Eye Contact

I’d just danced with one of my regulars who wears a condom when we dance so that he can nut into his pants. In return for my service, aside from a nice tip, he’d brought me granola bars to snack on. He’s always worried about whether or not I’m eating and taking care of myself, between sending me Spanish memes of lecherous old men eyeing milfs breastfeeding. It’s a complicated relationship to people on the outside who see this kind of transaction as predatory. How could a stripper be okay with a customer nutting in his pants, even if there’s a condom involved? I like to think that every nut I give is a blessing. Lap dances aren’t about coming per se, but it happens and I’d rather anticipate it and have a barrier involved than not. Plus my customer is a sweet middle aged man who would give anything to marry me and start a family in some pueblito in Mexico. Anyway, afterwards I realized I was getting emotional, which I recognized was a symptom of hunger. Some people get hangry, I get hepressed which is hungry + depressed. I decided to crack into the hard crumbly Nature Valley granola bars I’d tucked into my purse. I hadn’t had one in years, but I used to love them as a kid. I didn’t mind how they immediately crumbled and got everywhere. I’d shake the broken bits at the bottom of the bag into my mouth after. Earlier that week, however, I’d finished my Invisalign, and my teeth were extra sensitive. I tried biting into the bar, but only managed to gnaw at it and get it wet with saliva. I had no intention of eating gracefully. I get a lot of satisfaction out of being hot and eating in the least civilized way possible while staring out at customers. I continued persistently gnawing at my granola bar until I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a slight young white man who looked at me apologetically.

Him: I’m sorry, please continue eating, but when you’re done can you come talk to me? I’m sitting over there.

He pointed to a seat across the bar from me. It’s not often someone comes up to me and requests my attention. If I could have customers request all of my lap dances I’d be in heaven, but typically I have to initiate and make my pitch as to why they should buy a dance from me. While this is not always the case, I think that nonwhite women are often invisible in clubs. Men see a flash of blonde hair and immediately open their wallets, but if Beyoncé walked in I don’t know if anybody would notice.

Me: Yeah, of course.

I began to get up, but he stopped me.

Him: No! Please finish. Really. I’ll be right over there whenever you’re done. Take your time.

Customers almost never actually wait for you. After five minutes, it’s like a switch flicks on and they doggedly follow behind the first girl to make eye contact. But this man seemed different. I was surprised he had had the courage to come up to me, because he truly didn’t seem confident enough to proposition anyone. Yet somehow he had, in his shy yet direct way. I took my time finishing my granola bar because I could feel him intermittently glancing at me. I knew he would feel bad if he thought he had caused me to rush. Afterwards, I tried to suck out as much granola flakes from between my teeth as possible. Something I hadn’t considered when fixing my teeth was the nuisance of not having spaces between my teeth to easily remove food particles. Before when I had a lot of gaps, I didn’t have to worry about anything getting stuck, but now it’s an ordeal. I made the best of it, wiped the crumbs from my cheeks and belly and sauntered over to the young man. He looked surprised when I appeared at his side, as if he hadn’t expected me to actually heed his request.

Him: I didn’t see you!

Me: Well, here I am. How’s it going?

Him: How are you?

Me: I’m fine. What’s your name?

Him: Daniel! What’s your name?

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

Him: Thanks for coming over to talk to me!

He was pleasant and unassuming. He’d dropped by with his friend, another young white man with long curly hair who seemed to be intentionally facing away from us to give us privacy, although I could tell he was listening to us by the way he would occasionally glance back at us. It seemed to be protective gesture, making sure Daniel was feeling alright. And to be frank, Daniel was quite nervous— one might say petrified. He avoided eye contact for the duration of our conversation which bounced between talking about his job engineering and the more artistic uses for a 3D printer. He was shocked to hear that artists were creating gallery work with 3D printers. Most people I talk to think that art is just painting and the occasional cryptic metal sculpture in front of a Bank of America. I decided now was the moment to give my elevator lecture on The Beginning of Modernism to our Post Minimalism Present and Daniel listened with rapt interest. I realized a lot of the art history knowledge I’d accumulated throughout my time in college had faded or dissipated entirely. I guess it’s how they say, “you either use it or lose it,” and I’d lost most of it. After a point, I began to doubt myself so much that I backpedaled and began apologizing for having even considered explaining something I’d spent four years merely scratching the surface of— but Daniel was fascinated, which I took as a sign that it was time to make my sale.

Me: Can I take you for a dance?

Him: Definitely.

He bought a Skybox with me. He made sure to tell his friend where he was going, to which his friend nodded and offered a thumbs up. I led Daniel upstairs to a booth where he sat down and took all of the hard objects out of his pockets without me having to tell him. Good boy. He was trembling. I noticed as I sat on his lap. His body was thin and narrow beneath mine, I felt like I was sitting more upon the couch than upon the man. He stiffened at my touch and he looked down away from me as he thrust his hands out to his sides, as far away from me as possible. It was like a reflex to assure that he wouldn’t cross any of my boundaries. I appreciated the gesture, but gently guided his hands to parts of my body I didn’t mind him touching. He hardly moved them from wherever I placed them, except for when I changed positions, at which point he would thrust his hands back out away from me. He avoided looking at me as best as he could considering I was sitting directly in his lap. If I had my face in front of him he would shut his eyes entirely. I knew he wanted to look at me, if not directly into my eyes. At first I tried making eye contact, but I noticed that he would turn away as soon as our eyes met. I decided I would only look at neutral zones like his chin or abdomen. I wondered if he was on the spectrum, but the way he had directly approached me and been so fascinated with my art history spiel just affirmed the fact that I am in no way a doctor. I couldn’t tell exactly if he was enjoying the dance or if I was providing some kind of torture, but we made it through and when he regained his composure, he was extatic.

Him: Thank you so much! You’re amazing.

Me: Aw, thank you.

He stumbled a little as he collected his things.

Me: Are you okay?

Him: I’m fine. It’s just a lot. You’re so hot. I don’t do this that often.

Me: No worries about that. Would you be down for a tip?

Him: Of course! How much should that be? Like I said, I haven’t done this in a while.

Me: It’s like a restaurant. I like to tip 20%.

He handed me the tip I asked for and we hugged, even though he seemed to be halfway out the door trying to escape his awkwardness— the awkwardness of having many feelings in front of a professional who is excellent at not having too many feelings (at least theoretically). I escorted him back to his friend and for the rest of the night he pretended not to see me dancing with other men.

This happens constantly. You have an intimate exchange with a customer and they spend all that they can afford. When they tap out, the moment is over even if the intimacy remains and we all just try not to make eye contact as we continue working and they continue enjoying the show. Some sit and stare all night, but usually there is this courtesy of evasion because the club is so small. I watch him and his friend leave from the lap of another man and wonder what he thinks of what happened between us.