The Human Condition

If you’ve ever had to bear with men sucking on your nipples while your breasts are swollen with cysts, then you know where this story begins.

After a shitty week sequestered inside waiting for my flu to pass, I was finally well enough to work a shift. I was feeling extra raw and sensitive, waiting for the imminent beginning of my menstrual cycle. The days prior are the worst for me. I have no patience and little interest in meeting new people, which is a conundrum when working in an industry where the whole point is ingratiate yourself with new people-- winning them over with your charm and joie de vivre. Of course, this is where regulars come in. When I can’t perform at my best, regulars bolster my bottom line, and keep me sane. I’d hit up Dale earlier to see if he might be willing to come by, and by the grace of god, he was. Another regular who I’d confided in after someone broke into my car and stole my passport had texted to say he wanted to bring me $200 to help, with no expectations of anything in return. The kindness of the gesture choked me up, but to be fair I’d been on the precipice of tears constantly for the past several days. I’d hoped to catch Toronto Daddy before he jetted off to spend Thanksgiving with his partner, but during one of our cultural outings I’d passed given him my nasty little flu. Which meant he was in no shape for sexy time at the club. Thankfully, Dale was bound to spend enough that I wouldn’t have to stress over working the weekend bloated and bleeding.

I drove in early— like 3:30/4 because I figured the rain would make an evening shift a wash, pun intended. Californians are too fragile to venture out on rainy nights, and to make matters worse, it was the first rainfall since April. I’d sat at home waiting for the rain to stop, hoping it wouldn’t ruin the one night I’d set aside to work this week, and thankfully it cleared by 2 p.m., which I took as my queue to gather myself and begin the drive out.

I arrived and my manager greeted me warmly, even though I was breaking the one cardinal rule of the club and had donned a pearly pink rope to shield me from the cold.

For the first half hour, I refused to talk to anyone. I didn’t want to and it wasn’t necessary. Dale was showering after a day of Christmas shopping and would be there soon. I simply needed to be patient. But after a while I got jittery. A kindly looking, elderly, obese white man made eye contact with me. Lately there’s been a kind of generational war with Gen X/Gen Z’ers clapping back with Okay, Boomer. I had that tucked in the back of my mind even though it was evident he wasn’t a Boomer. He was a remnant from “The Greatest Generation,” who had gone off to fight world wars without question. He seemed to be as old as my grandfather, and my grandfather is over ninety. He wore a baseball cap cocked slightly to the side-- more askew than for fashion, a black button down shirt and a pair of black basketball shorts. It looked more like someone had accidently let him escape from some elder care center than that he could and should be out ogling young women at a strip club. I sat beside him.

Him: You’re about perfect.

Me: Thank you. How’s it going?

Him: Oh, it’s been going well! I just stopped in on my way to play some poker.

Me: Oh, that sounds fun.

Him: Do you play poker, or gamble or anything?

Me: No, I don’t. I’m afraid to gamble, but that sounds fun. Glad you stopped in.

Him: I come by here on my way to the casino nearby. I think it brings me luck.

Me: Well, I hope so.

Him: I might want a couple dances from you in a minute.

Me: That would be great. Let me know when you’re about ready.

Him: Just a little bit longer, I want to get to know you better. I don’t dance with many girls, just a few special ones, but I like you. You seem like a sweetie.

I smiled sweetly for emphasis. I didn’t know what additional information he wanted to know and I wasn’t feeling especially capable of being conversational. To say I was sluggish would have been an understatement. I was performing at a mental crawl, hardly capable of coherent internal thoughts, let alone capable of holding a conversation. I hoped that with enough smiling I could feign attentiveness and get the geezer into a dance booth. Normally I’m not so callous, but when I’m not healthy, it’s hard to sustain my sunny optimism. We sat beside each other and I opened my legs to reveal my vulva, which he enjoyed enough to accelerate the process.

Him: Would you mind if we got a twofer to start? Usually I go straight for the five, but since I don’t know you--

Me: Sure, no problem.

