Part 2: An Inch Too Far

I saw London Aussie, whose name I learned from Candice was Marcel, sitting near the stage slumped into a rolling armchair with his chin in his hand. I took my place on his lap and thanked him for his patience. This time I ordered my own root beer, primarily because I’d hoped he would generously tip Candice, however he only tipped $2. Marcel was wearing the same leather jacket as last time but this time with a white embroidered paisley shirt. It looked freshly pressed, as if he’d put in some effort.

Me: Hey, how was your day?

Him: It was good, busy. Had some training to do at the rehab center I work at. I’m a drug counselor.

Me: That’s cool. I thought you worked as an art seller?

Him: I do, but I also work at a rehab center.

Me: I get it. I do a lot of things too.

Him: Selling art is bigger money, but more sporadic. I do drug counseling because I love it. It makes me happy. Selling art makes me happy too, but in a different way. I like helping people.

Me: I do too.

We sipped soda for a few more songs, chatting about this and that. He wanted me to sit facing him so he could admire me. He gazed upon me lovingly, with a startling intensity. I tried to hold eye contact, but I found myself growing bashful. I wanted to take him for the dance before I dedicated my whole night to him out of some strange sense of obligation. I wanted to keep him happy, and I knew that all he wanted was my time, and that was the thing I had the least of. I took him up for a Skybox set. I tried to diligently repeat all the high points of our last encounter. I unbuttoned his shirt and placed a hand on his stomach; maintained eye contact nearly the whole time; I kept my mouth slightly ajar; and occasionally choked him for a few seconds at a time.

Him: You remembered. You must have a very good memory.

Me: I do.

We descend the staircase together, arm in arm, and go over to a chair to share a drink. Meanwhile, I notice one of my papi regulars has finally arrived. I appreciated that he had come, but the timing could not have been worse. I explained the predicament to Marcel, who handled it graciously. He went off to smoke another cigarette while I rushed my papi off to his VIP set. The club is full of rich looking middle aged white men who I know will definitely spend a lot of money on me if I could only make it onto the right lap. I know I’m not wasting my time dancing with regulars since I’m definitely making money, but I have this money fomo as I watch other girls get whisked away for half-hours and Heaven Boxes while I’m collecting mid-range dances. I have no chill when I’m hustling, my eyes are on everything.

After my dance with papi, I returned to look for Marcel. He was politely talking with a girl on his lap until I maked eye contact with him, at which point he indicated in my direction, and the other girl politely dismounted. I gestured for him to come over to the small stage with me, where I sprawled out and allowed him to lean against my breast. I stroked his head like a little boy who needed comforting. I think most of people simply want gentle touch. We ordered another root beer and this time split it. I had him nestled closely so that I could surveil the club without him noticing, except that what he wanted more than to cuddle was to look at me. I told him I would have to go make my rounds unless we got a dance together. He took me for one last VIP set. We settled into the booth, and I tried to make this dance slightly different than the last, but there’s only so much one can do in a lap dance. I put my hands around his neck for what felt like only a few seconds, but suddenly his eyes fluttered shut. I was convinced it was some sick joke fucking with me, but after a few second, I realized he was genuinely out. It was one of my worst nightmares come true. One second I’m having a great time getting to lite strangle a client, and the next he’s out and I’m caught on camera.

Me: Hey! Are you fucking with me?

I gently patted his face until he awoke confused. For a second I could see that he didn’t know where he was. I hugged him tightly, an apology for breath play gone to far. Never fucking again.

Me: Are you okay?

Him: I think so.

Me: I thought you were faking it.

Him: No, I was gone for a second there. It wasn’t so bad. It was like a drug nap.

Me: Like how you don’t feel rested when you pass out after a night of taking hard drugs?

Him: Not exactly. More like when you pass out after smoking a lot of weed. Do you smoke weed?

Me: Yeah. Do you?

Him: I do.

Me: Have you done many drugs?

Him: I’ve done them all except for PCP.

Me: Even heroin?

Him: Yeah. I used to be a social shooter

Me: A social shooter?

Him: I never much liked it myself, but back when I was partying all the time, my friends would get all weird if they were shooting up and you were just smoking weed, like you’re acting like a cop.

Me: I hadn’t ever considered that, but it makes sense.

Him: That’s how I got into drug counseling. I know I can’t apologize to everyone for who I was then, but I know I can help other people now through a difficult time.

Me: Are you okay?

Him: Yeah. I’m fine. A little fuzzy, but not bad. I’ll be good in a bit.

Me: I have to go. I’m sorry.

Him: It’s fine. I understand.

I hugged him again, glad he that was alive and that I wasn’t in deep trouble.