Drag a Man into Debt

“Believe it or not, I owned a construction company that used to outfit businesses for whatever their needs might be. I was doing office buildings, private schools, stores at the mall, and the occasional strip club. Normally, we’d have these businesses on a five year payment plan for the outfitting renovations, but the strip clubs always seemed to pay everything off in a year or two. It got me thinking that these places must be bringing in a lot of money. So I decided to outfit my own club, and now here I am. I’ve got five clubs: two here, one in Miami, and two in Vegas.”

“That’s cool,” Rat replied, drifting off into their own thoughts.

Men loved to talk about their businesses and property. It was a second dick to stroke off. A much more annoying, less rewarding dick to stroke.

“The trick is to buy up a club that’s already built. You don’t wanna start from scratch, because you need a lot of permits to open up a new strip club. I learned that the hard way! And all these mayors have their pockets full of evangelical money, and those bible toters don’t want another hell house opening up in their city. Even though you better believe the ministers stop by after church!” Darryl barked out a laugh, startling Rat.

“Ministers are the kinkiest.” Rat affirmed, shrugging.

“You know it, and I know it, and hell, maybe even their wives know it.” Darryl said, nodding in agreement, “But they all like to pretend they’re as innocent as fresh snow. Anyway, point is, a lot of these clubs don’t do well because they’re mismanaged, or the owner makes a bad bet and loses it all. When a club goes under, I swoop in and lowball ‘em. I offer a couple hundred grand on top of whatever they owe the banks, and usually the owner is so tired of bleeding money, they take the deal just to cut their losses.”

Rat sat silently, unsure of what to add. They hated talking business when the business talk had nothing to do with their business. Rat was on the clock, and they’d already spent fifteen minutes chatting about Darryl’s assets. Darryl noticed Rat’s tittering.

“Well, I don’t want to waste any more of your time.” Darryl said, checking his watch.

“You’re fine! It’s a really interesting story!” Rat said with an enthusiasm they hoped would counterbalance the pained expression on their face. “Did you still want to go for another room?”

Darryl sighed, “I have time for another fifteen minute, if that’s fine with you?”

Rat was disappointed, but another fifteen was still better than nothing.

“Sure, that works. Are you ready now?” Rat asked, gathering their purse.

“Sure, I suppose we could go now.” Darryl replied, half-heartedly.

There was nothing worse than a reluctant lap dance. Rat decided they would really sell it this round, moans and all. They wouldn’t disassociate and drift off into their thoughts. They were going to fucking be present dammit, and win this sensitive man over. Why were men always so emotional? Why couldn’t they simply appreciate that a hot stripper was willing to lend them their body for however long? Why did they need the elaborate theatrics to suspend their disbelief?

Perhaps the biggest misconception with sex work is that whores are entirely fungible: that you can swap one bimbo for another and the men won’t care or notice a difference, but that is never the case. Rarely do the customers ping pong from girl to girl, sampling the lady buffet. They tended to pick one stripper and stay with her during their entire stay, practicing a form of quasi monogamy. Why? Perhaps it was a residual quirk from years of Puritanical conditioning. Perhaps most humans were wired toward monogamy, even in situations where non monogamy was not only acceptable, but suggested. Whatever the reason, it tended to lean in Rat’s favor if they could muster the energy to plant the seed of loyalty. But perhaps Darryl was a lost cause. Whether or not a customer bonds to a particular stripper happens more or less instantly, usually within the first five minutes of an interaction as long as the lap dance is pretty good. It’s all very instinctual. But sometimes perseverance, or “sticktuitiveness” as their theology professor of yesteryear had called it, won out over instinct.

Once in the room, Rat began unbuttoning Darryl’s shirt. They tossed it to the ground and snaked their hands under his undershirt. Rat pinched his nipples as they rubbed their hips against his crotch. Not all men enjoyed nipple stimulation, but a surprising number did, in Rat’s experience. Darryl’s nipples stood on end, and Rat continued teasing one as they reached down to massage his soft boner. Rat threw in a couple moans for good measure. This time, when they stood up to present their anus for ass eating, they bent over and took one of Darryl’s hands and positioned it on their chest. They ran their fingers over Darryl’s sparse coily hair.

“Just like that!” Rat added, encouragingly.

What an act to maintain, Rat thought. There was nothing authentic about it, but Rat needed to sell it. Customers paid to get turned on. For some men, it was easy. A buxom hottie dancing around was enough to get most of them going. But there were plenty of hurt men walking around, doubting the authenticity of everything, doing their best to trust no one. Darryl was no naive boy. He ran his own strip joints. He could see through the smoke and mirrors. But even so, everyone likes a good performance.

Rat reached between their legs and played with their opening. They didn’t want to actually get turned on. That could be trouble with their recent testosterone-induced clitoral growth. Instead, they cupped their hand over their hole and rubbed their fingers side to side, pretending to jerk off. If he didn’t like them by the end of this dance, he was a lost cause. Water off a duck’s back. He’d already agreed to tip for the rimming, it didn’t really matter if he came back again. Besides, he seemed like a finicky man who would be a lot of trouble to keep happy.

