Papi Mami Mommy Daddy

Calling someone “papi” doesn’t have the same tinge of incest-play that “daddy” does for me, so I use it frequently with my Latino clients. I recently happened upon a new papi. Initially, I hadn’t paid much attention to him. I vaguely remembered being warned about him and his friend by another dancer, something about how they always come to watch but never buy anything or tip. Maybe I confused him with someone else, because to my great surprise he came up to me.

Him: When you have time, come see me. I wanna buy a dance with you.

I promised I would be back. I hadn’t made him a priority because he seemed like the kind of guy who only wants a twofer. I was mistaken. He’s Mexican, in his fifties with tan leather skin, and silver lined teeth. He wears a Home Depot baseball cap a windbreaker and khakis the color of the desert. He immigrated when he was in his twenties and began working a variety of odd jobs, mostly in construction. He learned gardening, drywalling, piping and plumbing among a host of other skills. He tells me he learned everything he could so that he always had the skills to stay employed.

Him: I work very hard to have what I have. I been poor. I say to myself I would never be poor again.

His hands are rough. I hug him and expect to smell sweat, but he smells of fresh laundry and light cologne. He had gotten ready before coming to the club, instead of leaving straight from work with the stale air of labor seeped into his clothes. I appreciate the care, because most men do not put in any care.

Me: You smell nice.

Him: I did it for you, mami.

Me: You’re too sweet, papi.

Him: Nothing is too sweet for you mamita.

I think about couples calling each other “mami” and “papi,” without thinking about children. Is it light role play for what a relationship supposedly should lead to? “Daddy” on the other hand pairs with “baby,” which is a decidedly different situation, with a definitive underlying power dynamic. Daddy teaches, cares for, and punishes baby. Daddy also fucks baby? The linguist in me dies of confusion.

Papi buys a single with me, just to “test our chemistry.” He wants to know that I’m not too much of a prude. He also wants to know that I won’t try to cut his dance short and demand a tip the price of the dance. It’s funny how we’re savvy from being burned on both sides. I reluctantly give him the single because at least I didn’t have to sell it, but guard my meager extras. No popping my nipple into his gaping mouth. The nipple pop costs at least a VIP set and a tip, I declare. The single whets his appetite, so he agrees and buys the set. As I walk him to the dance booth, papi tells me he gets jealous when he sees me go off with other men.

Him: Don’t you get jealous sometimes?

I lie.

Me: I don’t. I’m not a jealous person.

Of course everyone has some jealousy, here and there. I’m not jealous with my partner’s body, but I am jealous with their time and attention. Jealousy is a gift he wishes me to give him, but which I deny.

After the dance, I tell him to tip me $60 for the extras rendered, but he only has a hundred dollar bill. He reluctantly hands me the hundred. I ask if he needs help getting change. He shrugs and tells me I can keep it, but I look at him and know I don’t want it— not from him anyway. I know what it is to be poor, the kind of poor that burned into me a starvation mindset that I can’t imagine I’ll forget. He’s a man like many men I’ve known with hard hands and leather skin who earn in cash and save in cash. My time is incredibly valuable, but that said, I don’t mind giving some people a discount. I get the hundred broken into twenties and hand him back $40.

Me: I want you to come back, not go broke.

Him: I like you, because you not greedy like some girls. Some girls here treat me like I’m nothing. My friend got a dance with one girl and afterwards she demanded a huge tip. It was all the money he had, but he paid her. You, you not like that. That’s why I like you.

I believe she demanded what she deserved. I believe his friend could not afford what she deserved. There’s nothing wrong with greed in this industry, in fact it’s advantageous. But I’m soft like warm cake.

Taking money from rich men is one thing, but taking money from a man whose hard labor I can see is another. Maybe he’s living comfortably now. He has what he needs, owns a home, I don’t know his life. I just knew I couldn’t take it. My sense of money may have changed, but I still know what it’s like to work hard and hardly get paid for it. I know what money means.

He smiles warmly at me and I hug him as an answer because I won’t partake in the kind of conversation where I must tear someone down to build myself up. I notice his teeth look like they have silver open face fronts.

Me: I like your teeth.

He blushes and covers them with one hand.

Him: I couldn’t afford the white. You know, they give you silver if you can’t afford. I couldn’t when I got them. Now I wish I had the better.

Me: They’re cool. They’re fashionable now.

Him: I’m sorry. My teeth are not good.

He was apologizing in response to my silly compliment. What had been necessary dental work, I mischaracterized as trend. Now he was embarrassed, and it was my fault. I felt his shame as I had felt my own.

Me: I think you look nice, papi.

Him: I guess at least I’m not like the kids with all silver teeth. I think that would be worse.

Me: I’m gonna go make my rounds.

Him: Don’t forget about me.

Me: I won’t.

I embraced him with a peck on the cheek and marched on.