Five Questions I Ask Before I Make My Sale

It’s getting increasingly difficult to write stories because I’m at this point where all men I interact with at work are utterly indistinguishable. John, Mark, Tom, Rick, Mike, Chris, Joe, Marcus, Thomas, Richard, Michael, Christopher! Why is there so little inspiration in naming men? It’s a lot for a young heaux to keep track of, and I’ll admit: I have been cutting corners. I mastered doing my hair and makeup like a baddie in part to compensate for how little I pay attention to customers lately.

Last week, I was sitting with a man, and went through my Five Questions I Ask Before I Make My Sale:

How are you?

Can I sit on you?

What’s your name?

Where are you from?

What do you do (for work)?

Which he answered enthusiastically, and the moment afterwards I could recall nothing of what he had told me. I asked for his name again, forgetting that I had just asked. I asked like it was a completely new question and this man responded politely with his name— even tipped me $20 just to start, and bought a Skybox with me. This man, whose name I blatantly fucked off blew over $250 on me! Even I don’t understand it sometimes.

To backtrack, those five questions are all I ask people nowadays. I genuinely listen when they tell me how they are, even if they say “I’m okay,” I go in with a, “Just okay? Why not excellent?” I make sure they consent to having me sit on them, because I’d rather not waste my time and I’d like to avoid physical contact with some asshole who doesn’t want to pay me for my time. I sprint through exchanging names and often pay zero attention because 95% of the time the name is Chris. I ask where they’re from and if they aren’t from Los Angeles, I try my darndest to have some kind of opinion about wherever the fuck they are from, and then I throw down some folksy Oklahoma charm to show that “I’m just a widdle country girl in the big city,” which 95% of the time works because people idealize country values. Finally, I ask what they do, because I am not wasting my time on Über drivers and college students. Of course, there are always outliers, people who are super generous supermarket employees for example— and I ask everyone for a dance, even if I assume they’ll turn me down or only buy a twofer. But anyway, I am working purely for the money, and sometimes I can finesse these men without asking any of these questions.

Nowadays, I have a lot of interactions that consist of me making eye contact and smiling or giggling while some man profusely compliments me and makes assumptions about what kind of person I am while I say literally nothing. You would be surprised by how frequent an occurrence this is. That “conversation” usually goes like:

Man: You’re just gorgeous. You know that right? And it’s not just how you look, even though you are beautiful, it’s what’s in here.

He either gestures to my heart or to my eyes. Let’s say eyes this time.

Man: I can see it. You’ve got such a warm, genuine smile. And those eyes! I feel, like, connected. I can tell you really like me. This is real. Don’t you feel it? It’s real, or you’re a really good actor, but I think it’s real.

At this point, I nod because nodding confirms neither hypothesis, I’m just nodding my head, which the man often takes as a “yes” to the answer he wants.

Man: I just want to take you with me. I just wanna go somewhere and be with you. I feel like I’ve known you before, but I know that can’t be. Anyway, you’re probably thinking, “what is this crazy man doing, talking to me like this when I’m just trying to work?” Let’s go get some dances.

Sometimes it’s really that simple. Maybe I add in a few encouraging phrases like, “you’re not crazy,” or “it’s real,” or the tried and true, “thank you.” Nothing too substantial, because the man is in the midst of writing his own fantasy starring me, and there’s nothing like a woman voicing her well-considered opinion to put out that fire.

Now, #notallmen are like this. I entertain a wide variety of people, some whom I care about and others who are just passing through. I have some regulars who try to extract every detail of my life because they care and want to know me, but the rest merge with the majority of unremarkable men who I couldn’t compose a story about, even if my life depended upon it.