didn’t seem to judge. The men went back and forth talking about the music industry, pre #MeToo and all the wild activities that nobody questioned: blow jobs in elevators; women leveraging power to get their underlings to have sex with them; a bag of cassette tapes filled with cocaine.

“Can anybody work in the music industry without doing copious amounts of coke?” I asked.

“Well…” Danny and Vince exchanged a mischievous look, “You could, but you’d have a lot less fun.”

“Some people do it, but,” Vince smirked, “Most can’t.”

Normally, when Danny coaxes me into meeting him at a bar, I have to swallow my fear and self-doubt, and pretend that I’m not dying inside, but for the first time, I felt like I belonged at the bar as much as anybody else. Maybe it was getting away from stuffy Beverly Hills. Maybe it’s me getting older and finding comfort in my years. While I still don’t look my age, I have been alive for nearly thirty years. I’ve sat at more bars than I can count. I have a few go-to cocktails at this point. I don’t feel like a child sneaking in anymore. I also didn’t feel especially ashamed being Danny’s significantly younger companion. For the first time since I began escorting, I felt at ease and capable of blending in. I sipped my drink and enjoyed chatting with Danny and Vince.

After an hour, Vince excused himself. Danny led me upstairs to his room. His demeanor had softened after a few drinks and a few bumps. He didn’t push me up against a wall to peel off my clothes. Instead, he tapped out a line on the desk and took a seat. I’d left my house in normal stripper attire: something relaxed and conservative so that I don’t attract too much attention leaving the club after my shift. I wore a pair of colorful Crocs with socks. Danny is very opinionated when it comes to fashion. He’s critiqued boots I’ve worn that he didn’t approve of. He has plenty of thoughts on stripper attire and lingerie. I knew he would have something to say about my Crocs, I just didn’t know when he would say it. I took off my pants and sat across from him at the desk.

“I feel like I’m about to be interviewed,” I said.

Danny chuckled and snorted the line, “Would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

I sat up straight and crossed my bare legs.

“Did you have any questions about my application?” I asked.

Danny tilted his head to the side and smirked. He adjusted his posture and pretended to read from a piece of paper.

“You’re obviously a very qualified candidate, but do you think you can handle a big load? Workload, I mean.”

“I’ve handled my share of big loads, work loads, and I can confidently say I’m more than capable of taking it.”

“Good, good to know. That’s important to us. In this industry, we really need people who are willing to expose themselves–show who they truly are and what they’re capable of. Would you have any problems exposing yourself?”

I opened my legs and leaned back, “I’m comfortable exposing myself. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“In that case, could you slide your panties to the side?”

“Like this?”

I pulled the fabric aside. Danny puckered his lips thoughtfully.

“You know, I’ve always hated Crocs, but you might just convince me to reconsider my position.”

“There’s nothing sexier than comfort.”

“Lay on the bed, I want to take a picture of you.”

It’s not common for sex workers to allow customers to take pictures of them, but there’s something about seeing myself from their point of view that I’ve always enjoyed. Pictures have a life of their own. They can be treasured or used against you. I know the risk, but I like the story behind pictures captured by customers, and while Danny can be clumsy in his handling of social situations, he has a decent eye for photography. I obliged and laid, belly down on the bed.

“Spread your legs,” he directed.

I spread my legs, and he took a few pictures.

“Bend your knees so that I can see the Crocs.”

I bent my knees and brought my feet together.

“That’s the one,” Danny announced.

He showed me the picture, the one I’m using for this story. He was right. I couldn’t stifle my amusement for the shot, and he’d captured the moment, and in a way our relationship, perfectly.

I stayed until 2 a.m. It was a little like putting in time to repair a rift. It wasn’t as if there was animosity between us, but after four years, we’ve accumulated our share of history. Danny knows me in his way, and I know him. While there are certainly things I’m sure we would change about each other, in the end, it’s hard to imagine us not getting on, whether it be in this life, or as Danny believes, in the many lives we’ve lived together before this one.