Fucking Couples

I kept an eye on a white couple in their late thirties, maybe forties who sat beside the bar, sipping their nonalcoholic beverages for a few hours before I decided to go up to them. They could best be described as pop punk rockers who grew up and had to abandon their tempered rebellion for desk jobs. They weren’t wealthy, and it was apparent to me that they weren’t frequent strip club patrons. They’d sat together watching the stage, clearly enraptured by our performances, yet they did not tip a single dancer. The woman’s face lit up as she watched me dance. She’d lean over to her husband to comment whenever I did something acrobatic. I estimated that they were the kind of couple that might buy a single song, which isn’t great, but I hoped I could squeeze two singles out of them for a couple’s dance. I had nothing better to do, so I sidled up to them

Me: Hey, how’s it going?

Him: This is perfect! My wife has been eyeing you all night.

His wife looked at me, glassy-eyed and bashful. I couldn’t tell if she had been drinking or if she was simply tired.

Her: How do you do all those things? You’re amazing up there.

Me: Aw thanks. Just practice. Are y’all here for a special occasion?

Her: Oh, no. We have a six-year-old and an eight-year-old, so we never get to leave the house, but tonight we got a sitter. He suggested we come here, and here we are.

Me: Oh, that’s great! Have you ever been here before?

Her: I haven’t.

Him: We haven’t.

Me: Well, welcome! I hope you’re having fun.

Her: It’s been surprisingly great! You girls are all so beautiful, and talented.

Me: There are so many gorgeous women who work here, and they’re almost all super kind and friendly.

Her: They have been.

Me: It’s surprisingly wholesome here.

I could have gone on and on about how much I love my coworkers, but I knew this couple wasn’t worth the time. They were cute, but cute doesn’t pay my bills.

Me: So, can I take y’all for a dance?

Him: You should go, honey! You’ve been watching her all night.

Her: You two should go. How much is a dance?

Me: There are a lot of dance prices, so buckle up.

I ran through the list with twofer options and discounts I’d be willing to negotiate with my boss, but as I’d expected, they balked after I said the single was $51.

Her: Wow, $51. I guess we better go home then. That’s a lot to afford right now.

Him: We gotta get at least one. I mean, she’s great, and you like her.

I turned my attention to the wife.

Me: Have you ever gotten a lap dance before?

Her: I used to get them all the time in Germany. I loved going to the clubs out there. I’ve never gotten one with him, though.

Me: Oh that’s so cool! Did the clubs there have men and women? Did you get dances from men, women, or both?

Her: Oh, I would never get a dance from a man! I mean, I like men, obviously, but in a strip club setting I don’t want a dance from a man.

Me: I get that.

Him: C’mon honey. I’ll buy the dance for you. Go and have some fun.

Her: No honey, you go with her and have fun. I’m gonna smoke a cigarette outside.

I felt tossed around a bit like a hot potato. I trusted that one of them would capitulate and purchase the dance, but the back and forth was unsettling.

Him: Okay.

Me: Do you know where the smoking patio is?

Her: I don’t.

I directed her toward the patio. I was disappointed I wasn’t going to dance for her, or for the couple together. Couples where both parties like women are a special treat for me. I noticed she hesitating beside patio exit, so as I led her husband to the singles dance area, which is adjacent to the smoking patio, I tapped her on the shoulder and assured her that that was in fact the correct door. She smiled at me nervously, and walked onto the smoking patio.

I took her husband to a booth and sat him down.

Him: It’s so cool my wife is letting me do this.

Me: She’s so cool. It’s too bad she isn’t here with us.

Him: I know.

Me: You’re a lucky guy.

Him: I am. I can’t believe she’s letting me do this.

I mounted his lap and began the dance. He dutifully kept his hands by his side. I normally don’t engage in small talk during a dance, but I sensed that he was a talker.

Me: How long have y’all been together?

Him: Oh man. We have an eight-year-old, and we were together for a couple years before him, so it’s been over ten years?

