The Memorable Mr. Solano

“I want you to remember me.” Mr. Solano said as he hugged me tightly against him.

He was certainly memorable, but not in the way he wanted. Solano had become a regular a few months ago. It was one of those connections I hadn’t expected to be lasting. It was during a stage dance I performed early one Tuesday evening that he and I locked eyes. I knew he wanted to talk to me, but he didn’t look like money to me. He looked like a three-song-set kind of man, which is great, but an older man had nearly fallen out of his seat trying to get my attention before I’d even started my set, and older men are often a better bet for money. Not all elderly men are well off, but many are, and the ones who come to the strip club are often lonely and just sitting on a lifetime of accumulated money. I’ve yet to be written into anybody’s will or life insurance policy (aside from my partner, and I don’t want him to die anytime soon), and that’s a problem.

I saw my elderly prospect, and decided to talk to him first. If Mr. Solano stuck around, I would talk to him next, provided he was still interested. Sometimes customers take it personally when you choose them second. They develop a chip on their shoulder and ask “Why did you go with that loser instead of me (a winner?)?” Verbatim, I’ve had people ask me this, not a hint of irony in their voices. Maybe they substitute “loser” for that “fatty” or that “creep” or that “old guy,” always implying that they have something the other man doesn’t. But customers don’t really know why we choose who we choose. They don’t have stripper vision. They don’t have the years of sorting through customers, sifting the tiny nuggets of gold from dirt. Thankfully, Mr. Solano didn’t mind. After I came back from my lap dance with the elderly man, Mr. Solano smiled up at me like a happy bulldog, his lips curling around a pronounced underbite.

“I was waiting for you!” He said, enthusiastically.

“Wow! Thank you!” I replied, hugging him like a long lost friend.

“I was trying to get your attention earlier. I almost left, but I told myself, ‘You know what? Just wait a few more minutes, she’ll come.’ I’m so glad you did.”

“I’m glad too! Glad I didn’t miss you.” I said, effusively, mirroring his excitement. “What’s your name? I’m Selena.”

“I know what your name is. I’ve been here a few times.”

“Oh!”

“You never saw me. It’s okay.” He said, wistfully, “I love how you dance. So sensual. Do you teach dance outside of here?”

“No.”

I quickly scooped him up for a dance, keeping my eyes peeled in case another prospect came in. It can be difficult to appear interested when I’m focused on the next catch and kill. Not to be violent about it.

I know people think of us as cold hearted, which is unfair. We’re experienced salespeople who work on commission and need to lock down our daily quotas. The customers who come in are looking for our particular form of entertainment, and we provide that and more. But at the end of the day, we go home from work and mostly avoid thinking about the revolving door of customers who solicit us for services. We’re busy vaping and watching Netflix like every other worker after a long day on their feet. Like the real estate agents of Selling Sunset, we slather on a face of makeup, clip in more extensions than we can hide the tracks for, lift and separate our tits for the world to bask in their glory, because we are trying to make sales. And realistically, we’re almost all in relationships. Let’s face it, what our customers ruefully say is true. Most strippers I know are cuffed. We aren’t looking for a match at work anymore than the cute cashier at Trader Joe’s is. Yes, we are beautiful, wanted people and the desire our customers express is not a unique occurrence. Yes, we get told how beautiful we are every day that we leave the house. How else would we know we were qualified for this job? It doesn’t make receiving compliments less enjoyable, but the whole trope of praising femmes who have no sense of their beauty value more than those who are aware, is so stale.

Solano and I exchanged numbers at the end. VIP set regulars are the backbone of my paycheck. They’re consistent, even if they aren’t blowing my mind with generosity.

“What name should I put in?” I asked.

I realized I hadn’t ever gotten his name.

“Just call me ‘anonymous’.” He said.

“Okay…” I said, reluctantly typing it in.

“It’s about the fantasy, right? That’s the fun part. I can be anybody.”

“True. You can be whoever you want.” I said.

I didn’t care what his name was as long as he was paying me. If it helped for him to feel anonymous, who was I to tell him otherwise? My role is to “yes, and” my customers.

The next time I saw him, he had decided he wanted to change his name again.

“You know, I thought about it, and I decided I didn’t want to be just a stranger to you.” He announced.

“No? What do you want me to call you then?” I asked, mildly amused.

Some customers feel wronged by the fake name/real name dynamic. They feel entitled to know our real names, because their feelings are real. The emotional stakes are high for them. Meanwhile strippers are just trying to avoid being stalked or murdered.

“I was watching my favorite movie, Rocky. I was watching Rocky run up the stairs, and I thought, I’m kinda like him at the beginning. I’m just getting fit now. For a long time, I didn’t care. I let myself get pretty big. This year I decided I couldn’t do it anymore. I needed to get healthy. I lost forty pounds since January. I hired my friend, a Black guy, he’s very strong, he’s a personal trainer. And almost every day we go out and he kicks my butt.”

