Men Have Feelings: Another Danny Story

Slow season has begun, which means dancers are feeling more pressed than normal trying to earn the same living as they do during the busy seasons while customers cling to their wallets for dear life. Luckily, my regulars have bolstered the financial drought in this typically grim period, but I’ve also been lucky enough to encounter a few new customers. One recent midshift I met a stuntman who specialized in water based stunts. He bragged that he could hold his breath for seven minutes straight whenever he’s in shape. He was tall, fit, the kind of man who could stunt for Brad Pitt or some other middle aged white man. I’d noticed him eyeing me as I sat on the small stage, but when I came and sat in his lap, he looked at me warily. I asked him why he seemed so reluctant.

Him: I just felt a lot of pressure last time. I got a dance with a lady and as soon as we got back there she started telling me how much a blow job costs and a hand job, and then she got real impatient when I said I wasn’t sure. She felt like I was just wasting her time if I didn’t want anything besides the dance. It wasn’t that I didn’t want more, I just wasn’t ready for all that all of a sudden.

Me: That is a lot to decide off the bat. I could see it being overwhelming.

Him: Exactly, it was overwhelming! I mean maybe I wanted some of it, but I didn’t know for sure right then and there. I didn’t even know her or anything. I ended up getting a handjob, but I just felt so pressured! I didn’t want to feel that again. You probably don’t care about his. You probably think I’m weird.

It’s sad the way men back down from fully acknowledging moments they’ve felt pressured into sex and not enjoyed it. I’m not repping for male sexual assault or anything, but I’ve noticed through my work how common it is for men to experience assault or coercive sexual situations and never feel able to characterize those experiences as such. I hate when men and women essentialize the male experience of sex and say things like, “Men only want one thing,” because it’s patently false. When we impose that strict narrative upon men, we inadvertently inforce the narrative that men are animals driven by their impulses, unable to control their desire. When men aren’t given the opportunity to revoke their consent, we lose an important piece of the equation to solve rape culture.

Sometimes it’s easy to casually disregard men and their desires. We assume that for men any sex is good sex. Penises want to get sucked or fucked like some strange metonymy, but that’s not the case. I hurt Danny by making that kind of generalization recently over texts.

Him: I miss you. You still owe me an orgasm from last time.

I didn’t owe him anything and I felt a little salty from the notion, so I retorted

Me: Well, you still owe me a strap-on and you still haven’t paid me for that last baggie.

I hadn’t included how he also managed to yet again forget to bring my birthday present, but I’d more or less made peace with that annoyance.

Him: Touché.

Him: That got me horny. What are you wearing?

Me: A stiff wind could get you horny.

It’s one of those offhand phrases people use to disregard preternaturally horny people, but it wasn’t fair.

Him: You realize I’m not just horny for anything. You’re the one that gets me horny. You and whatever you do is the thing that turns me on.

It was very sweet and earnest and I felt ashamed for mischaracterizing my friend that way. It’s easy to think that Danny could get off to anything just because his sexuality is expansive, but I only experience how he is with me. I don’t know the Danny that charms investors and closes deals. I only know the Danny who calls me at 11 p.m. to see if I can stop by his hotel in lingerie and watch porn beside him.

Anyway, Thursday I got a surprise text from Danny that he was popping into LA for a brief twenty-two hour visit. It was inconvenient as usual. I’d planned for weeks to attend my lady friend’s birthday that very night, even changing my shift at work to celebrate with her. On top of that, I was recovering from a rather nasty flu. I’d begun the week bedridden: delirious with chills, body ache, and a sore throat. It was miserable, and all the plans I’d carefully organized had to be postponed or cancelled entirely. I hadn’t been able to work Wednesday, so I was short on my weekly average, and Danny’s arrival put me in a real pickle: I could decline his offer and hope that Saturday I’d be in decent enough shape to work again and focus my time on my lady, or I could spend half the night with the birthday girl and then ditch out around eleven or midnight to see Danny for a few hours and make enough money I could take Saturday off. The primary issue with Saturday, aside from my unsure health status, was that I wasn’t guaranteed any amount of money. I could show up and leave with $500 and feel sore about leaving my house for so little. At least with Danny I was guaranteed a grand and then some, and I wouldn’t have to convince him of anything or negotiate my boundaries. Pulling a shift at the club would also mean tiring myself out dancing on stage, which is never fun. When I’m healthy, a stage set is nothing, but when I’m sick, it’s like trying to move with a boulder strapped to my back, and by the end I’m out of breath.

The other bonus of Danny’s visit was Danny himself. In spite of everything he is and his quirks that drive me up the wall, I’m always happy to see him. He’s a mischievous sprite masquerading as a high power consultant. I like to believe I see Danny as he truly is in his most essential state while most other people only see him as a cunning strategist— a noteworthy innovator. Nearly two years since we first met and I know essentially nothing about what exactly he does, even if I’ve done a cursory search of his various endeavors and whatnot. I like to ask my clients about what they do, but there’s nothing worse than trying to get away from the office only to have the office follow you into your downtime. Anyway, after much internal debate, I decided to pencil in Danny after the birthday party.

