To Evan With Love

I don’t remember exactly what my intentions were for Evan. The first time we met, I was doing my best to abide by the monogamish rules of my relationship. On the way out of our dance, he had asked if I ever saw clients outside of the club. I could tell he wasn’t the kind who was willing to pay my outcall rate, so I’d brushed him off and lied about only working in the club. I hadn’t expected to see him again, but when I did six months later it was a pleasant surprise. My relationship rules had changed and I was free to date around. But that wasn’t what my intention was with Evan.

He told me he was moving out to LA, and asked if I was interested in going to a few “cultural events” with him. After talking with him the first time, I could tell we had a lot of similar interests, and the reality was that I was lonely. I didn’t have many friends in LA. My sister had begun dating someone and mostly wasn’t around. I wanted to explore the city more, but I didn’t have many people to do it with. Plus I have boring taste. The friends I had were more interested in going to Beverly Hills parties and social climbing. In contrast, I wanted to watch slow independent cinema and sit in quiet tea houses. I had a sense that Evan was atypical in a similar way. He had to go to all of the parties and industry social engagements for his business, but in his spare time he was wandering around the city on foot, taking pictures and chatting with homeless people.

I was definitely skeptical of that last part. Was he on some saviorial, white guilt bender? On the other hand, it seemed more like he was simply curious about his neighbors. And the reality of living in LA is that homeless people are our neighbors (contrary to all the fucking NIMBY’s rallying to push homeless people out of the city). But regardless, I had a sense that Evan and I were on a similar wavelength, even if I didn’t know what that meant exactly.

After his second visit, we had exchanged numbers and Evan began inviting me out. I think the first event he invited me to was a gallery talk after the drop of a Common music video. The Annenberg Foundation was hosting a hip hop retrospective, and Common was scheduled to give a private talk. I’m not a Common fan, but I was interested in the event. I’m still not completely anesthetized to the intrigue of getting to see celebrities in person. I’m a simple fae from Oklahoma, what can I say? Strangely, Evan was not there for the event. He was facilitating it from afar, but could not attend. Instead, I went with my sister, and enjoyed the talk. The music video wasn’t great, and I sent a mini essay reviewing what exactly was problematic about the overall treatment. My art critic brain had taken over. I realized a bit belatedly that it was a project Evan had personally labored over, and that he might take offense to my armchair criticisms of his work. But to my surprise, he actually enjoyed the critique. We texted back and forth about the work, and the cultural relevance of Common. He wasn’t married to the piece, and enjoyed the provocation. It was incredibly refreshing, after dealing with hoards of men with fragile egos who constantly internalize every miniscule perceived slight. I was happy I could talk to someone candidly.

The third time Evan came to the club, I was incredibly grateful. I’d been having a slow night, and I was in the thick of unionizing efforts. I was scared my bosses might discover my pro labor activity and fire me, particularly after one of my managers had disclosed that he had perused my Instagram profile. I didn’t know if he had read any of my less-than-flattering captions describing the illegal activities at my club, or if he read any of my pro union diatribes. The whole incident had shaken me up.

When Evan arrived, I spent half an hour venting about all of this. I felt like I could open up to him, and that he would be on my side. I was spiraling, but sitting with Evan calmed me down a little, and I knew he would at least get a few dances with me, which added an extra degree of solace. When the moment arrived that I had to pop the “may I take you for a dance?” question, I felt insecure. I was worried that I had revealed too much of my internal brainy world and that that intimacy would be a boner killer. It happens all the time: you get too emotionally vulnerable with a customer, and you lose your sale. I felt a rush of shyness as I asked, and then gratitude when he accepted.

That dance, I was incredibly nervous. I was taking as much as I was giving. Evan had been receptive to my need to vent. I didn’t know if he had chosen to dance with me because he still wanted to fuck, or if he was just being a gentleman. I figured, I could bring back the boner just by providing a good dance, but there was still a chance I had ruined our stripper/client relationship by disclosing too much. I had had to steady myself. I needed to put on my impervious stripper game face and give another five-star dance. But as I sat in Evan’s lap with my back to him, for a moment, I let myself settle in against him to absorb the warmth and support of being with someone who actually seemed to care about me. And then there was also his boner, which was affirming in a different sort of way. My brainy pro labor, anticapitalist rant hadn’t doused the flame.

