White Man Face Blindness

I was almost certain I’d danced with the man before-- but as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I have a terrible case of White Man Face Blindness. I never thought I’d get to the point where my phone contacts would become an indistinguishable cluster of basic man names. Yesterday, “Gary” texted me and I cannot for the life of me put an old raisined face to this name.

Returning to the indistinguishable white man at hand-- I’d watched him enter while I sat on the lap of another white man who I was quickly losing patience for. Let’s call him “Mr. Lap”. I caught sight of “Mr. Bigger Money” walking in and knew it was time to make my sale to Mr. Lap, who was deeply enamoured with me, but sadly, he couldn’t afford those feelings. I tried to take him for a three-song-set, but he informed me he was only in the market for a single. I begrudgingly agreed since I’d already put in the hustle for him, and hastily dragged him to the singles booth so as not to miss my chance at Mr. Bigger Money.

When we came out, Mr. Bigger Money was nowhere to be found. I didn’t know if he’d been taken for a dance or if he’d popped in and left, as some people do. I like to think that the people who leave as soon as they arrive are leaving because of some sort of social anxiety. They enter our oasis of beautiful naked women and leave flustered, feeling inadequate, reminded that they are mere mortal men.

I took Mr. Lap to the register where he paid and tipped me $9, which is what I consider to be the bare minimum for a single— although to be clear there is a cesspool of patrons who don’t believe in tipping and will begrudgingly hand you a single dollar on a $51 dance. I took the tip without a smile and strode to the locker room to regroup. I hoped Mr. Lap would be gone by the time I came out, and by the money goddess’ grace, he was. The cherry on top was that Mr. Bigger Money had returned and was situating himself in one of the VIP booths with the aid of Candice who patiently held his Coca Cola. I sexy sprinted over to them, and without much of an introduction, sat beside the man.

Mr. Bigger Money didn’t remember me, but to be fair, my memory of him was also blurry. If I was correct, he’s an actor who somehow had made a decent career for himself getting guest star and co star roles in a variety of notable series, in spite of not being a household name by any means. Mr. Bigger Money is a portly white man with a head full of thick, crew cut, light gray hair and a beard. He wears a distinguished pair of round, tortoise shell eyeglasses on his little pointed nose. He’s stylish in an understated way and enjoys patterned shirts. When we had first met and he had told me he was an actor, I’d anticipated the worst. I’m an actor myself, and I tend to think of the industry as extremely generous to very few and toiling punishment for the rest of us. Since I didn’t recognize his name or face, I assumed (wrongly) that he was toiling through the sludge like the rest of us, only to discover that he had enough discretionary income to be generous. Since we both hardly remembered each other, I had a choice between making a second first impression, or diving into an intimacy we’d both long forgotten. I opted for the feigned intimacy.

Me: How have you been?

Him: Have we met before?

Me: We have, a while ago.

Him: Did we dance? We must have danced.

Me: We did, at least I’m pretty sure. You’re an…

I squinted at him, hoping he would say it at the same time as me and assure me that I wasn’t about to make a situation ruining blunder.

Me: Actor?

Him: Wow, good memory. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name. I’m Dick.

Me: I’m Selena.

Him: I’m sorry, Selena.

Me: It’s okay, don’t worry about it.

But we all feel a little bit disturbed when we have a person with whom we’ve had a long-forgotten intimate experience reappear before our eyes. “Have I lost my mind?” “How could I forget?” I saw all of these thoughts play across his face while I reveled in having the upper hand for the moment. He stroked his slightly unkempt beard reaching for the memory.

Him: Where are you from?

Me: Oklahoma.

Him: It’s coming back to me. Were you studying architecture or something?

Me: No. I have a degree.

Him: What do you do outside of this?

Me: I’m a podcaster, writer, actor whenever I can get a job.

Him: Wow, you do a lot.

Me: I do.