Usually I spend my whole day prior to going to the club or doing an outcall avoiding carbs and large portions to prevent bloating, but I didn’t want to skimp on enjoying the birthday dinner. I ate cake and macarons, enjoyed a few bites of fancy macaroni and cheese and some Franken-hybrid philly cheesesteak egg rolls. It was a Thursday and the majority of the birthday guests had work in the morning. As the night went on, the gathering thinned and those remaining drove out to WeHo to continue the festivities at Club Cobra where we could enjoy some dimly lit go-go dancing.

The line between go-go and stripper is slim depending where you’re dancing. Go-go’s keep their clothes on, but so do strippers at bikini bars. Strippers make more money and accept the stigma of our title because the money is exponentially better, but go-go’s often fill a similar hole but with fewer protections. Recording go-go’s is acceptable, but a stipper will literally cut you for recording videos.

The go-go’s at Cobra were scantily clad in lingerie sets as they danced seductively on little platforms. I liked the vibe: grimy and a little bit too loud, but I was still sick and my head hurt. I watched a few working girls proposition men who looked like clients. It was obvious the clients were here for the girls, not for the atmosphere. They stood around in either ill fitting polos and loose denim jeans, or slacks with their jackets in hand like they’d just popped by after work. A little too closeted looking, considering everyone else was openly gay or trans or both. Danny texted me to come by. I told him I would whenever he was in his room at the hotel, AND only after he’d sent me a selfie in the aforementioned room. I was not going to hustle over and arrive before him like I had last time, twiddling my thumbs in the lobby as he promised for half an hour that he’s “just a minute away”.

He mostly followed my rules and texted me when he arrived, no picture proof, but he seemed sober enough this time. He asked me where I was. I told him I was out with my lady at a trans club in NoHo, because I know how he loves trans women, at least within the confines of his fantasies. He wanted me to bring her with me. I told him she’s not going anywhere unless she gets paid the same as me. He wanted to know who would touch whom if she doesn’t like men. I negotiated the hypothetical details and asked her if she would ever want to do that with me. She said she would love to. I was happy to have her enthusiasm, but I had no intention of dragging her out to work on her birthday. And besides that, we hadn’t had sex alone yet, and our first time was going to be special, i.e. not for pay in front of Danny.

I apologized to the birthday girl and excused myself. I drove to meet Danny at The Kandinsky. He texted demanding I bring some outfits to change into, but I was already out and not taking orders. Plus I know Danny at this point. I know what he likes and what he doesn’t like. As a habitual overachiever, I’d prepared my pack list before I even left my house. I had a red bodystocking I knew he would like, and I was wearing an outfit I had a feeling he would go for.

When I arrived at the hotel, I sat on a swing in the lobby wearing a denim skirt over knee high white go-go boots, a cotton shirt so thin you didn’t have to search to find my nipples, and a Sherpa jacket to allow for varied levels of modesty. While I waited for Danny, five different men attempted to shoot their shot with me. Two men took a seat on the couch across from me and tried to figure out a way to convince me to allow them to sit beside me on the bench. I was a bleeding dolphin circled by sharks. I SOS called Danny. He arrived and greeted them warmly.

Danny: Hello friends! Are you having a wonderful night?

Man 1: You bet.

Danny: No truly, I won’t accept anyone having anything less than a fantastic night!

Danny was so warm and genuine and approached them without the slightest bit of pretension. He hugged the one closest to me and wished the man one of the greatest nights of his life, then pulled me outside to the bar with him.

The bar was closed to the public for some kind of VIP night and Danny had to escort me in. He was sitting at a low table in the upstairs bar with one of his colleagues: a late thirties white man with gauges who works for Tik Tok. I mentioned that they were Chinese owned, skeptical of this person complicit in censoring so many people and liberation movements. He was surprised I knew.

Danny: I love this guy. You wanna know why? It’s because this guy because he’s real, not like the other people bullshitting who have never done anything.

Tik Tok man revealed that had once toured as part of a Reggae band. He’d gotten thrown out of Corpus Christi Texas because he was a white man in a Reggae band trying to practice Rastafari. I thought it was gross that I was now talking to some white man who had in all seriousness played in a Reggae band. Truly the men who run the world are idiots. We made small talk about this and that. I wasn’t drinking, but it was apparent they had been for some time and were doing bumps. Tik Tok man was grinding his teeth between sips. Meanwhile, Danny was eyeing me. He wanted me to sit beside him but I had no intention of doing so since we were in public. He suggested we all go smoke somewhere and regroup, then specified that he and I needed to chat privately, and that we would call them. Danny grabbed my hand, and we ditched. I felt guilty because we irl ghosted these people, but on the other hand, I loved that we had just irl ghosted these people. We got up to the room and I began to unpack the little travel bag I’d brought with my other outfit, a vibrator, and weed when Danny pulled me aside.

Him: You know why I had to leave them?

Me: Tell me.

Him: Because I couldn’t get over how fuckin’ sexy you look in this outfit! It’s absolutely perfect, like something I would search to jerk off to.

