Good Good Not Bad

I’m sitting, surveying the club. It’s a ghost town, maybe twenty girls to eight men— five of them regulars who only buy twofers. There’s an older white man in aviators with a broomstick mustache and plaid flannel shirt; a large bellied old white guy with a long beard who appears to have descended from the mountains of Appalachia; and an “I’m good, maybe later” Asian man in a blue button down. Usually I’m pretty good at surveying a room and knowing who to talk to, but I felt like none of them were good candidates for my hustle. I decide to go for Mr. Aviators, even though he looks like the kind of guy who doesn’t like black girls. I walk over to him and squat at his knee.

Him: Wow! You sure are something to behold!

Me: Thank you.

Him: What’s your name?

Me: Selena. And you?

Him: I’m Bruce!

Me: May I sit on you, Bruce?

Him: Of course you can!

He scoots his chair out to give me space. I sit on his lap, and he embraces me in a warm bear hug. This is unexpected. He looks too straight laced to be a hugger, but here I am, almost smothered by enthusiastic affection.

Him: You are—

He pauses and puckeres his lips under his ample mustache to think.

Him: Absolutely. Stunning!

He took his time producing each word, as if it were a presidential speech and the weight of the free world hung upon ever syllable.

Me: Thank you.

Him: All of you are! This place—

He extends his arms out and gestures widely.

Him: This is art! All of you are naked and all of you are beautiful!

Me: You’re right. This club is full of gorgeous women.

Him: How long have you been working here?

Me: Several months now.

A lie. It’s been over a year at this location, but there’s nothing men find more unattractive than a veteran stripper admitting she has developed a strategy after months or years of practice and refining, to scam every bill from your wallet, and then some.

Him: What do you want to do when you grow up?

I made a face. When will I be considered an adult, if it isn’t now at twenty-six?

Him: I’m sorry. You are an adult of course. I mean, if you could do anything in the world, what would you do?

Me: I’d have my own TV show where I control everything. I’d write it, direct, produce, and probably act in it if I’m totally honest.

Him: Good for you!

Me: What did you want to be?

He has a few age spots on his forehead and a slightly swollen nose with visible pores like that of a man who has never said no to a drink. He looks to be between sixty and seventy years old. He smiles broadly at the question, as if he were waiting this whole time for someone, anyone to ask.

Him: I did it!

He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out what looks to be a wallet, but it’s actually a police badge.

Him: Read the top!

It’s difficult to see in the dim red club light. I squint, and can vaguely make out the letters “LAPD” but that’s all.

Him: I was a police commander!

Me: Oh.

He can see I’m not as enthused as he had hoped.

Him: I know, some people might judge what I do, but—

He looks at me pointedly.

Him: I know people might also judge what you do. That doesn’t mean either of us are bad people. Right?

Me: Sure.

Him: Nowadays people don’t like the police, but when I joined years ago, we considered ourselves peace officers! That’s what the police were created to be! Officers of peace!

I was already too deep in on a night with not enough marks to play. I wasn’t about to get into a debate with this old cop. I was not about to school him on how the police force was instituted to capture runaway slaves and prevent organized labor. I wasn’t about to bring up all the cases against the LAPD for officers’ use of excessive force. I wasn’t about to talk about Rodney King; murders of members of the Nation of Islam; or any of the other numerous instances of police brutality.

Me: I didn’t know that.

Him: Enough about me! Tell me about yourself!

Me: What do you want to know?

Him: Actually, I don’t want to turn this into the Inquisitions. I’ve had a few drinks so I’m talking too much.

Me: That’s understandable. Are you a good drinker, or a lightweight like me?

Him: Unfortunately, due to my occupation, I am pretty good at drinking.

Me: Drinking is fine. Anyway, can I take you for a dance?

He pulled me tight again and kissed my cheek. The man obviously doesn’t understand consent.

Him: You don’t have to dance for me! Here.

He reached into his pocket and handed me a $20.

Me: Thanks. But are you sure you don’t want a dance?

Him: I would love a dance, but I don’t think I have enough for one right now. Let me check my wallet.

He opens his wallet and gingerly produces all the bills in his wallet. He hands me $40.

Him: Hold this. I think there’s more somewhere.

Me: Okay.

I hold it out for him, hoping he might forget I have it in my hand.

Him: I’m gonna go to the ATM and get some more. Don’t you move!

If I’ve learned one thing in life, it’s not to move when a cop tells you to stay out. I sat in his chair and waited for him. I had the $40 in my hand. I wasn’t sure if he was making a run for it, as so many other men have when they’ve promised to return after an ATM trip, but sure enough he pops back in and looks around blindly, perhaps trying to find me, perhaps trying to get his bearings more broadly. I flag him down.

Him: I was looking for my drink, but I think it has been taken.

Me: Candice took it when you were gone. I thought you were finished?

Him: It’s okay. I’ll get another. Sit down with me again.

I sat on him again as he produced the money he had just withdrawn for our dance.

Him: You still have that $40 right?

Me: Right here.

I fanned the two bills out for him, and he showed me the $20’s in his hand.

Him: If I give you this $20, can you give me $10 back?

Me: I mean—

Him: Actually, here just take it. And here’s another $20! Keep it all. Is that good?

Me: Yeah. Thank you.

Him: And you don’t even have to dance for me! I’m just here, enjoying you and your perfect body. May I see you?

