Part 2: Taking Too Long

I didn’t want to end so abruptly with the previous story. Mike and I danced. There was a moment I was in his lap pretending to have the most erotic experience of my life. It was apparently such a compelling performance that near the end he asked

Him: Did you cum yet?

Me: Not yet, but almost.

My friend Starr always answers this question with an emphatic “Yes!!! Soooo many times!” Which is probably the most well received answer. Mine was apparently much less satisfying.

Him: Jeez, how much does it take for you?

He couldn’t understand how grinding on his lap was not an orgasmic experience for me. How do we explain the inexplicable? How do we comprehend the incomprehensible? I felt like a bit of a traitor to my kind, providing my services to this asshole, especially considering I didn’t need to. I could have taken the opportunity to be a conscientious objector, but I wanted the money. Some sex workers are of the opinion that we shouldn’t bring our high minded politics into work. To some degree, I agree. I earn my money from providing pleasure for people deeply enmeshed in various kinds of corporate evils. I laugh with oil refinery engineers; listen to the confessions of venture capitalists; and grind on real estate moguls. In any other context, I’d be repulsed by the strange array of people I entertain. When I’m in clothes I’m a misanthropic moralist. When I’m naked, I’m everyone’s kind hearted mistress. It’s like the hair and makeup I put on— just one more layer of Selena.

Mike tipped me what I’d mandated for the extras I provided. I don’t go too deeply into my extras in my writing. It’s not that I’m a “clean girl,” because there’s no such thing. The longer you’re in this industry, the more you learn how blurry the lines are. Enthusiastic consent vs. unenthusiastic consent still equals consent. Financially based relationships are still relationships. Simulating sexual experiences becomes its own kind of sexual experience. In pretending to be a hot girl, sometimes one becomes a hot girl. I like to be touched and licked depending on how I’m feeling. Sometimes I miss clients the same way they miss me. It’s the reason why I’m so successful: because I’m usually not lying.

After Mike, I grabbed six more VIP’s in rapid succession. I hadn’t realized how many retiree daddies came in for midday strip club visits. The whole time I was waiting for a follow up from the mysterious customer who’d arranged to meet with me in the first place. I still had no idea who the man was. I checked my phone to see if he’d sent the selfie or updated me on his location. I made eye contact with every man at the club hoping that somehow our eyes would lock and I’d suddenly know. But it wasn’t working. The men all looked vaguely familiar purely because of how generic they were. They were elderly white men in clean t-shirts and cargo shorts who clearly had nothing pressing scheduled aside from this little strip club visit. They weren’t taking a quick break on the job to blow off steam. It was strippers then watching the 5 o'clock news.

Finally the man texted me.

Him: I was there, but you didn’t talk to me.

Me: What??? Where? Why didn’t you come grab me?

Him: You seemed busy. I was wearing a baseball cap.

What a useful bit of information considering one in three men at the strip club comes in wearing baseball caps. I was livid. This piece of shit left me when I’d come all the way from Hollywood after an audition just to see him.

Him: I waited for you, but you didn’t recognize me.

Me: You’re literally the reason I’m here now. I’m hurt that you left without talking to me.

“Hurt” was the most diplomatic yet affective option.

Him: You’re probably just hurt because you didn’t get my money.

Obviously. He sent a picture of a single hundred dollar bill. Nevermind. I couldn’t imagine anything less impressive. I’ve gotten to be a little spoiled lately, admittedly, but $100 is not enough evoke FOMO for me. It primarily cemented for me his geezer status. I hadn’t known how old the mystery man was, but considering he was taunting me with only $100, I figured he was at least seventy. He sent me the selfie I’d requested hours ago.

Him: I didn’t have my phone turned on. Too bad. I really missed your sweet, sweet touch.

It was the most Boomer selfie ever. It was taken at a semi diagonal angle in dim incandescent light. His doughy face wore a pained expression, likely because of the extreme difficulty he had taking this unflattering selfie. He looked like if God reached down and smushed Hulk Hogan with his giant omnipotent thumb. And in the end, I still had no idea who this fucker was. I gave up. There was no use in working myself up over some geezer whose idea of a great tip is $100. Water off a duck’s back. I was the duck in this situation.

I scanned the room. The crowd earlier had thinned substantially. A few stragglers sat dispersed around the periphery. Harold was in. Harold is a regular without a dancer he’s devoted his existence to yet. Harold is around eighty. He comes to the club once every few weeks dressed like Mister Rogers in a sweater and pressed shirt over khakis and proper loafers. He’s a novelty shopper. He dances with any and all of the new girls. He doesn’t discriminate based on race, age, or body type, even though I’ve noticed he has a slight preference for redheads. Harold’s is a simple ritual. He wants to take you for a VIP if he tips you $20 on stage. Once upon a time he and I danced a few times. It was one of those experiences where I wondered what he could possibly be getting out of it. He was quiet and reserved, keeping his hands at his sides. He hardly moved or made a sound. His penis was out of commission, meaning he wasn’t just looking to rub his boner against a butt. It was psychological. We were all part of his erotic life.

What happens when our bodies stop cooperating but our minds continue on?

_________

I’ve been taking a little break from the club. More stories to come in the new year. Thank you all for supporting my writing. It means so much that you care enough about my work to donate every month. And I’m not even naked most of the time! I could not be more grateful to each and every one of you. Have a happy new year <3