Me: Wow, that’s a long time.

Him: Yeah, it is. I haven’t been with another woman since then, so this is— a lot. You’re so beautiful.

Me: Aw, thanks.

I could feel the gravity of this moment for him. I handle so many bodies, so I am a bit of an expert in interpreting people’s responses to my touch. It’s a joy when a client enjoys my touch as much as he was. From the moment I sat on his lap he was moaning in pleasure. He was ebullient over the situation he had been permitted to enjoy.

Him: My wife is so cool.

Me: She is. And she’s really pretty. You’re so lucky.

My goal is never to tear apart a relationship, or talk shit about someone’s significant other unless that’s what my client is bringing into the room. I prefer to cultivate love and solidarity. Strippers don’t want your boyfriend or husband, we just want his money. I groped his boner out of curiosity. It wasn’t too bad, mid sized, not fully hard or anything but it seemed pretty hard considering he was wearing jeans. I thought about what it would be like to monogamously commit to someone for a decade. It was difficult enough for me to sustain my monogamish commitment to my partner for the three years we weren’t officially open, and even then we had somewhat fluid terms considering my occupation. My touch was the first touch he’d experienced from anyone besides his wife in a decade, so I knew it was meaningful— spiritual even.

We wrapped up the single and I led him out of the dance area. He searched the room for his wife as I led him to the register to pay for the dance.

Me: She’s probably still on the smoking patio if you wanna check on her.

Him: No, it’s okay. How much should I tip you?

Me: A typical tip for a single is $10.

Him: Let me see what I have.

He reached into his pocket and looked dismayed when he could only locate $4.

Him: My wife has more. I’ll ask her when she comes out.

Me: Aw, that would be sweet. I’d appreciate it. Do you wanna check on her?

Him: It’s okay.

I leaned against the bar beside him, waiting for his wife to reemerge. It was a pure moment, in the way strip clubs unexpectedly are. He turned to me, dropping his voice a bit,

Him: I dress up like you, at home. Like, I wear stockings and have my own set of heels. I like to wear lingerie.

Me: That’s so cool.

Him: I feel sexy. I mean, the way you dress is sexy.

Me: Do you like sissification?

Of course I had to be clinical instead of accepting his terms.

Him: Um, maybe? I like to dress up like you. I also like to be penetrated. My wife will strap on and fuck me.

Me: Wow, that’s so cool. I love it. You two are dope.

It was at that moment that I saw his wife leaving the smoking patio in a hurry with her head down. I pointed.

Me: There she is!

Him: Oh great, let me get her.

In a near sprint past us, she said in one breath:

Her: Are you staying? Because I’m going home now. Bye.

Him: What??

We exchanged a look of confusion. He didn’t want to be rude and leave me, but his wife was clearly upset.

Me: Go to her!

She pushed through the double doors of the exit and he followed close behind her. My manager was on the opposite side of the bar, across from me, watching the situation. We made eye contact, exchanging a “what the fuck” glance. He shrugged as if to say, “it happens”. It was disappointing for me, especially after what I’d considered to be an overall positive interaction. I walked to the dressing room, clearly distraught. A few of my friends were perched on stools, browsing their phones.

Me: I feel like I just wrecked a marriage.

Marni: What happened?

Me: I went up to a couple and asked them for a dance. The wife said I could dance with her husband, so we did the dance, just a single. Then, when we got out she left in a hurry, clearly upset.

Marni: I hate when that happens! It’s not fair to you.

April: She shouldn’t have said she was okay with it when she wasn’t. I mean, it’s not your fault she didn’t say what she meant.

Me: I know. You’re right. And the worst part is that the whole time we were talking about how great she is. Her husband kept saying he was so lucky to have his wife’s blessing to dance with me.

Marni: That sucks, girl. But it’s not your fault.

April: Yeah.

Me: Ugh. Couples.