I don’t remember how, but at some point we got on the topic of the Pornhub Awards. Evan told me that he could get me a ticket, because he was friends with one of the event coordinators. I’d always wanted to go to one of the porn awards. They’ve always seemed like the least pretentious award shows, plus I love porn in an almost religious way. Pornstars are demi gods to me.

On the night of the show, I dressed up in one of my few somewhat formal dresses. At the last second, Evan had told me that he couldn’t attend the event, but that I still had a ticket in my name. It was another event Evan had orchestrated for me to attend, that he would not attend too. I couldn’t figure out what his deal was. Was he trying to daddy flex but with cool events instead of money? Was he getting off to the idea of providing me with these experiences while he watched from afar? Did he expect pics or some other trade for everything? I resolved to take sexy pictures after the show in case he expected some sort of barter.

I was a little annoyed that Evan hadn’t accompanied me. It meant I had to sit alone and wouldn’t have anybody to trade commentary with during the show. The other annoyance came from the fact that I was ovulating and probably would have fucked Evan if he had been with me. I probably would have negotiated some degree of payment, but I wanted to get laid regardless. Since he wasn’t around, if I wanted to get laid, I would have to make a friend and I didn’t want to make any new friends. The show ended early, and I didn’t have the energy to hunt for a hookup.

I ended up hanging at my friend’s house enjoying a platonic anime hang. I still took sexy pictures, but at the last second I decided against sending them to Evan because he hadn’t said that that was what he wanted. He had asked for a picture of me at the event, but I hadn’t taken one because I was alone and I didn’t feel like pausing in the middle of the red carpet to take an awkward selfie. Evan had never solicited me for any sexy pictures. I knew I was projecting the normal rules of customer care onto him, even while he was maybe just trying to be my friend? I tossed it around in my head, trying to figure out what his game was and why I was so disappointed he hadn’t come with me.

The following “cultural event” was one I initiated. I invited Evan out for tea at a new spot I wanted to explore. I’d made a conscious decision to arrive as myself. Over the course of our largely text-based correspondence, we’d spent a while discussing my work and what I wanted to do to expand my platform. This is Evan’s forte. He spent half of his career in the world of advertising, and the second half in art direction. He knew how to brand artists, although his artists were all musicians, which is a very different niche than the sex worker/activist/entertainer lane I’d been carving. I hoped I might be able to utilize some of his connections to people in the creative industry, and maybe end up pointed in the right direction to find some sort of management situation.

I wore my curls out and one of my favorite graphic t-shirts, aiming for artsy rather than sexy. I wanted to look cute, but I was scared that Evan would discriminate against me when he saw me as An Actual Black. Selena at the club aims to pass for White Latine. When I’m in my civvie life, I’m blackity blackity black af. It was another risk. I could potentially wind up in the “maybe later” zone, by which I mean that I wasn’t sure if him seeing me as me would end our strip club relationship. At that point, while I didn’t want it to happen, I wasn’t dependent on Evan to any degree. He wasn’t Marcus, making my nights on the regular. Evan was sporadic at best. He was a blue moon treat. If I lost him, it wouldn’t hurt my wallet.

As I walked up to the tea shop, I realized I was nervous again. I was more excited to see Evan than I was even allowing myself to acknowledge. He had arrived before me. It was just the two of us in this overly brightly lit tea shop. We sat on the tatami floor, across from each other at a little table. The drinks weren’t as authentic as my favorite spot, which had been shut down for renovations. I was embarrassed that I’d suggested this place without properly vetting it out. It was the first time he and I had actually met outside of the club in normal life. I didn’t know if I looked different to him under normal light. I didn’t know what the woman running the shop thought about us. We were an odd couple with our age gap and racial differences. After a bit of awkwardness, we began chatting like normal. It was easy, talking about art and culture. Evan gave me his analysis of my work and what representation for someone like me might look like. I had hoped we might leave the tea shop and grab dinner afterwards, but I didn’t know where the night was leading.

