Sorry I Forgot Your Name

I’ve been going through a period of readjustment. My body is slowly losing some of the softness it accumulated over the course of the pandemic. I have new regulars now, and I’ve been lucky enough to retain a few of the older ones. I’ve fallen out of practice with retaining mens’ names. I can only meet a Brian or Jeff so many times before it becomes some John Doe placeholder. There was one particular regular who I’d met probably two and a half years ago, who for the duration of our relationship existed in my phone as Sorry I Forgot Your Name. He would sporadically show up, and if I happened to be around, he would dance with me. If I wasn’t around, he would dance with the first Nonwhite woman who struck his fancy. There are customers who dance with White women, and there are customers who don’t, and I’ve found that there isn’t a lot of overlap between those categories. Otis likes color, but I hadn’t placed him within the binary, primarily because I didn’t see him enough to track his preferences aside from liking me. But since we’ve reopened, I’ve gotten to watch the other Nonwhite dancers steal him away. It’s hard to begrudge them for it. I like seeing colored folks win, even if it comes at a cost to me. I’m lucky enough to be comfortable. We can all eat from the bountiful strip club table.

Another regular recently asked me how I choose who to talk to, likely assuming that the answer would be something sparkly and romantic. Obviously, I only talk to handsome men with a special sparkle in their eyes and a visible intelligence. Ha. If only.

Me: Typically the demographics who I do best with are White or Black educated professionals between the ages of thirty-five and sixty. I do very poorly with Asian men, particularly South Asian men, but also North Asian, unless they’re second generation American, then we get along well. Latinos are a toss-up, because not all Latino men like Black people, but some fetishize “morenas”.

Scott: Oh.

It was a cold, databot answer. I am a databot whore. Scott bristled.

Scott: So I guess I’m your ideal demographic.

He was right. He was my ideal demographic to a T: White, 50’s, highly educated, successful professional. He was even an attorney, which is a professional subset I do particularly well with, since one of my partners is an attorney and I’m well versed in the language of legality(even if I choose to operate in the world of illegality). It’s dangerous to tell the truth when your industry is about gentle lies, however customers often sniff out inconsistencies. It’s better to tell half-truths than elaborate lies.

Me: There’s a lot more to it, but you asked about how I choose. Of course I have feelings, and there’s a lot of feelings and ineffable stuff. I’m sorry for being a robot.

I hemmed and hawed. I could recover, but I’d let him see the man behind the curtain. I wish that men saw my robotic qualities for the asset that they are. But men are romantics. All they want is to settle down and get married, and they have so many feelings. It’s overwhelming navigating their irrational ups and downs, trying to guess what they truly want at any given moment. It’s never just the sex. It’s never just a steady handjob. It’s about getting stroked off while looking into your eyes, feeling held in your hands and in your eyes simultaneously.

I finally learned Otis’ name from the floaters. We recently hired two new White men to keep track of dances. They’re very attentive, and lean into upselling customers, even when I don’t want to deal with an upsell. I know a lot of other dancers aren’t comfortable nudging customers into more expensive rooms or asking for tips, but I have no problem convincing people to do what I want. My magic is upselling without them knowing it’s what I’m doing. They believe it’s their idea, and that’s better than a last second hustle at the pay station.

Alvin: Otis, right?

Otis: Great memory!

I was also amazed Alvin had remembered, but he was a professional. In hospitality, a remembered name could mean a hefty tip.

Alvin: What can I get for you two tonight?

Me: We’d like a half hour.

The question is usually directed at the men awkwardly following behind me, but I’m the expert. I prefer choosing my adventures.

Alvin: Happy to hear it! That’ll be $350.

Otis: Actually, let’s make it an hour.

Even better.

Alvin: Fantastic. That will be $700.

I took Otis upstairs to the hour room. What I loved about him was that I knew he wouldn’t pressure me into sex. He knew my limits and had decided to spend extra money without the expectation of anything more than a sensual hour wrapped in my arms. That night he was tired. He had started flying between South Carolina, Texas, and California for work.

Otis: Nobody is vaccinated down there. I could hardly believe it. We’re all in the robotics industry, all scientists, and yet people refuse to get vaccinated. I mean it gave me pause. How can I trust people to do their job as scientists when they clearly don’t believe in science?