A bouncer knocked on the door.

Darryl once again wiped his mouth, this time sweating a bit more than before.

“That was marvelous. I’d love to have you in my club, but if I want to do this again, I’d better not.” Darryl said as he dabbed his brow.

He produced three twenties from his wallet and handed them to Rat who had to restrain their impulse to snatch the money from his hands. Rat was sure Darryl felt this was a generous tip, but Rat knew he was a cheap man. He could afford to open five strip clubs where he likely took half of the cost of each dance his strippers sold, and he could only manage to tip $120 in total for two dances where he got to eat ass? Rat felt that they deserved that and so much more, but he wasn’t worth wasting energy over.

“Why don’t you take my number so that we can get together again?” Rat proposed with practiced seduction.

It felt a bit like a game of Pokemon, like you gotta catch em all, and by “em all,” Rat meant all the somewhat viable customers who would pay for a fifteen minute room. Their phone was full of daddies, classified according to how much they spent. Darryl would be tagged with two yellow hearts for the two fifteen minute rooms. Customers who bought half hours got a money flying away emoji. The ones who purchased hours got a diamond. People who only bought single dances didn’t get Rat’s number. It was an efficient system that made their customers feel special, when it was all just a simple code for Rat to categories who the real daddies were.

“Send me your schedule, and a picture for your contact info.” Darryl said as he took Rat’s number.

Rat hated men who demanded pictures. Rat didn’t know this man. They didn’t know what he would do with the picture. Pictures weren’t free, and Rat had no intention of sending a photo, but they weren’t going to get into it at that moment. Darryl had been milked for all he was good for, and it was time to move on to the next mark. Rat winked at him, a gesture he took to be a confirmation, but which in reality was entirely noncommittal. As Darryl left, he shook the hands of the bouncers and waved to Ronnie, the manager in charge that evening. Darryl knew everyone. The world of strip clubs in Baltimore was small and insular. Rat worried for a moment that he might talk, exposing Rat’s loose boundaries, but they put it out of their mind. It was no secret that some “girls” did more than others. The variety of boundaries kept strip clubs in business, able to cater to the variety of needs of the men who patronized the establishments.

Rat went to the dressing room to wipe away Darryl’s scent from their body. In between each dance, they took time to shake off their customers’ energy and wipe away their saliva. At the end of the night, Rat inevitably smelled like a combination of sweat, every scent from Victoria’s Secret, and a variety of cheap colognes. The scent particularly integrated itself into their hair pieces. Synthetic hair absorbed odor like nothing else, and the process of washing a wig was tedious, so Rat tried to avoid the chore until there was no way around it. Human hair wigs could be shampooed and conditioned like regular hair. Synthetic wigs were best treated more like laundry. Rat would let them soak in laundry detergent and then after they were rinsed and dried, they would spray them with wig oil. If the wig was particularly matted, they had a clothing steamer they used to press the hair back into shape. This clandestine information was not for the men to know. To them, the hair was real, and it grew from Rat’s head.

Rat riffled through their purse, organizing their cash and receipts. They organized the receipts sequentially, put their big bills on one side and their ones on the other. Many moons ago when Rat was a baby stripper, they used to scrunch all of their bills into a Crown Royal bag and count their money in the morning. The idea of keeping track of money and maximizing their time seemed like an impossible goal. But Rat was a veteran of the industry. When they totalled their earnings with Darryl’s dance included, they realized they had hit their nightly goal early. The clock on the wall read 1:45. The 2am rush hadn’t even begun. They considered going home, but then decided against it. Why not wait and see if they could bank a little more?

Rat strode out of the dressing room and descended the stairs. They were determined to make one more sale. Rat took a seat at the bar next to a group of men chatting gayly with Stellas in hand. The men noticed Rat and began prodding the man closest to Rat to make a move. Rat knew how the game worked, and made sure to wait patiently for the man to develop enough courage to say hi.

“What’s your name, beautiful?” The man finally asked.

“I’m Lilith. What’s your name?” Lilith replied, smiling sweetly.

“Nice to meet you, Lilith. I’m Michael.”

Rat held out their hand with the delicate grace of a Disney princess. Michael took their hand and kissed it. Not the typical reaction, but it wasn’t the weirdest response Rat had gotten. Rat recalled one man who had taken their extended hand gesture as a signal to begin an elaborate handshake that ended with him flipping up into a handstand, which he promptly fell from, knocking over another man’s drink.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Michael asked, leaning in.

“I’d love a whiskey sour.” Rat replied, flipping their wig hair.

“I like a woman who drinks whiskey!” Michael said, enthusiastically.

He flagged down the bartender and ordered Rat’s drink. It was one thing to get a man to buy them a drink, it was another to get one to throw down real money for a dance. Groups were always risky because of peer pressure. When men got together, they tended to avoid buying long dances, unless it was a business acquisition meeting and the goal was to sweeten the deal by paying for an escort. Groups of close friends pressured each other to stay together, and judged one another’s choice in dancers. Rat sipped their drink and batted their eyelashes.