Then Evan began talking about his partner.

Evan: She prefers that I call her my “partner” instead of “girlfriend,” which is still kinda hard for me to remember.

Well, I also had a partner to rope into the conversation. Since he was going there, I decided to follow.

Me: I prefer the term “partner” because we’re not children. I’m not a girl and my partner isn’t a boy. We’re both adults.

Evan: How long have you two been together?

Me: Almost four years now. What about you?

Evan: It’s been probably five officially, but we’ve known each other for over eight years, I think. I like that take on it-- I’ll have to use the word “partner” instead now. Lake is always correcting my language, in a good way. Before her I used to be a lot more problematic. We developed a code word to use whenever I was saying something offensive.

He went on, talking about Lake and their relationship. I got personal, talking about how Hassan and I had met and our Brazil trip. I felt incredibly deflated, and grateful I hadn’t sent Evan those sexy pictures from the Pornhub Awards. He seemed to be actually just looking for friendship, and wanted to help me without expecting some kind of sexual bartering system. Things weren’t going to go the way I had expected. More aptly, I realized, the way I had hoped.

Evan: I have to leave pretty soon for an artist dinner thing. Sorry to cut things short.

Further insult to injury. What was happening? Normally men bend over backwards for time with me. Most of the men I’d dealt with would have put their entire life on hold for a date like this, and yet Evan was ditching out early. I was crushed, but couldn’t let onto my feelings. And I couldn’t fathom why I seemed to be going down this rabbit hole. I now knew that Evan was taken, and nothing could possibly happen between us. We briefly embraced on the way out in one of those terrible platonic side-hugs. I had been friendzoned by a client, and my ego was totally bruised.

Some time went by and I decided it was fine. Everything was totally fine. I could return Evan to the customer box, and accept my home in the friendzone. We continued texting sporadically. Occasionally he would invite me to something I couldn’t attend. I started going on dates, and met my girlfriend. On a whim, I invited Evan to a Solange show at the Getty. I was still sore about our last encounter, but I enjoyed spending time with him. Evan confirmed, and we got together that Saturday for the show.

Since I couldn’t seduce Evan, I decided I would at least show him what he was missing. I dolled myself up, defining my curls, and wore a unique outfit that was edgy and eye catching, but also a little sexy. I decided to be breezy. Evan had brought his camera and intended to take pictures of the event. As we walked to the outdoor pavilion, the team from WeTransfer flagged me down and asked if they could use me in their video documenting the event. My look was paying off. Evan held my bag and the camera crew took over, recording me as I slowly perused the event booklet. It was going on Solange’s website, which was exciting on its own. Afterwards they thanked me and apologized that they couldn’t compensate me.

Evan: Does she get to keep the booklet at least?

Director: I wish, but we have a limited number right now. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.

Evan and I turned and walked off. After we were safely out of earshot, he went in.

Evan: I wouldn’t normally let my artists do something like that. They always expect people to work for free, when we all know WeTransfer can afford to compensate you for your time. They should have at least given you the booklet.

It was sweet hearing him regard me as he would one of his artists. I enjoyed seeing his protective side come out. I had wanted the booklet or at least some social media boost, but I didn’t feel I was at the point in my career to be demanding.

Evan: You handled that really well though. They were eating you up. Do you have experience on screen?

Me: A little. I am in the acting industry, kinda.

Evan: Do you have management?

Me: Yeah.

Evan: Are they good?

Me: I like them.

Evan: That’s good. It’s still so wrong. I’m gonna call them up on Monday and see what they’re doing with the videos. We work with them all the time, so it shouldn’t be that hard to at least get you a booklet.

We were crossing a grassy patch with beautiful happy young black people lounging on blankets, enjoying the sunshine, when we ran into a pointy faced white woman.

Her: Evan! Long time no see.