It’s always impressive how many hats sex workers wear in spite of always being perceived as primarily doing sex work. A stripper is a stripper 24/7, but when an accountant goes home, she’s a wife, mother, and player in a softball league. We talked shop about acting.

Me: What’s your throwaway?

The “throwaway” is the role you’re typecast for.

Him: Cop. I’ve played so many cops. I may not look like it now with the beard and glasses. I grow the beard when I’m not shooting, then shave it down to just a moustache if they want me to play a cop.

Me: That makes sense, gotta keep it versatile. If you could pick your ideal role, what would it be?

Him: Hmm. If I could play any role…

He looked up and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

Him: I’ve always wanted to be in a western. I’d love to play a sheriff. I guess that’s still law enforcement.

Me: It’s a cop from a different time. A western would be fun.

Dick had played many different cops throughout his career, from making an appearance in one of the latest superhero flicks to a couple of episodes on The Office. I don’t begrudge actors playing cops so much even though I loathe real cops. All cops are bastards. I’ll say it until the day I die. The beauty of cinema is getting to watch people impersonate cops with direction that so obviously conveys the writer’s and director’s contempt for law enforcement. How many movies and television shows have portrayed bumbling lazy cops that ignore real crime or display blatant abuses of power? There are endless examples. I like to believe there’s more representations of shitty cops than there are positive-leaning buddy cop comedies. I plied Dick for more information about his roles, gushing over his success, buttering him up with compliments. Dick isn’t a stupid man. He understood the transactional nature of our relationship, even through my thin veil of flattery.

Him: I’m just rambling and you’re here to make money. Can I take you for a half-hour?

Me: You’re not rambling. I was asking questions and you were answering them. And yes, I’d love to go for a half-hour.

He took me to the register, and without having to place his order, the bartender knew.

Her: Half-hour plus a $300 tip?

Dick turned to me for confirmation.

Him: Is that good for you?

Me: That’s perfect.

I agreed and immediately felt that disorienting question bubbling up within me: “What the fuck are we gonna do for half an hour?” I don’t know how men don’t get immensely bored spending half an hour alone in a room with a dancer who isn’t providing full or even partial service. There’s only so many positions one can grind through. Eventually you’re just rotating through the same five moves, switching every two songs. It’s tedious and to be honest, painful. People don’t talk about the amount of chafing caused by lap dances, but that chafing is real, and dancer and customer alike experience some level of chafing.

I escorted Dick to the half-hour room and began the dance. In spite of my best efforts, I’m not feeling it or anything at all to be completely honest. Primarily I’m thinking about my upcoming vacation and how thrilled I’ll be to take a break. For a while I was getting some erotic stimulation from dancing, but lately, my sexuality has been in flux. I don’t wanna be touched, sucked, or finger banged. I like dicks, but not inside of me. I discovered that Dick had a bit of a sadistic side when I introduced spanking into the mix. I dug my nails into his chest and choked him. He spanked my bottom and pulled me in close to him. I could tell he was embarrassed of his body. I unbuttoned his shirt and he flinched, looking down at his ample chest. I wanted to tell him not to worry about my opinion, but I decided the best way to tell him would be by showing. I laid my body against his torso. He relaxed a little.

Dick purchased a second half-hour with me. We were both sober the entire time. It’s not common to handle sober clients, much in the same way that it’s not common to find sober dancers. Yet in that moment, Dick and I were awake and aware of everything. He had made my night and I’d made his.

Him: I come back here every so often when I’m not shooting and I realize I’m spending all of my time home alone with my cats. I think to myself, “Guess it’s time to stop by the club!”

It’s one of the healthiest explanations I’ve gotten from a regular. He wasn’t on an emotional bender or sneaking away from his wife: it was a moment he acknowledged the need for human contact and decided to adequately compensate me for providing that service. I hugged him as he left. He hadn’t creamed his pants or anything. My vagina was swollen from an hour of friction, but otherwise intact. It was almost wholesome.