Mike’s Bitch Wife: Part 1

I came in for a day shift Friday after a newish customer texted me about buying an hour with me. He texted, “Are you working today? I wanna fall in love for an hour.” I’d assumed that meant a $600 Heaven Box, which was enough incentive to show up on a day that isn’t typically on my schedule. I was coming from a commercial audition, so I had my hair curly and natural and I was wearing boring commercial clothes. Dressing for an audition means dressing conservatively: no punchy patterns that might confuse a camera, nothing revealing, nothing all black or else you’ll look like a lost stagehand.

I walked in and rushed to the bathroom to switch from visibly African American to Incognegro. I felt a pang of sadness pulling my fluffy curls into a tight bun covered by a synthetic ponytail. I don’t entirely mind having to become Selena for work, it’s kinda like going from Clark Kent to Superman. It’s all me, but one has incredible superpowers. She can walk into a room completely naked and win the hearts and minds of the rich and powerful. She can sidle up to a group of strangers and captivate everyone’s attention. She approaches people as if she is the greatest gift they will ever receive. She upsells and demands tips. She’s never been sad a day in her life. Five star lap dances, would recommend.

It had been a dizzying week. I couldn’t for the life of me muster an appetite. I was eating to continue functioning with no enjoyment. It was a burden, figuring out what nutrients I needed to get by. Would an apple and peanut butter be enough to get me through to dinner? Why did everything involve chewing? My stomach growled.

I had no idea what the customer I’d shown up for looked like. I have a million and one men in my phone and I couldn’t pick half of them out of a lineup. This guy, Larry, was a total blur. I couldn’t remember a single detail about our previous interaction. I figured I’d only seen him once since my memory is usually on point after a second meeting, that or he was the least memorable man in the world. To assure I wouldn’t miss Larry The Mystery Man, I asked him to call when he arrived and send a selfie. It’s not entirely impolite to request a selfie in my experience. Considering he was named Larry, he was probably an older man with his own share of memory issues. He could probably use a little refresher himself. The greater question was whether or not he had a phone capable of sending selfies, and if he did have one, did he know how to work his camera? Detective that I am, I also guessed he was elderly because he wanted to meet midday instead of the evening, I assumed he was a retiree. Older guys generally don’t come to the club after sunset. It’s not a rule, but most of them begin to wilt without sunlight. He didn’t respond directly to my requests, he simply told me he was on his way. In lieu of his lack of answer, I decided I’d try to grab a few dances before Larry showed up.

The DJ put me on stage as soon as he saw me. There were maybe six to ten girls working, and most of them were hiding out on the patio smoking. I began my set and a few men came up to tip me. The one tipping me the most was a man in his mid fifties wearing a white button down shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing hairy forearms. He wore two cuban link chains and a crystal studded bracelet above a Rolex. I never trust people who are conspicuously affluent to be generous. When I see a man decked out in Gucci I turn the other way. Those guys are just showing off, pretending they didn’t blow all their money on their branded sweatsuits. They might tip the stage, but generally they sit around and expect to receive attention for free. They ask if you want to go to a party later at their house with a pool and assure you that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.

The man with the hairy arms tipped me. He scoffed at the other men who tipped only a couple dollars and returned to their seats feeling generous.

Him: Come talk to me after.

He’d tipped me around $10. It wasn’t enough to wow me, but it was more than the others had tipped, which meant it was a decent enough place to start. After finishing my set, I walked over to him and took a seat in his lap.

Him: Those guys are real jokes. Wow, two whole dollars!

Me: Ha! Yeah.

Him: What’s your name, sweetie? I’m Mike.

Me: Nice to meet you, Mike. I’m Selena.

Him: Selena, like the singer, Selena Qui--

Me: Quintanilla, yeah.

Him: You look kinda like her. Too bad what happened.

Me: Thanks, that’s quite a compliment.

I look nothing like Selena Quintanilla. It’s funny how people make associations with only the slightest of suggestions.

Him: What are your parents?

Me: We’re Puerto Rican. What about you?

Him: I’m Mexicano. I was born down there in Monterrey.

Me: Where is that?

Him: It’s a couple hundred miles south of San Antonio. You know where San Antonio is?

Me: Kinda. Texas generally.

Him: It’s near the border.

Me: Ah.

Him: I grew up down there but went to boarding school.

Me: Wow.

Him: I was a gringo over there. You know what that means?

Me: Yeah. How long were you in boarding school?

Him: From about ten until I graduated, because my mom was a fucking bitch who got married to some asshole.

Me: Oh.

It was such a wild statement. I mean, I don’t particularly like my mother, but I would never refer to her as a bitch.

Him: You like my bracelet?

He held out his wrist to show me his blinged out bracelet. It was gaudy, but I could tell he was proud of it. I’m not in the business of telling truths.

Me: That’s cool. I like it when men accessorize. Not enough do.