Evan: Rachel, good to see you.

Rachel: How have you been? How’s your partner, Lake doing?

There was a white man who stood somewhat awkwardly behind Rachel, apparently her date or something. It was clear that Rachel wanted to make a point of articulating that Evan is taken. He has a partner. Her name is Lake. Who tf is this chick? But of course, white people are passive aggressive about these things. After standing beside Evan awkwardly for several minutes while they talked shop, we were finally released back to enjoy our not date.

And what a not date it was. It was totally romantic. The sun gradually began to set and cast the pavilion in a warm yellow glow. The dancing was beautiful, and prompted a conversation comparing the style to Merce Cunninham’s compositions. Evan and I had to sit close because the venue was packed, and we had managed to secure a spot with a clear view of everything. Later we went inside to the auditorium and watched a special showing of Solange’s visual album. It was the first time I’d seen it all the way through, and watching it on a large screen made the work even more impactful.

Afterwards Evan and I took an Uber to where my car was parked.

Evan: Are you hungry?

Me: Yeah, actually.

Evan: Do you wanna grab something together? You live on the east side too, right?

Me: That sounds nice. And yeah, I live on the east side.

Evan: Would you be down to drive that way? I can Uber home afterwards.

Me: Yeah, totally.

I didn’t know the state of my car, and I’m not fancy. I wasn’t scared of Evan hurting me or something else diabolical, even though this would have been a prime opportunity to abduct me. He got in my car and I drove us downtown to a restaurant I’d been meaning to try for a while.

Evan: I’m a vegetarian, so that limits my options a little bit.

Me: Oh! Gotcha.

Evan: But don’t hold back! If you want meat, go for it. I’m not a Nazi about it. People eating meat doesn’t bother me.

I didn’t hold back. They had oxtail, and I was certainly ordering the oxtail. I was on my period and felt decadent. We ordered every vegetarian option and split it family style, aside from the oxtail. It felt like a date, and yet I knew it wasn’t. But it was so easy talking to him. We discussed my work with Soldiers of Pole and the merch we were working on. He told me about the weird items he’d ordered for his artists including a few buttplugs and paddles.

When we finished, Evan covered the bill and paid for my parking.

Me: Do you want a ride home?

Evan: Nah, I’m fine. I gotta go to K Town for some drinks with an artist.

Me: Oh, okay. Well, thanks for everything.

Evan: Thanks for inviting me. Your events are always better than mine. I should just let you choose from now on.

And yet I repeat, this was not a date. We were one porch kiss away from it being a textbook example of a date. I didn’t know if I wanted him more because I couldn’t have him, or if I wanted him more because the more I knew Evan, the more I liked him. But I also didn’t know what was going on with regards to his intentions. He was giving me vibes, and he had propositioned me for sex at a time. He had at least erotic feelings for me, and he liked me as a person. Was it just a case of an unlikely friendship betwixt stripper and customer?

I invited Evan back to the club, primarily for the money, but secondarily because I enjoyed him. We had agreed that he would come by later on in my shift and maybe hitch a ride home with me, since we lived near each other. Evan was attending a photography book drop party full of goth glitterati. I was working a bustling weekend shift. Evan arrived while I was in the middle of a dance. When I finished, I found him out on the floor with Jax, a white rocker chick, on his lap. I didn’t know if he would get a dance from her, but I felt a tiny pang of jealousy. Evan gave off “I’ve never dated a black person” energy. It’s hard to explain, but with some people, you just know. On the flip, Hassan give off “I have dated numerous black people” energy, which was one of the reasons I felt comfortable with him pretty immediately. I imagined that Jax was more, at least visually, the kind of person Evan would go for. Not that this was relevant. Evan was there to see me, and it was a weird moment to be experiencing insecurities.

While Jax occupied his lap, I decided not to interfere. I caught a few more dances and performed a stage set. Right when Jax left, a friend of mine hopped on his lap. It happens, this is the strip club. I winked at Evan as I passed. I could wait. Eventually he freed up and I took a seat on his lap. I tried not to waste time whisking him upstairs for a dance. I knew he wouldn’t be free for long.

