The King and Bobby

I was telling one of my favorite sporadic regulars, Bobby, about my writing and when I told him I hadn’t written about him, he was disappointed.

Him: Why not me?

Me: Because I’m protective of you.

Him: Are the stories mean?

Me: No… I just wasn’t sure how to write about you. To create a story, there has to be some sort of tension. There has to be conflict, but with us, I don’t know.

I had to think about it. The problem was I liked Bobby, in a real, genuine way. There are a few regulars who I like, and with whom I’ve become so close that I’m afraid I’d paint them unfairly, or worse, as boring. I can’t help myself. I’m not cold, or detached, as much as it would benefit me to harden up a bit. I worry when my regulars spend a lot on me, especially if I know they aren’t making baller money. Some dancers are world class hustlers with incredible business acumen and can hard sell the most reluctant client the most expensive dance in the club and then extract a tip equal to the value of said dance. I watched one dancer hustle a tip from my client for the both of us totalling $800 on a dance worth $700. She plastered a smile on her face and demanded a $300 tip for each of us initially, then seeing that she experienced no friction securing that tip, the upped it to $400 each. I wanted to apologize to my client for asking for so much, for claiming what was well deserved. I was amazed, grateful, impressed, embarrassed, battling my own inner turmoil over my own difficulties being assertive, and trying to coax myself to follow her lead in the future. Afterwards she apologized to me, for possibly stepping on my toes to make the sale, but I was grateful.

Me: I appreciate it. I wouldn’t have been able to ask for it like you did. You’re amazing.

Her: You gotta be assertive, girl! They have it, so we gotta take it.

She was right, in many respects, and I now knew from first hand experience that it worked. But I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a white privilege moment? She’s a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, decent-looking skinny white woman-- the most prized class of woman in the world. She’s got the pale skin so many ballads have been written about for hundreds of years. Still, I couldn’t dismiss it.

But I’m not always in hustle mode, especially with clients I care for. I know Bobby is loaded. He’s a cute Korean American guy with dimples who always wears expensive skate brands because he runs accounting for one of the larger online skatewear shops. Bobby was also once a professionally sponsored skater, making those skate bro videos shot from a handycam, with blooper reels full of painful wipeouts and pizza runs after successful stunts. The fourteen-year-old girl in me is still totally wet for sk8rs, especially the ones that quit skating and picked lucrative adult careers afterwards. Another fun fact about Bobby is he was once a competitive gymnast. He showed me a photo of him planking on the rings, and since I’m a strong girl, of course I’m a sucker for other strong people. I’ve never had to pretend with Bobby, because I have a “lite crush” on him. A “lite crush” is a useful tool in the club, as long as you’re able to compartmentalize it.

Bobby only comes in when he’s with his coworkers after they’ve closed a big deal. His boss however, Reginald, is a fixture at the club, in good times and bad. He acts like a man starving in a desert, who suddenly has stumbled upon a decadent feast. He doesn’t know where to begin and seems to dart from one end of the club to the other, taken by the sight of almost any and every woman. Reginald is king of the crew, as his name might suggest. He knows all the managers, the owners, the guards who sell him blow, and the bathroom attendants who sell him viagra for his limp coke dick. When Bobby is around, he frets constantly over Reginald. “Where did he go?” “Has he been drinking?” Reginald has an addictive personality, and when they’re together Bobby becomes his unofficial guardian. I fret over Bobby, because he’s mine and I know he’ll treat me well monetarily the more I fret over him. Reginald only looks at me when Bobby is around. He sees that I’m a thing Bobby has that he can’t, like the tyrant he is, even if he is a generous tyrant.

One night, they all came together and I’d spent the whole evening dancing with Bobby. We were taking a break and I was called to dance on stage. Reginald decided to come by to watch me. He tipped $20, then $20 more. I kept my distance because there is a weird taboo about dancing with two friends, especially when feelings are involved, and I know Bobby has feelings for me. Reginald tipped me $20 more. I went up to him and danced, thanking him. He leaned close and spoke to me in a whisper.

Him: Come dance with me.

Me: I can’t. I’m with Bobby.

Him: Just do it. He won’t care.

Me: I can’t do that to him.

Him: Here, I’ll ask him. I’m sure he’ll say, “yes.”

Bobby would give Reginald anything because he loves Reginald like a brother. He would sacrifice, life and limb, even me, a girl he really likes. He would hurt himself for Reginald, but Reginald is too narcissistic to understand this. I watched Reginald go over to poor Bobby who stood to talk to his friend. I saw Bobby nod with half-hearted smile on his face. Reginald came back to me.

Him: He said it was alright. Let’s do an hour?

Me: I can’t. I’m Bobby’s.

He tipped me another $40.

Him: You sure? I’ll treat you well.

Me: I’m sure.

Him: You’re a good girl, you know that? Bobby is lucky to have you.

I returned to Bobby, sitting slumped in his seat scrolling through his phone.

Bobby: You two going for a dance?

Reginald: She rejected me. She’s all yours. You know, you’re lucky, Bobby. She’s probably the prettiest in the club-- no scratch that, she is the prettiest.

It was all a show. I’m only prettiest to Reginald when I’m unavailable, and at that moment I was absolutely gorgeous. Bobby was surprised but reserved. He’d expected me to leave him, but I’d stayed and chosen him. It was like that famous Grey’s Anatomy scene where Meredith demands, “Pick me. Choose me. Want me!” things that Bobby could never say because he knows none of this is real, even when it is real. I’m some dancer at a club and he’s a man paying me for my time. It’s heartbreaking for me, because I want to love everyone, but I’m at work and he deserves real love. Still, Bobby is grateful. He buys an hour with me, the hour Reginald wanted but could not get. He tips me the rest of the money in his wallet. Sometimes money is love, when it’s the only kind of love you can give. I accept it, the money, the love, the goodbye at the end. It’s all real, even when it isn’t.