The best lies are covered in truths. I do love men who accessorize. I’ve got an eye for it after shopping with my partner who is an especially particular man. When I’m visiting my friends in New York he sends me shopping for Japanese silk ties and gold pieces for his chains. I like playing the role of his personal shopper, taking risks I know he wouldn’t on his own.

Him: I picked it out.

Me: I like your chains too.

Him: Thank you! I like you. I’ve seen you here before. What days do you normally work?

Me: Usually Wednesday and Friday, but I’ve been changing it up lately. I don’t usually work dayshift.

Him: That explains it. What do you do outside of here?

Me: I’m a writer, podcaster, and actor.

Him: That’s a lot of stuff.

Me: It is. What about you? What do you do?

Him: I’m retired.

Me: Congratulations!

Him: Right? Thanks. I made a lot of money with some smart investments and retired early. I bought a property in Culver on Bakersfield; we did a hotel in Redondo a couple minutes from the beach; and I’ve got people working on a project in Torrance, a retirement home.

Me: Good for you.

Him: I got a nice house out there too, all paid for. Lemme show you.

He pulled out his phone. His lock screen was a picture of two young men who I assumed were his sons.

Me: Those your kids?

Him: Yeah! Which one is more handsome you think?

I assessed the two. They looked so similar they could almost be twins. One had a slightly wider face, the other with the narrower face wore a short beard. I pointed at the one with the beard, not because of his facial hair, but because the other one’s face was a little too sprawling.

Him: Is it because of the beard? Sheesh.

He seemed to be offended by my choice.

Me: No.

Him: That one screwed me over recently, but I won’t get into it. Anyway, here’s my house.

He pulled up one of the least descriptive pictures of a house. It was worm’s eye and managed to capture only about a quarter of the front of the property.

Him: Wait, lemme find a better one.

He scrolled some more. The following pictures were equally unhelpful. I didn’t understand how the man managed to not take a single good picture. It’s not that hard. You don’t have to pick a perfect angle or wait until golden hour for perfect lighting. All you have to do is cross the street and take a picture where you capture the entire house.

Him: Isn’t it nice? It’s all paid for. Here’s some pictures of our Thanksgiving.

He continued scrolling. It was a very average house. There was no personality about the facade or interior. It was as if he lived in a midwestern show home. He showed me pictures of a Christmas tree that looked as if the person decorating had given up halfway and decided, “this is fine”. He pulled up a picture of his family sitting together at a long dining room table.

Him: You see the leaves on the table from the tamales?

Me: The husks? Yeah totally.

Him: Wanna guess how many tamales we made?

Me: I have no idea. Fifty?

Him: Five hundred. My sis told us we didn’t get any beer until we hit two-fifty. Crazy, right?

Me: Wow that’s a lot.

He pulled up a picture of himself and a woman standing beside the Christmas tree. Neither of them were smiling.

Me: Is that your wife?

Him: Yeah, that’s my bitch wife. I wish I could divorce her but if I did she’d take all my shit. Can you believe this fucking bitch won’t even suck my dick?

I looked at his wife. She reminded me of one of my friend’s mother’s. She was a petite handsome older woman with dark hair streaked with gray.

Me: That’s unfortunate.

Him: Right? I mean what kind of bitch doesn’t suck dick? After all I’ve given her: a nice house, two boys, twenty-five fucking years. I’m done.

Me: Is it a generational thing?

Him: She fooled me. She used to suck dick, then she stopped once she got me hooked in. She tells me, “I’m pregnant” and so we gotta get married. What a hoax.

He pulled up his wedding pictures. I’m surprised he has them on his phone. It was a traditional Catholic wedding in a church with an altar and a giant crucifix behind them. They’re a handsome couple. Young Mike looks like his sons do now. His wife wears a white puffy-sleeved princess gown that reminds me of the wedding dress my mother wore.

Him: See that dress? I bought it. I paid for everything.

I couldn’t imagine a scenario where he wouldn’t be footing the bill for his own wedding.

Me: It’s a nice dress.

Him: It is, right? So give me a fucking blowjob bitch!

I was visibly uncomfortable with this asshole. I don’t usually deal with blatant misogynists, but this man made no secret that he hated women. He hated his mother and hated his wife. I couldn’t imagine spending over two decades with this piece of shit. He seemed like the kind of man who wouldn’t be happy even if he was getting head.

Me: It’s unfortunate when your partner isn’t fulfilling your needs.

It was a diplomatic answer in the face of a repugnant chauvinist.

Him: It’s alright. I got Maggy. You know Maggy? She works here.

Me: Yeah, Maggy’s black right?

Him: Yeah, her. She takes care of me.

Me: I’m glad you have Maggy.

Him: Maybe I’ll start coming to see you too. You’re a real minx, aren’t you? And you’re natural. I like natural.

Me: Thanks. May I take you for a dance?

Him: I think I’m ready. Let’s do it.