This time, things were different. I wanted to touch and be touched by him as much as he wanted to touch me. I was still going to charge him extra for it, but that’s the fun of being a stripper. I let him slide his finger between my lips and enjoyed pressing against his erection.

Me: That’s extra.

Evan: How much?

I told him.

Evan: That’s fine.

At the end, we parted ways. He returned to his seat and I returned to prowling for customers. But I kept getting distracted watching what Evan was up to. I wanted to monopolize his lap. After a point, this irrational jealousy got the best of me. I was so distracted, I could hardly focus on my own hustle. The crowd was thinning. I knew there would be a final wave of afterhours customers, but I didn’t really care. I didn’t want it to get so late that Evan would leave on his own. I sat on his lap, tired physically and emotionally. I was a ghost of my normal shark self.

Me: I think I’m gonna go. Are you ready?

Evan: Yeah, whenever you are.

Me: I have to put on clothes and checkout, which will take a minute. Can you meet me at the gas station across the street?

Evan: Yeah, just let me know when.

I checked out and met Evan at the gas station. He got into my car for the second time ever. I didn’t know if anything would happen. I could end up wasting another night hoping for something to happen with Evan only to yet again end up in the friendzone. But I hoped we would arrive at his house and he would invite me upstairs for a drink or to smoke, or literally anything.

On the drive home we chatted about the night, the dances he got aside from the one with me. And then.

Evan: I’m going to have a baby. Well, my partner and I are going to have a baby.

I released the fullest exhale of my entire life. It was a sigh to end all sighs.

Me: Wow. A baby. That’s a big deal.

Evan: That it is.

Me: Well, congrats.

Evan: Thanks.

Me: I’m trying to be supportive, but that is literally my worst nightmare. Babies sound terrible. Like a human freight train tearing through your body. But holla.

Evan: Babies are a lot. Definitely.

I drove him the rest of the way to his apartment. He was only ten minutes from me. It wouldn’t take me any time to get home. We sat in my car for a moment as he collected his things.

Evan: What are you gonna do when you get home?

Me: Probably smoke weed and chill.

Evan: I have some weed upstairs if you wanna come up?

Me: Sure!

I said it too quickly. For the gravity of his baby revelation, I was still fine with Plan A, should the moment arise. I locked my car and followed Evan up to his loft. He offered me something to drink and cut up a persimmons for me. I sat on the floor beside his couch in a move he didn’t quite know how to handle. He began by sitting on the couch above me, then lowered himself onto the ground beside me. We chatted awkwardly for a moment, then he paused and looked at me with a weird expression.

Him: So… What are we doing?

Me: Good question.

Him: May I touch you?

Me: Yes, you may.

He took my hands and looked at them. It was clear we were both equally nervous.

Him: May I kiss you?

Me: Mhm.

And then we kissed. It was the first time. In the land of sex work, first comes fingering my pussy, then maybe third or fourth comes a kiss.

But this wasn’t sex work. I had no intention of charging. I wanted to kiss him. He coaxed me onto the couch and we continued making out. He began undressing me, and then… Well we didn’t have sex. I wasn’t ready at that point, as strange as that may sound. I was even surprised I wasn’t ready. Normally I’m full throttle from the jump babyyyyy, but that night I wasn’t. Before he could make his way into me, I stopped him.

Me: You’re not going to fuck me.

Evan: Okay. Can I touch myself?

Me: Yeah, that’s fine.

We continued fooling around and I watched him come. It was really hot, like he truly blew such a load. And I’m kinda a cum slut. The whole first time is still a point of embarrassment for him.

Evan: I can’t believe I ruined that couch.

Me: They’ll never know.

That was the night that things changed.

I know this story leaves a lot of loose ends. What’s the deal with your relationship now? What happened with Lake and the baby? Why did you go for it after he dropped the Baby Bomb? I might drop those details eventually, but for now, I’m going to give Evan a break from blowing up his life. He reads these, and he has been sweating this post all day.