I’m a romantic, and that’s part of the success of my stripper persona. I’m not pretending exactly. Of course plenty of times I’m hardly paying attention. I try to follow a conversation enough that I can make my sale while I simultaneously scan the room for other options. A few times I genuinely like a client. Toronto Daddy is one of the few whose company I enjoy. I have a strange draw for white men in black athletic wear outfits, it’s inexplicable. Anyway, Toronto Daddy was sitting in a corner the first time I met him. I’d thought he was a corner lurker, not a real client. Part of me thought he was European, which is always the worst. Europeans willfully ignore the American tipping system, which I entirely understand from the consumer side of things, but as a person in the service industry, the tip is the bulk of my income, regardless of how you feel about it. Toronto Daddy, a.k.a. Elliot, has popped in and out of my life over the past year. It’s strange to consider the lengths of patron relationships. I expect people to get bored, and of course, people do, or they become frustrated by the impossibility of the relationship. It will always remain financial, no matter how mutual our feelings are. Elliot and I hit it off talking about music. He owns a small, yet notable record label that has featured a number of artists who were the soundtrack of some of my formative years. He’s bright fidgety. I hadn’t realized until I decided to stalk him recently and research his web presence. There’s truly no sense of privacy anymore, even with people like Elliot who seem to avoid social media beyond LinkedIn. I watched a panel discussion where he and some of the founders of bitTorrent and Reddit reflected on the future of a monetized internet and mitigated piracy. Elliot couldn’t sit still. He’s a sensitive person, mirroring the postures of the people around him even as he’s bursting with an energetic desire to contribute. It was charming and informative. The panel took place in 2013, and predicted what has become the standard today, more or less. Elliot represented the art producers while the other panelists represented the distributors and consumer analysis ends of the food chain. In the video, he sported reddish wispy hair, something I’d never considered since I’ve only seen him with whitish blond hair. I realized he’s not simply young at heart but also actually somewhat younger than I’d read him for. He dropped by a few Thursdays ago. He told me that he’d hoped I’d be there, but it’s hard to tell. It’s nice to see your friend at the strip club, but regardless, you’re at a place which is inherently enjoyable if you’re a heterosexual man. Regardless of my insecurities, I was happy to see him. We sat together and talked about me. I love talking about myself, given the right circumstances. Generally, the club isn’t the place to talk about yourself if you’re the service provider. Strip club conversations are best when one-sided and ideally shallow. If you go too deep you risk wasting time and losing money. Another issue is becoming too human to your clients. It’s important to keep a professional distance in this situation because regardless of how much shit people talk about strippers and our inhumanity, most of our customers care about our well-being and become unhealthily concerned with the risks we face as sex workers. When they know about our kids, aspirations, and injuries we, they morph into captain save a hoe’s and start strategizing on how to save us. They also back away from lap dances for fear of taking advantage of us, when lap dances are actually the best way to support us. Several months ago, I met a writing professor at the club. He wandered around like an addict, ping ponging from dancer to dancer, enthralled with every interaction. He told me he used to be an alcoholic, but had quit and instead of indulging in alcohol, took to frequenting strip clubs to enjoy an activity he considered to be a special treat. He’d overdone the whole thing, spending all of his discretionary income on strippers. Since then, he’d managed to further curb his addictive leanings, and now only popped by quarterly. We bonded over writing and I shared my Instagram page with him. He’d purchased a dance with me and tried to haggle for a blow job, but didn’t hassle me when I refused. He tipped decently, and I went back to hustling customers while he lingered talking to other dancers without disclosing he had no intention of spending any more money. He returned recently, after a long hiatus due to money issues. Initially we hardly acknowledged each other. He was enamored with each new dancer passing within periphery, but I knew he remembered me. I went up to him, hoping he’d get another set with me since he’d so enjoyed our previous dance.

He’d read all of my free work. He searched through my Instagram and uncovered all of my writing and went through my photos as far back as they go.