Touch My Nose pt. 1

The slow season can force even the most spoiled strippers to put their pickiness aside and talk to the oddball customer they might not have spoken to otherwise. When you’re sitting in a club for hours without a single customer to keep you busy, just killing time pondering how you got here and how bad the night might be, even the regular who you know is extra work starts to look tempting. I was in this boat on Thursday. I was worried if I sat around idly any longer I might just reach the end of the internet. Staring at your phone creates this inertia. No customer is going to be more interesting than a sick meme, or a great chat in your DM’s but sadly I’m not in the business of memes or DM’s. I had to grind on at least a few boners to make my quota.

There was only one customer present: the old man with the Hawaiian shirt and greasy looking shoulder length comb over. Did I want to talk to him? No. Was he about to talk my ear off about a random assortment of things I’d have trouble following because he’s probably losing it? Undoubtedly. However, was I about to hustle him into spending hundreds of dollars on me? You better believe it.

I didn’t even have to make the first move, thankfully. He waved at me from his table. I waved back and returned to my phone, trying to muster the energy to migrate to him. When I looked back up he was shuffling over to me. He placed a soft arthritic hand on my shoulder and patted me gently.

“Mind if I sit with you?” he asked.

“Please.”

I scooted over to make space for him and he sat, crossing one leg over the other, his khaki shorts riding up.

“Why didn’t you come over to talk to me?”

“You were talking to another girl. I didn’t want to be rude.”

“You should have just come over.”

“It’s a stripper etiquette thing.”

Earlier I’d watch him slowly eat a quarter of a meatball sub and Caesar salad while he talked to Lolita. Lolita is a sweetheart with loads more patience than me. I didn’t want to poach her regular, especially given how barren things were.

“Just tell her I’m with you now,” he smirked, his broomstick mustache wiggling as he spoke.

“Yeah,” I nodded.

There was no reason to argue the point. Old men have all the time in the world to try and convince you of things and hardly any hearing left to hear your side of things.

“I like you. You look so innocent!”

“Thanks? I’m not sure if that’s a compliment.”

“I don’t know if you’re innocent or not,” he continued, “But you look innocent.”

“Thanks?”

Looking innocent can be an asset as a whore. People suspect you of less even when you’re doing the most.

“It’s alright. Why do you look so scared? I’m not gonna hurt you.”

I wasn't sure what he meant. There was nothing scary about him, he was just off putting. I attempted to control my expression.

“I’m not scared. I know you won’t hurt me.”

I also knew a stiff wind could take him down. A bandage on his frail forearm clung to his paper thin skin. In all honesty, I was surprised he was out and about considering he clearly belonged to the “at risk” demographic.

“You’re worried I’m gonna waste your time, right?”

“Wasting time” is a relative concept. At that moment, I wasn’t doing anything productive. I had time to waste. During the busy season, I wouldn’t have wasted time talking to him at all, but time was loose nowadays. I could afford to listen to his circular ramblings and it wouldn’t be wasting my time so long as he bought enough dances in return.

“I’m not,” I replied.

“You shouldn’t be. I’m gonna get a dance with you, don’t worry. I don’t mess around with those single song dances. I’ll probably get a set. Who knows?”

I was grateful at least he wasn’t trying to lowball me. A VIP would nearly get me to my quota.

“I like it when girls touch my face,” he said, picking up one of my hands and placing it on his cheek, “You like my nose?”

I followed his lead and stroked his face. I considered his nose. It wasn’t particularly remarkable in any direction. It wasn’t very big or very small, it wasn’t sculpted and pronounced, it wasn’t smooth: it was kinda lumpy and sat a bit to the side, but I know how to play the game.

“I do,” I said as I traced his nose.

“Most girls like it. They say they wish they had my nose,” he reached out and tried to touch my nose and I instinctively dodged, “What’s wrong? You don’t like having your nose touched?”

“I don’t like people touching my face.”

“Aw, just let me touch it once. You’ll like it, you’ll see.”

It was clear consent was not his strong suit. I knew if we went to the back I’d have to chaperone his touch, but for now, I decided to let him touch my nose. He honked my nose and tried to kiss me on the lips. I turned away, irritated.

“Gimme a kiss!” he demanded.

“I don’t kiss.”

“Why not? Don’t you like kissing?”

I knew that he would continue pressing me if I said “yes”. Do I like kissing? Yeah, generally if I’m attracted to the person. I could tell this was a thing he did. He was a kisser, and I’d have to dodge this request without offending him.

“I don’t.”

“That’s weird. I’ve never heard of someone not liking kissing before. You’re telling me you don’t kiss anybody? Not even the men or women you sleep with?”

I liked that he didn’t assume either way.

“Yeah, I just uh, never liked the wetness. It’s a germs thing.”

He rolled his eyes. He wasn’t buying it, but I was sticking to my story.

“You know who gives the best kisses is Charlie,” he hummed to himself, “She gives the sweetest kisses! I bet you give sweet kisses too. Don’t stop touching my face.”

I’d let my hand drift down, but promptly returned it to his stubbly cheek.

“I have love for a lot of girls here, and lots of them tell me they love me too. I don’t know if they’re telling me the truth, but I think they are. Who would lie about that kind of thing? I’m a very lovable person. You might even love me one day, maybe today even.”

I “mhm’d” him and smiled sweetly as I traced his nose. What was there to say to that? “Love” is a weighty word and I prefer not to just toss it around all willy nilly. The part of me that wants words to hold meaning and integrity winced at the idea of telling this man that I loved him, the cold-hearted hustler in me was ready to compromise my values to make this sale. I hate feeling desperate, yet at that moment I felt the throat-closing heat of desperation closing around me.

“I wouldn’t have sex with you unless you loved me. I need to feel connected to have sex. It isn’t just casual to me. If you have sex with me, it will change your life. You’ll be connected to me forever, that’s just how it would be.”

Things were escalating and we were just sitting together. It was time to go for the dance before he added more to his laundry list of requests.

“I can’t wait to be close to you. Are you ready to go to the back?” I asked.