Me: That is concerning.

Otis: I wasn’t sure if I could work in South Carolina. It’s just so different from here. People are still convinced Trump won. I can’t even talk about politics out there.

Me: I couldn’t do it. I’ve spent lots of time in the South, and I refuse to go back.

Otis: I know what you mean. It was a hard four years. I read a lot of history, so I know why our country is what it is. You can’t be built upon slavery and genocide and not have residual effects.

I was surprised he understood this without me telling him. I continued grinding against his straining erection. Sometimes I wonder what this feels like on the other side. I don’t have external genitalia like that, so I can’t really fathom the joys of dry humping an eager boner against someone’s soft buttocks, but people pay me a lot of money for the experience. There must be something to the physicality. Or maybe just being in erotic proximity to someone attractive. Of course, it’s not all beauty and friction. It’s about *me* grinding against your dick. I wish I could be on the other side, shopping for private dances with hotties, but I wouldn’t know where to start. Demisexual that I am, I’d need to find a professional conversationalist to light my fire. They’d have to have encyclopedic knowledge of something esoteric, win me over with their wit and charm, and convey a sexual openness while not initiating because I like to initiate, and then they would need to be both improvisationally talented while adept at taking direction.

But anyway.

Otis: Water break?

Me: Please.

I sipped my water. He sipped his and a little cup of vodka soda he’d illicitly purchased from Alvin. I curled up against him, allowing his head to nestle against my breast as I ran my fingers through his hair.

Otis: If you could go anywhere, where would you want to go?

I can go anywhere, and I’ve gone to many of the places I’ve wanted to visit. When men ask me this hypothetical question, I understand the point. I know that it’s a game of imagination. What if we traveled somewhere together? What if I flew you out to be my romantic fuck toy? They want to rent affection the same way they want to rent a villa.

Me: Well, the next places I’m going are Taiwan and Indonesia.

Otis: I’ve been to Taiwan. I didn’t really like it. Of course, I was there for work. But I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think people went there for tourism. What would you do there?

Me: I’d go for the street food and to explore. It’s an interesting place, still fighting against mainland Chinese control.

Otis: Hmm.

Men want an easy answer. Take me to Paris! I want to go shopping in London! Let’s go to a resort in the Bahamas! Many people dream of visiting these places. I don’t want to undermine what’s inaccessible for many people. But it isn’t my cup of tea.

Otis: I want to visit the Maldives. You can rent a whole resort tended to by maids and chefs. When I do, I’ll bring you with me. It’s a bit expensive, but I think $20,000 for a week like that is worth it.

It was exactly the opposite of the kind of vacation I would take. I like to live like a local, stay away from resorts and tourist traps, eat food from street carts and find spots where I’m the only foreigner around.

Me: That would be pretty wild.

Otis: What is it about Asia that draws you there?

Me: I don’t know. I just like a lot of stuff that happens to be in Asia.

Otis: I’ve traveled all over Asia for work, and I have to say, I think Korean women are the prettiest, at least their faces. But I’m an ass man. Filipina women have the best asses, in my opinion. I almost married a Filipina, actually. It didn’t work out though. The one group I’ve never found myself attracted to are Indians. I don’t know why. There are beautiful Indian women, like Nick Jonas’ wife, Priya… Pr--?

Me: Priyanka Chopra.

Otis: She’s gorgeous, but I don’t know. Indians just don’t do it for me.

Me: Oh...

I could have corrected him, given him a long talk about the problematic implications of making general statements about ethic groups, but I’m not always trying to fight those fights, particularly during an hour long dance. Sometimes I just want to get my bag and not educate the ignorant. And yet it’s almost unavoidable when dealing with men. They build their lives around dangerous misconceptions propogated by the reinforcing circle jerk of conversing with other men harboring the same misguided ideas.

By the end of the dance, we were both exhausted. Otis from relentless travel coupled with early mornings. Me from the micromovements of performing a lap dance and the hard left our conversation had taken. The man was such a whirlwind of an experience. I’d gone from appreciating his historical awareness to diving down a dismal hole of orientalist fetishization. But he tipped well, and of the many men I must talk to for a living, he was far from the worst.