It was very Danny, but also I appreciated the sincerity of the compliment. I’d really carved out another jerkoff neural pathway in his mind and it felt special. I’m the kind of person who likes to know that other people are having sex. I like pictures of people’s genitals. I like when people who aren’t utter strangers tell me when they jerk off thinking of me. It wasn’t an erotic pleasure, it was more heart warming.

Me: I’m glad.

Him: Dance slowly and lift your skirt so that I can see your panties.

Me: Venmo me first.

Him: Okay, okay you know I’m good for it!

Me: I know! But I also know last time you accidentally sent it to Clover, and she still hasn’t sent me that money yet.

Him: You’re right. Good point.

He had a quarter of his baggie of blow left and he promised he’d send it right after he does a little more. He wanted me to sit on the bed and open my legs to show my panties, but for whatever reason he wanted my legs open quite wide. It was a little uncomfortable because my clunky boots were still on, and I believe in a strict “no shoes on the bed” policy. He wanted to take in the whole outfit, shoes included.

Him: You know I love you, right?

Me: I know.

Him: I love you, because I don’t even have to tell you and you know exactly what I want. And not just that, but I can tell you anything and I know you don’t judge me.

I felt a little pang of guilt for judging him earlier in my offhand text. I knew better. Sexuality is sacred in its way, and a piece of his sexuality belonged to me.

Him: You know how many other girls I talk to about you?

I nodded, because I knew. He had told me.

Him: That’s why I save certain things for you, like with the t*****, and, and--

Me: Like with the strap-on.

Him: Exactly. I tell them those are for you. I only want to do them with you, because I want it to be special. Don’t you feel the same?

I kinda did. I would have felt a little FOMO if he had given up his first pegging to another person after we’ve spent ages fantasizing about it.

Me: I do.

I said under my breath.

The first few hours primarily consisted of me playing with myself with my clothes on while he sat across from me, narrating the moment. He wanted me to enjoy how sexy the moment was, but my sexy mind space doesn’t involve assuming awkward poses while Danny stares down at me and plays with his flaccid penis.

At 1:30, I announced that the time was up. He bargained for more time and promised me another grand to stick around for a few more hours. I agreed, because truthfully, this had been part of the plan since the start. I knew he would offer more if I told him I had to leave early. Escorting is one of those jobs that abides by the law of decreasing returns. When clients love you more and pledge they’ll keep you close until they perish, they also start paying you less. They think the emotional bond compensated for the financial bond. One night that was once $3,000 turns into $2,000 and the $1,000. Maybe even an IOU. It’s a frustrating racket, and not exactly the kind of job that you can go in and demand a raise for consistently exceptional work on the job. Clients just blanch as if you’ve insulted their mothers. Danny tells me he’ll Venmo me while I change into the body stocking in the bathroom.

I took my time getting dressed, using the moment for a mental break as I spaced out popping ingrown hairs on my pubic mound when he called out for me.

Him: C’mon sweetie, I miss you.

It’s again, so authentic. I could hear the longing in his voice. I hurried up a little and reappeared.

Him: Wow, that thing is incredible!

I walked over to a mirror to fix the alignment of the stocking and discreetly inspected my pussy/crack region for toilet paper. All clear.

Danny directed me to talk about a fantasy this round. Lately I’ve had fewer and fewer fantasies. Maybe I’ve become less creative as I’ve gotten older and been in the industry longer. Maybe I’ve just experienced most of what I’d once fantasized about. I decided to create one based upon what I know about Danny. I dove into one of pegging him. My fantasy involved a lot of anal prep and taking a shower prior, because god love him, he is a man who could benefit from more stringent anal hygiene. My fantasy is briefer than normal, but I didn’t have the stamina to dream as big as on other occasions.

Afterwards we watched trans girl porn together. He tried to jerk off, but his penis wasn’t cooperating. It appeared, then shrunk away, then peeked out for a moment only to decide against it. Not worth the trouble. He’d been drinking, doing blow, and smoking cigarettes since he arrived. There was no hope for cummies that round, which didn’t bother either of us too much. For my part, I was pretty certain my pussy was dry from a yeast infection caused by a latex condom. I like to pretend I can handle latex, but my vulva reminds me that I'm very allergic.

Porn watching became a game of dodging Danny’s hands, grabbing at me right after he’d grabbed his smelly dick. I wanted to just be visual stimuli for him to get off to, but clients always want me to be equally involved and turned on by the experience when I’m merely providing a service. Do you ask your waiter if he enjoyed serving you? How was bringing my dinner for you? I tried to pretend that I was getting off, but Danny knows when I’m faking. He read my disbelief instantly and went soft. We turned back to the porn for help. I didn’t want to make sexy faces or move anymore. What I wanted was to be in bed, already done with the job. Sidebar, I also wanted Danny to get a comprehensive physical because I can see the toll his lifestyle had taken on his health. I somehow managed to make it to the end of our time, and Danny already knew I was on the precipice of leaving. He looked at me sadly, watching me get dressed. He didn’t try to bargain for more time or ask me to help him choose an escort to finish the job. We hugged, he told me to be safe, I thanked him, and then left.