Trust Falls

“May I?” He asked, hovering a hand over Rat’s thigh.

“Of course, Darryl,” Rat replied.

Rat appreciated his courteousness. Most customers felt entitled to touch as they pleased without regard for Rat’s boundaries. It was refreshing not to have to put their foot down so early into their relationship. Darryl gently placed his hand on Rat’s thigh and kept it in place. He didn’t try to sneak it higher or lower, or do the awkward thing of anxiously rubbing up and down as he spoke.

“I’ve done my share of rooms here,” Darryl began, looking toward the dance zone, “And some girls, well, they say they’re fine with one thing, and then you get in there, and they change their story. And I don’t like that. If you don’t want to do something, just tell me. I’ll tip you for your time anyway. That’s just the man I am.”

“Totally,” Rat said, shaking their head in agreement.

“I know how it is in these places. At my establishment, the girls make deals like this. Of course, I’m not supposed to know, but I know. I don’t mind them doing what they do, but what I do mind is when a customer comes and yells at me when he thought he was getting one thing, but comes to find out he was getting another. You know what I mean?” He asked.

Rat cemented their expression in place. Rat was all for a good scammer. If the managers needed to talk down an angry customer, that seemed like an entirely reasonable use of their time. Most managers did absolutely nothing useful, in Rat’s experience, and the owners did even less, aside from siphoning off money from every dance sold like the leeches they were. Rat had scammed their fair share of customers when they first began dancing, but they were at least strategic about it. When it comes to scamming, you need to have an excuse to fall back on when the situation goes to hell. For some people, feigning innocence was their escape. They would pretend it was their first night, or that they were new and got scared, they felt they had to say yes to anything. If crying on command is your talent, this might be your bag. Some people were hardened liars. They could flip an accusation on the accuser and find a way to blame them for the entire situation. Their mental gymnastics would easily score a perfect ten. But Rat had learned after years in the industry that lying was not their forte. Half truths and neutral statements crafted to sound positive were their sweet spot. Additionally, performing sexual services wasn’t as bad as people made it out to be. Prior to entering the industry, Rat had had a lot of unfortunate sex for free. Back in their nonprofit days, the goal was exploration and increasing their body count. But now, with age and maturation, Rat realized they should have monetized those explorative trysts.

“I understand. That’s why my goal is for you to leave happy, so that you come back again.” Rat replied, fixing their face in an earnest expression.

“I think you’re an honest girl, Lilith.” Darryl said.

Not a girl, Rat countered internally.

“I try to be.”

“Well…” Darryl paused to retrieve his wallet.

He handed Rat several hundred dollar bills.

“You can run off with this, or you can go and pay the bouncers for a fifteen minute room and bring me the change.” Darryl said, finishing off his nonalcoholic beer.

“I’ll be right back.” Rat said.

It was a trust exercise. Rat would have preferred skipping to the part where he buys a half hour, or a full hour with a bottle of champagne, but baby steps.

Rat returned with his change, and held out their hand.

“Shall we?” Rat asked.

“You keep it.” Darryl said, smiling, “You passed my first test.”

Rat led Darryl to a fifteen minute booth and shut the door. Rat began a timer on their phone and began undressing. Technically, a bouncer was supposed to knock on the door to indicate when the time was up, but the bouncers were unreliable, and Rat had gotten trapped in enough rooms with an elderly man glued to their tit to know the importance of setting their own alarm. Darryl sat back into the mini loveseat, and Rat removed their bikini bottom.

“Alright,” Darryl said, licking his lips, “I like what I see. C’mon over here, Miss Lilith.”

Rat sauntered over to Darryl sensuously and straddled him. Of course he was primarily there to eat their ass, but Rat believed in foreplay. Rat ran through the shortened version of their lap dance routine, intermittently checking to feel if Darryl was erect. With middle aged men, sometimes it took a bit longer. Sometimes the erection never materialized. Not all boners pitched tents. Not all boners were especially hard. Darryl’s penis was medium hard. It was the kind of boner that would likely flag and deflate if it had to fit into a condom. He wasn’t the kind of customer who wanted penetrative sex. He wanted a particular experience of giving, and Rat was happy to oblige. Rat stood on the couch and turned presenting their exposed ass to Darryl’s face. It wasn’t the most ideal position, but considering the size of the booth, this would have to do. Darryl placed his hands on either side of Rat’s hips and slid his tongue into their asshole.

“Mmm. You taste de-licious!” Darryl announced.

Rat settled into the sensation. There wasn’t much they could do aside from hold still. There was something incapacitating about getting rimmed. Assholes are under loved and seldom cared for. Rat’s anus was relentlessly waxed, cleaned, and grinded upon. It was hardly accustomed to being treated or delicately touched. When someone wanted to venture there, it was healing. Assholes deserve love too. Of course, simultaneously, Rat had to be wary of Darryl’s tongue sliding toward their hole. The other side of rimming was an overly enthusiastic licker accidentally cross-contaminating and giving Rat an infection, or trying to lean in for a kiss later on. Ass-to-mouth contact was a hard pass, especially not with strangers, and especially not without an enema beforehand.

Rat regretted laying their phone on the table before climbing up for the anal massage. The beauty of certain lap dance positions was the ability to covertly scroll their feeds or text friends. But perhaps they needed to unplug and relax into the moment. They had a tendency to be distracted. Plus, today was a significant day. Today was the day Rat would finally reach $150,000 in their savings account. It was almost an incomprehensible number for them, but after six years of hustling, they had reached that perfect, round number. It didn’t mean they intended to stop saving anytime soon, but Rat was in a celebratory mood. $150,000 was enough to buy one of the discounted, vacant rowhomes Baltimore city council was trying to pawn off with a series of economic incentives from grants to low interest loans. The buildings were dilapidated and often in “up and coming” neighborhoods: i.e. poor neighborhoods miles away from the nearest Safeway or Whole Foods. But the neighborhoods had their charm, and Rat had a car, which meant they would at least be able to go grocery shopping without it being an effort-heavy production. And who knows, from there Rat could do anything. They could convert their downstairs into an anarchist food co-op and bring fresh food to a food desert. They could cultivate a community garden in their backyard. They could even mount a campaign petitioning one of the major grocery chains to open up a location in an “underserved community,” as the bleeding heart White people liked to call poor Black hoods. Money meant opportunity, and Rat finally had some to work with.

One of the bouncers knocked loudly on the door, signaling their time was up. Rat hopped down, and slid their bikini bottom back on. Darryl wiped his lips.

“How was that for you?” Darryl asked expectantly.

There was only one acceptable answer to that sort of question if Rat wanted to continue working with him.

“So good,” Rat replied emphatically.

Rat and Darryl walked back out to one of the VIP lounge sofas and took a seat.

“You’re a quiet one, I can tell,” Darryl began, as he leaned back, “But I can tell you have a lot going on up there. How did you get into dancing anyway?”

“Saw an ad on Craigslist, the rest is history,” Rat replied rote, “What about you? How did you get into owning your club?”

Rat didn’t want to spend too much time performing the dutiful “getting to know you” chat. Rat’s introduction into the industry was a bit more complicated, but customers didn’t need to know, and generally they weren’t too interested. Customers liked strippers who were blank canvases upon which they could project all of the things they wanted: intelligence or doe-eyed superficiality, nurturance or punishment, the ineffable combination of things that spell attraction. The less they know the better, and vise versa. Most customers were much more tolerable in the early stages when things like their exact political leanings are still a mystery.