“How do y’all know each other?” Rat drawled.

“These are my work buddies.” Michael replied, gesturing to the group.

Rat deflated a bit, keeping a plus and minus tally in their head. The chances of snagging Michael for a dance were decreasing. Sometimes coworkers were fun and enabled bad behavior, but often the opposite happened. Because they had to wake up and see each other at 9 a.m., or whenever they had to be at work, they had to look each other in the eye the day after with sober accountability for whatever debauchery happened the night before. It was crucial not to waste time on Michael if he was a lost cause. Rat’s internal clock ticked on. The ideal was to not waste more than ten minutes on a customer without making a sale.

“Are y’all here for a special occasion?” Rat probed, testing the nature of their outing.

One of the men leaned in and slapped Michael on the shoulder chummily.

“It’s this guy’s birthday. We’re trying to get him to cut loose!” The man said, grinning.

That was a positive.

Another man leaned into view, “We’ve been trying to buy him a dance all night, but he’s too busy worrying about the wife at home!”

That was a negative.

Michael blushed, “No, I’m not. I just don’t know if I want a dance.”

Another negative. Rat hated the vacillators. Shit or get off the pot. There was a chance Michael could be convinced, but they would have to start at the bottom and upsell him into a longer dance.

“Well, happy birthday, Michael!” Rat said enthusiastically.

Rat stood up and hugged him tightly, making sure to press their pelvis to his. They caressed the nape of his neck tenderly, then pulled back.

“Wanna motorboat my tits to celebrate?” Rat asked.

Michael turned scarlet as his friends cheered behind him.

“Do it, bro! It’s your birthday!”

Rat felt money sliding into their bikini bottom. One of the friends had tipped them. Michael stood, bashfully wavering between taking Rat up on the offer or refusing. Rat climbed up onto the bar stool and knelt so that their tits were at his eye level. Rat reached over and pulled his face into their bosom, wiggling from side to side like an old timey burlesque dancer. The group cheered even louder. Rat nearly fell, but Michael caught them in his arms.

“I like this chick!” One of the bros said, as he handed Rat a twenty.

“Happy birthday, big boy.” Rat said, winking.

“You gotta get a dance with her now, man. You know you like her. I saw you!” goaded one of the men.

“Be careful!” Michael said, guiding Rat back down.

Rat took another swig of their drink. Their strategy seemed to be working. Rat had broken the touch barrier and initiated sexual contact, and they had turned the peer pressure of the group in their favor. Even if Michael didn’t come around, they were leaving at least forty dollars richer after only a few minutes of effort.

“You’re really strong,” Rat said, laying a hand on Michael’s chest.

Rat sensed the rest of the group listening in on their conversation. It was a delicate procedure and they could ruin it for Rat if they pushed too hard.

“I’d love to take you back for a dance.” Rat said, playing with the buttons on Michael’s polo shirt.

“How much is a dance?” Michael asked.

“Depends which one you get.”

“How much for just one?”

Rat called it. Normally, Rat didn’t bother with singles. They weren’t worth the effort unless they led to longer dances. The payout was low, and cheap men were the worst to deal with. But sometimes a single was the gateway drug to hours of fun.

“Singles are $30.” Rat replied.

“Let’s do it.” Michael said, standing up.

His friends clapped as he stood. Rat took a bow, and took Michael’s hand, leading him to the singles dance area.

The singles booths were all open and faced out. There was no privacy. Rat glanced at the dancers writhing on top of men. Michael paled as he took in everything that was going on.

“You can see everything...” He observed, surprised.

“Yeah, the singles area has no privacy. That’s why I prefer the longer dances. You get a room with a door.” Rat replied.

Rat didn’t keep up with many of the bouncers, but that night Vegas was working singles. Vegas was a tall wiry Black man with a large black wooden ankh he wore around his neck. He had various Egyptian themed tattoos on his body. He didn’t hassle Rat for tips. He regularly steered clients their way. He always said he needed to protect the Black queens, and while Rat didn’t identify with the feminized language or view that royalty was the only way to convey value, Rat understood what he meant and fucked with the vision.

“You are one lucky man, sir!” Vegas said, as he sidled up to Rat and Michael, “What can I get for you this evening?”

“We’d like to buy a single,” Rat replied, cutting in.

“Just a single? You know, for $75 more I can give you a special deal. Normally for $100 you get three songs, but I can give you an additional song for free.”

Rat appreciated Vegas’ attempt to upsell the reluctant Michael. Admittedly, part of the incentive was a bigger tip for himself at the end of the night, but Vegas seemed to care outside of the financial incentives. However, Rat preferred to run their own hustle. Their specialty was soft sells. Other dancers could make their sales by force, either negging customers into spending; latching onto a man too polite to brush them away; or by rapid fire negotiating even in the face of rejection. Some dancers would search a man’s wallet or walk them over to an ATM to check and see what exactly they had left in their checking account to spend. Rat admired their assertiveness. They wished they could drag a man into debt with their stiletto acrylic nails, but it wasn’t their style.