Selena the Sadist

I saw a large bellied white man in a Hawaiian shirt with wavy gray blonde hair and a bristly unkempt beard staring at me while he bit his lip. He walked over to me and leaned in to speak. He smelled like he’d been hotboxing cigarettes in his car all day, it was difficult to keep myself from grimacing in response.

Him: You are absolutely adorable.

Me: Thank you. Are you an Aussie?

Him: Actually, it’s funny you would say that. I was born in Sydney, but grew up in East London.

Me: Lucky guess.

Him: You’ll be here all night?

Me: Yep.

Him: I’m gonna go smoke a cig, but when I get back, can we do a dance or something?

Me: Yeah of course. I’ll be right here.

I hoped desperately he wasn’t a twofer guy purely because of the number of wipes and perfume I would need to remove his scent from my body. He returned shortly, chipper and slightly more pungent. He gathered me into a close embrace.

Him: How do we do this?

Me: Do you want a single or a set?

Him: Which is what?

He looked quite puzzled, a fact that was likely exacerbated by his inebriation.

Him: Can we sit and share a drink first?

I acquiesced, and sat upon his knee while he ordered a bottle of root beer and offered me half.

Him: You can have the bottle, and whatever you don’t finish, I’ll have.

I filled a cup for him and accepted the drink. Warm nostalgia poured over me, and I felt more at ease.

Me: So... What do you do?

Him: I’m an art dealer. I used to work in London, then New York, but I was always visiting California. Finally, I moved out here. Plus the market is better.

Me: There’s a lot of money out here.

Him: That and there’s much more space. Like, people can buy their own house and fill it with art, versus a flat, where there’s only so much space.

Me: That makes sense.

Strippers are always doing mental math when a potential client tells us their occupation. He looked shlubby, but maybe it was actually a curated normcore surf shlub. I reasoned that if he’s dealing art in three of the largest English speaking cities in the world, he probably has the bank to afford my time and baby wipes. He snuggled up against my arm, clearly enamored.

Me: So let me tell you the prices and you can make a decision.

We settled on the VIP set to start. I led him over to the booth. I sat in his lap and began.

Him: Can I unbutton my shirt?

At that point, I was past my initial repulsion and had grown accustomed to his scent.

Me: Sure.

He unbuttoned his Hawaiian shirt to reveal a very hairy potbelly. It was firm, the kind of belly that takes years of hard drinking and poor dietary choices to form, but I liked it. Potbellies are interesting. He wanted to stroke my face lovingly, but I dodged like a prize fighter. He was not about to ruin my makeup in addition to my signature scent cocktail. I placed one hand on his chest to steady myself, but as soon as I placed it there, he did the one thing I love most. He started guiding my hand upwards and pressed it into his neck. Like a gift from heaven, he offered me his neck to choke him. There is nothing more satisfying than getting to choke or otherwise hurt clients during a session. What can I say? There’s a little sadist in me. I wonder what in the current cultural zeitgeist has led to so many people wanting to be choked during sex. Clients constantly try to wrap their hands around my neck, as if it’s a mutually erotic experience, and I have to slap them away. It’s either choking or anal play. Straight men want to anally penetrate women, but are terrified when I suggest the reverse. Another favorite club activity of mine lately is to convince men to consider anal stimulation. I was dancing with an older black man who was badgering me endlessly about anal, trying to snake his hands around to my asshole. I decided it was a teachable moment.

Me: I don’t like anal.

Him: Have you tried it?

Me: Of course, many times. Have you?

Him: Have I? Of course not! It’s not the same for me. I’m a man. It’s different for men.

Me: You’re right. It’s much more pleasurable for men, because of the prostate.

Him: What?

Me: Internal anal stimulation is much more enjoyable for men because it massages the prostate. Men can have much deeper, more satisfying orgasms with the proper anal penetration.

Him: I’m too old school for that.

Me: Well, you’re missing out. Have you been rimmed at least?

Him: What’s that?

Me: It’s when you orally stimulate someone’s anal opening.

Him: Oh. No, I haven’t tried that. Do you like it?

Me: It’s a lot of fun. My boyfriend loves it when I rim him. You should try it.

Him: You’re from a different generation than me. For folks my age, it would be hard to find a woman who would do something like that.

Me: What a pity.

Him: Maybe you could show me?

Of course they always try to turn it around to fit their fantasy of whatever they wish might happen between us, but the seed was planted.

Cut back to choking the white man. He was gurgling, but obviously loving it. I relished the moment. Choking is more about cutting off circulation than airflow, and it’s hard to tell when one has gone too far, so I tend to veer on the safe side and choke in shorter bursts. I knew he wanted me to go too far, but that’s a liability. After the set he went out for another cigarette and bought another with me.

It’s funny how boring dances are. Sometimes I’m amazed we can sell them. Let me take you to a private room and grind on your lap for a set amount of time. It feels like the kind of unrefined horny activity I would do as a teen, before I was ready to have sex. Often, I’m a million miles away, trying to remember errands for the next day or thinking about a conversation I’d had with a friend in the locker room. Suddenly I have to snap out of it and make eye contact to convince my client that I’m here and this is erotic for the both of us.

I was dancing with a man on the spectrum who asked me point blank if dancing turned me on, in a genuine way, not like some men do, as if it’s a rhetorical question or another strain of dirty talk. I paused to think. If he wasn’t on the spectrum, he would have taken the gesture as a sign I wasn’t turned on, but of course, that’s not what I said.

Me: Sometimes. It depends on the person.

Which is somewhat true. Usually I’m not aroused performing sex work. It is performed sensuality. Every piece of it is considered and curated. When I look at myself after I’ve put on my face and hair for work, I don’t recognize the me in it. She looks beautiful, and polished. Me? I’m just anybody and nobody.

Normcore Aussie wanted one last set. For the finale, he purchased a Skybox. I was surprised. After the second set, I’d sat with him and shared another half root beer, mostly because the club was empty and I was cold. Sitting on him kept me warm, and we got along, talking about art world things. He wanted to see my portfolio. He was hoping I was a painter, but I’m not a painter, because I’m too snooty. In college I began to think of painting as so passé. What more could one do with a canvas? I was tired of all the paintings made to look like a lumpy Lisa Frank or something flat as if drawn in photoshop. I’d seen the frame removed, the canvas elongated and bifurcated. I’d seen action paintings extend from floor to ceiling, from inside to outside. It wasn’t for me, so I made the clever choice to make unsellable art— ephemeral performance and unfriendly garments. But anyway. He wanted to show me his work, but I wasn’t interested. We exchanged numbers. He had only a flip phone. I asked if he was selling drugs with a phone like that.

We went for the last set and I drove my nails into his neck. I’m waiting for the day I find a client who wants me to actually harm them. Maybe there’s a dom in me trying to get out. Maybe that’s why I receive messages from people who want to be my slaves. He tipped me well for everything. I went to the back and wiped him away.