More Menstrual Madness

After dancing with Dale, it was a nearly insurmountable challenge to care about selling additional dances. Ultimately, I was still determined to leave with $800 after my tip-out, which meant I needed to rack up at least another $100. I’d spent about an hour puttering about on my phone, eyeing possible customers when I noticed a surfer bum eyeing me from a group of other surfer bums in a VIP booth. Typically, I don’t put effort into talking to large groups because it’s a shit show and I’ve learned my lesson. When a group comes in, usually they’ve all gone out to eat and grabbed a few drinks prior, so everyone is buzzed and rowdy. They peer pressure each other not to be so “perverted” as to actually participate and adequately compensate us dancers for providing the ambiance for their get together. They expect us to come, sit with them, and drink their drinks; and somehow they believe that simply providing us with alcohol is enough payment for our company. It’s utter bullshit and I hate them. What they don’t realize is we already get free drinks. What we don’t get is an hourly wage.

If I make the mistake of going over to the group, it usually plays out like this: I sit on one guy, then that guy tells me to go sit on his friend who is the birthday boy/bachelor/married man who finally got a night away from his family. Then I sit on the aforementioned second bro, and he’s shy, talks to me for too long, then tells me he’s “actually good” and is not buying dances tonight. Great. I ask him for a tip for my time and if I’m lucky I get a single dollar for each of my garters. Sometimes the bro’s just want to bring me and a few other girls back to their place to “have some fun” in their pool. Why would I want to leave with these fucking strangers who don’t even have the decency to purchase more than a twofer with me???

I approached apprehensively . I was already exhausted from Dale’s incessant Kylie chatter, and my menstrual flow was steadily increasing. I sat on a sunburnt looking Latino man in tribal patterned board shorts and a t-shirt while his friend, a tall white man, looked on crestfallen that I hadn’t chosen him. The Latino man’s name was Caesar. Caesar and his buddies were professional divers stopping by after an evening out drinking. I’ll admit that at this point I was hardly paying attention. I didn’t think he would be down to buy a dance with me. Usually, if a man shows up to the club in board shorts, he isn’t in the position financially to purchase more than a twofer. Additionally, I was emotionally drained and sustaining the appearance of interest in customers requires tremendous effort. As I sat on Caesar’s lap, each of his colleagues/companions stopped by to compliment his diving skills, and he expressed his admiration for each of them in turn. Intellectually, I appreciated the fraternal love among these cishets, but more pressingly, I was waiting for that golden opportunity to slip in a “so, how about a dance?” By the grace of the goddess above, the moment finally arrived, and I was pleasantly surprised when Caesar agreed to a VIP set (albeit, after I offered to throw in an extra song for free).

I led him over to the dance booth. I should have made him pay ahead of time. I should have assured the transaction was cleared before we began, but usually it’s not a problem. At first the dance was running smoothly. I was grinding, he was talking about how soft my skin was and how sexy I was, etc. He wanted to see the vulva, so I stood over him for an up skirt view, then I transitioned into this position where I was on my knees on the arms of the armchair, bent over. Y’all, I am really proud of my puss, my lil puckering butthole and that lovely walnut taint separating the two. For too many years, white supremacy led me to hate my butthole, but I’m finally at that point where I love my not-so-private parts. Anyway, I was bent over and Caesar was spreading my ass cheeks, when suddenly I felt a pop. It was my menstrual cup lifting from its tidy little seal in my vaginal canal. I felt the warm trickle of blood creeping down my thighs, and lordt did I jump down in a hurry, trying to play it cool while I “discreetly” reached between my legs to pat away the blood flow. I pinched my legs together and tried to dance away from Caesar, but he kept pulling me back toward him, because apparently he was really into the spreading and wanted me to do it again. He grabbed me by the hips and tried to place me back onto his lap. I needed to devise an excuse to leave, but I couldn’t think of anything. I apologized and said I’d be right back. I bolted to the locker room and checked the damage.

I was covered in blood. My thighs were a crime scene. I was literally red handed from my last ditch attempt to catch the drips. I went through a dozen baby wipes cleaning myself enough to return to Caesar, who was alarmed at this point. I’d literally run away, and he was afraid he was about to be #MeToo’d.

Him: Is everything okay?

Me: Yeah totally. It’s nothing.

Him: Are you sure?

Me: Yeah…

Him: Really. What’s going on?

Me: Oh it’s nothing.

Him: It’s not nothing.

Me: It’s—

I considered telling him about the blood eruption but I didn’t want him to find an excuse to avoid paying for our dance.

Him: You just ran out. Please tell me. I hope I didn’t do anything. If I did, I’m so sorry.

Me: It’s not you at all!

Him: Then what is it?

Me: It’s uh— my sister is in New York and she got lost taking the subway. There were two stops with the same name and she got off at the wrong one, and she was scared so she called me. I was supposed to check in on her, I just remembered during our dance.

It was such a bad lie, but I had more important things to think about, like how I could sneak off again to fully address the leak and finish the dance without my manager giving me shit about it.

Him: Do you need more time? Because we don’t have to do this now.

Me: Actually, that would be dope. Give me like five minutes and we can finish our dance.

Him: I’m gonna go check on my friends.

Me: Perfect.

I went to my manager to explain the situation.

Me: I had a menstruation emergency so I told him we could redo our dance.

Manager: How many songs did you do?

Me: Two so far.

Manager: Okay girlie. Thanks for telling me. Finish that dance up once you’re done.

I ran to the bathroom where Mama, our house mom, was sitting with her array of stripper necessities. I put in a tampon, because I had to. I hate tampons because they always manage to somehow absorb my urine, no matter how high up I stick it in my vagina. Even if I cut the tail. Additionally, I’m one of those unfortunate AFAB’s who have gotten a tampon lost in my pussy. Many years ago, I forgot I had one in, I put a second one in and rolled through the rest of my period without noticing. That fucker stayed inside of me for two of the worst weeks of my life and caused the worst BV. My vulvita smelled like a dying fish and I was miserable until like medical magic, one day the tampon emerged from me riding a wave of Miconazol. I’ve been using menstrual cups every since and loving them. However, at that moment, my cup failed me. I popped the stupid tampon in and wiped the blood away for what felt like twenty minutes.

I returned to Caesar, who was sitting under a disturbingly bright light, back with his buddies. I was horrified to observe a number of blood spots on the crotch of his board shorts. I draped my legs over him to cover the stains.

Him: Are you okay?

Me: 100%.

Him: You sure.

Me: Yeah totally. Sorry, I hope you don’t think I’m super weird.

Him: It was pretty weird. You freaked me out a little.

Great. I’d startled the diver bro. The damage was done. At that point, all I cared about was finishing the damn sale. I coaxed him back to the dance booth, and this time the dance ran smoothly. No more spreading, just regular-degular grinding. Afterwards I took him to the register and he paid. I did not ask for a tip, and you better believe he did not offer one. There was no way this man wouldn’t realize I’d bled on him. But what did it matter? I’d made enough for my tip out, and that was all I cared about. The bleedout was the last straw that night. It was my signal I needed to go home and watch a documentary while vaping marijuana, which is exactly what I did.