The faster I could start getting paid for the exchange, the better. I stood up and he tottered a bit standing up. He was clearly quite fragile and hardly capable of walking beyond a snail’s pace. I held out my arm for support. Even in my six-inch-heels, I was more capable of walking than this poor elderly man. Again, I wondered how he’d gotten to the club without help. Was he capable of driving? Should he be on the road? I escorted him to a single’s dance booth and he sat down with some difficulty. He took off his baseball cap, revealing a giant bandage on his bald head. It reminded me of my grandfather the last time I’d seen him before I cut off contact. He’d had a few melanomas removed and the doctors had bunched up the remaining skin and stitched the holes back together. As I got closer to the man to begin the dance, I noticed an odor like rotting flesh. I pulled back. I had to rethink my strategy. Would I be able to finish this dance and make it through an additional five songs with a man who smells like he’s rotting away? On a less selfish note, I couldn’t help wondering if he had anyone to help him change his bandages. Dying is not a graceful process. I’ve changed many bandages and dressed many wounds. I’ve cleaned my grandmother’s bedsores and followed proper sterile procedures to change my aunt’s catheter dressings. When you’re at the point where you have bandages like that, you need help. It’s not something you can do alone.

And yet, people come to the strip club at all points in their lives: weddings, funerals, new job, just fired, new baby, divorce, just got out of prison, pondering suicide, dying of natural causes-- there is no normal circumstance or normal client. In a way, this was within the range of normal. I held my breath and finished the dance, still unsure if I could make it through a longer dance.

Him: That was very good!

Me: I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.

He replaced his cap upon the head sore and stood. He reached out his hand to steady himself, leaning against the wall as we walked toward the register. I was still debating internally whether or not I’d have the wherewithal to dance with him for another five songs. Because I was about to start my period, my senses of smell and touch were exceptionally heightened. My body was in full defense mode, ready to hunker down for the war brewing in my ovaries. He paid for the single and I sat back down beside him at the bar. He pulled out his wallet and began counting bills. At a glance, I could see he had at least $600 in hundreds and probably about another hundred in smaller bills. The greed in me won out, masquerading as an impulse to be a Good Samaritan. I justified it by thinking I was simply providing the service of treating this man like a human, even though he was in no shape to be here buying my services. I could hold my nose, and I would find excuses to dance away from him or stand over him, away from contact with his head. He handed me $220.

Him: Give this to them. Usually they let me dance over there because I’m not too good with stairs nowadays.

He pointed over to the downstairs VIP area.

Him: Could you tell them we want to dance over there instead of upstairs?

Me: Of course! That shouldn’t be a problem at all.

I walked over to the register and cleared the dance booth arrangement with a manager, then led the old man to the VIP booth. We claimed a half-hour room for our set. The sofa was a bit lower than he’d anticipated, but thankfully the cushions were soft enough to gently catch him. I started my dance, trying to find ways to avoid his head. What I didn’t consider was the directional odor of his bandage. While I was standing over him, instead of abating, the odor intensified. I stepped back down.

Him: Could you kneel in front of me so I can see your pretty face?

Given that the odor was emanating upwards from his head, kneeling in front of him wasn’t the worst option. He was a bit too fat to reach me when I knelt in front of him, and he couldn’t bend much to bring the bandage closer to me.

Me: Do you have any family out here?

Him: Oh, no, not really. They’re out in other parts.

He was alone. No wonder nobody he was in such rough shape. I continued dancing, each second stretching into what felt like hours.

Him: How many songs was that? I lost count.

One of my greatest handicaps is my honesty.

Me: I think we’ve got one more song.

He nodded, his eyes closing slightly.

My knee brushed his crotch. I noticed something wet, but I couldn’t tell what. I reached and touched my knee and came to the unsettling conclusion that if it wasn’t cum, it was certainly some kind of bodily fluid.

Me: Did you?

Him: Did I what?

It was excruciating.

Me: Did you cum?

Him: Just a little.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

JUST A LITTLE

I stopped and backed up. The dance was done for me. I started putting on my shoes. I wasn’t angry, just disgusted. I’d reached the end of my endurance. He didn’t seem to mind, in fact it seemed that we could have ended whenever he asked me earlier about our song count. He reached into his wallet and pulled out $100. Normally, I would consider this an exceptional tip for a set of this length, but this time I felt it was the least he could do. I needed to wipe my whole body down.

We walked out together. In spite of my disgust I offered him my arm, afraid he would topple over like a fragile bowling pin.

Him: Thank you so much, darling.

He’d finished with one vice and was off to indulge in another. Girls and gambling, peas and carrots, peanut butter and jelly. It was terrible for me on so many levels, even if I knew he was part of the reason I would finish that night with a couple thousand dollars.

It’s impossible to avoid thinking about family when you’re working. You never know who will remind you of a father or an uncle, or maybe not even anyone that particular-- maybe they just remind you of an experience where you had to watch someone close to you suffering. In the end it’s all just humanity and our collective fragility. One fragile creature to another.