“That’s fantastic. I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself.”

“One day, I’m gonna show up with a six pack.”

“I can already tell you have muscles,” I said, massaging his arms.

“Oh can you?” He asked, excitedly.

“Yeah, I can see it.”

During this dance, I took a moment to open his wallet. I was curious what his real name was. I know it’s controversial, going through people’s personal items, but when they’re buried deep in my tits, they’re usually too distracted to notice, and curiosity gets the best of me. Sometimes I just want to know what kind of car they drive. Sometimes I check to see if the name they gave me aligns with their drivers license. Sometimes I check to see if they can actually afford to tip me for extras. His license wasn’t in the front, so I flipped through a bit as he sucked on a nipple. Then I found Mr. Solano’s full legal name. Satisfied, I returned to actively entertaining him.

You may be wondering how I can focus on anything else with a man latched onto my nipple like a suckling infant. The answer is dissociation ✨

The next time he returned, I made a point of feeling up his muscles.

“You’re getting so slim!” I said, praising him.

“Thank you!” He replied, ebullient. “I’ve been working really hard. It’s for my health. The look is nice, but what really got to me was—“ He paused, bashfully, “I started having problems down there. And you know with men, if that doesn’t work, what’s the point of being alive? Might as well end it.”

I accepted his reality. To me, it seemed trivial. My pussy has always been fickle and seems to only work half the time. After menopause, I have no idea how anything will function. Maybe I’ll dry up entirely? There’s no magical pill to give me a clitoral boner as of yet, or to make me slip-n-slide wet when I take it. If my junk stopped working, I’d probably resign myself to it. I’d put up a “permanently closed” sign and shoo people away. Don’t waste your time, that tunnel hasn’t been open in years. But losing an ability is a real loss. It’s reasonable to mourn even the most trivial changes. Aging is compounding cruelty.

“I could see that.” I replied, pragmatically.

“But I’m starting treatments for it this week.”

“How exciting!”

“They’re using an electric shock to increase the blood flow down there.”

It’s amazing how far medicine has come for penises. We know how to raise the dead, zapping wilted weiners like Frankenstein to bring them back from the other side. Yet we only have birth control when it comes to treating PMS/PMDD/Endometriosis and the litany of other scourges half the population experiences every month. But yay for the dicks.

“Have you noticed a difference?” I asked.

“Yes!” Mr. Solano beamed, “I have! I’m excited to see how much better he gets.”

Mr. Solano looked down at his crotch wistfully.

“I want it to get hard like it used to, so that maybe one day I can please you.”

I smiled a tight lipped smile. It wasn’t going to happen, but there’s no way to say that delicately without jeopardizing our dance. He hadn’t paid for us to go to the back yet, which meant I was still pitching him. And he knew it. He knew I was locked in and would have to listen to him until our dance was paid for. I’d have to indulge him for a bit longer.

“Maybe, right? Like you said before. Maybe?” He prodded.

“Maaaaybe.” I drawled.

“You promise?”

I rubbed his chest and forced myself to smile even more sweetly.

“Of course.”

Of course I would maaaaybe consider sleeping with him.

“You’re not lying, are you? Just to get a dance and then forget about me.” Mr. Solano asked nervously.

“No.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“You’re gonna consider? Just one time?”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Look, if you don’t wanna dance with me now, I have to go.” I said, pulling away.

“But you never answered me.” He said.

“I did!”

“I didn’t hear it.”

He hadn’t heard what he wanted to hear.

“I answered!” I said, attempting to stand up. Mr. Solano held onto me, pulling me to him.

“No, don’t leave. I will dance with you once you answer.” He pleaded.

“I’m not doing this with you. If you wanna dance with me, we go now. If not, I’m leaving.”

I wriggled away from him. We were speaking in circles. I had no intention of making a concession, and, obsessively romantic Latino man that he was, he had no intention of dropping the subject. I knew he would buy the dance with me if I put my foot down, but I was so irritated by his pestering that even the idea of making money off of him had become repulsive.

It’s significantly more appealing when customers respect my boundaries without a fight. I’ve even had instances where I was genuinely attracted to customers only to have them rampage past my limits and ruin any chance they had at genuinely having a chance with me outside of the club. They’ve been fed too many romcoms. They think aggression and persistence, wearing “women” down will pay off, but it doesn’t. Nothing kills my boner faster than a person who doesn’t understand the meaning of “no”.

“Alright! I’m going to buy the dance with you. Just one more minute, and we can go.” Mr. Solano said, taking my hand.

“No. We go now, or I’m leaving.”

“Okay.” He said, dejected.

He stood up, grabbing his drink. I hastily led him to the floater without giving him a second glance.

“We want a VIP set.”

“A four for three?” Mr. Solano asked timidly.

I side eyed him.

“Sure. A four for three.” I said.

“You’re so generous, Ms. Selena! What a lucky guy you are!” Axel gushed.

“So lucky.” I said through gritted teeth.