I stood and did a little twirl like a pageant girl.

Him: You are— So! Perfect! This is like going to a gallery. I go to a gallery and look at incredible art and think, “Wow!” And I come here and see such beauty and I think, “Wow!” Anyway, I’m talking too much again.

Me: You’re fine.

Him: Ask me anything! Ask me about life, purpose, love, marriage, anything!

Me: You’re married?

He wore a wedding band that seemed a bit too small for his wide finger.

Him: For thirty years! Thirty years and I’ve never cheated, not once!

Me: Really? Not one affair?

Him: Not once! And I’ve never considered it. You know, 50% maybe 60% of people have never had an affair.

Me: But that means 50% did.

Him: Well, I didn’t and my wife knows I would never. Ask me if she knows I’m here.

Me: Does she?

Him: She knows I come to these places from time to time.

Me: How does she feel about it?

Him: She isn’t excited about it, but she knows. She also knows I’m fiercely loyal.

Me: Well good for you. I’m glad you’re a good husband.

I got called to the back for the showcase, our little runway show where all the dancers are paraded across the stage and then compelled to ask at least three customers if they’re interested in a twofer. Bruce gave me a “come hither” finger, and I obliged because there was hardly anyone else to talk to.

Him: I want you to give me that dance.

Me: I’d love to. Would you like just a single or a set?

Him: A single. Where do we go?

I led him to the singles zone, which was empty in spite of the twofer special announcement. I sat across him and he jujitsu triangled my leg so that I was clamped to him, and he gave me another tight hug. It wasn’t altogether unpleasant, just peculiar. I hate the pigs, but here I was, hugging some old man who likely was complicit in numerous instances of racial profiling and brutality. I look at him, because I couldn’t exactly move a lot. His eyes sparkled as he looked at me, as if I were the love of his life.

Him: I may be a cop, and a conservative, but I could be a nudist. If I was allowed to, I would be naked here with you.

Me: They don’t allow that.

Him: I know! But I’ve always loved being naked. I once went to a nudist colony, but it sucked. It was too hot and sunny to just be naked. I had to wear a towel outside to prevent myself from burning. Maybe it would have been better under different circumstances.

Me: I hadn’t considered the sunburn part. Are you sure you don’t want me to actually dance for you?

Him: I’m enjoying this plenty! I’m sure I would enjoy you dancing, but this is enough for me. Are you having fun?

Am I having fun, being held in this weirdly restrictive cop embrace?

Me: Yeah.

Him: I love this! I love you! What we’re doing here, is good. It’s human! Humanity is this. Sharing touch. Don’t you think?

Me: I think so.

Him: There is nothing wrong with what we are doing! It’s natural and we as humans need this kind of thing. I, in all my masculine, manliness, need this! You are incredible.

Me: Can I adjust a bit?

Him: Sure, of course!

He loosened his leg so I could slide up a bit and along the way he popped one of my nipples into his mouth. I squinted at him. I have a no nipple sucking policy in the singles room because I prefer to have some privacy with whatever “extras” I provide.

Me: Would your wife be okay with that?

Him: I don’t see anything wrong with it.

Me: But would she be comfortable with you sucking on another woman’s nipples.

Him: Well, we aren’t having sex or anything!

Me: No, we aren’t. But is sex the only thing she considers cheating?

Him: What do you mean?

Me: What about emotional affairs? What about intent?

Him: Intent? Wait, you have to explain this to me.

The second song ends. I lead him out of the dance booth to pay. I can tell he’s confused, mulling over my questions.

Him: Don’t leave me yet. I want to understand what you said.

I follow him back to his table because I know he has at least $60 more dollars for me to take. I sit in his lap with my back to him so I can look out while we talk. He pulls me in again for another hug as he cups my breast while simultaneously asking.

Him: May I?

I nod, but brush his hand away after a second because he isn’t actively handing me money.

Him: You know... If I am being... dishonorable to my wife... don’t you think... you are being dishonorable too?

Me: I didn’t agree to your marital contract.

Him: You’re right! I’m sorry, that was wrong of me. I just don’t think that what we are doing here is bad. I think men are more aggressive sexually than women. I’m an aggressively sexual man. But this is all I do, and all I would ever do.

Me: I don’t think it’s bad either. I don’t know what you and your wife agreed upon. I don’t know what you decided is okay in your marriage. I was just asking questions. Don’t worry about it.

He buys another dance with me. This time I’m prepared to be held down. I rest against him and surrender. Afterwards I see one $20 left.

Me: Mind tipping me for this last dance?

Him: I don’t know if I have much of anything left.

He searches every pocket and gives me the final $20. I take it.

Him: You’re a good person. I can tell. Do you know how I know?

Me: How?

Him: Because I’m a good person. Do you think you’re good?

I consider the question. It’s all relative, in a way. Depends on how you rate goodness as opposed to badness. What if I care for my community and defend the poor, but I drive a Hummer and have no problem with littering? What if I rehabilitate animals harmed by oil spills but campaign against unions? What if I’m a cop who believes I’m a peace officer and personally operate under that belief system, but ignore my complicity in the misconduct of the officers around me?

Him: You don’t think you’re good?

Me: I don’t know what I am. I try my best and try to avoid harming others. That’s all I can say.

Him: You are good. Thank you so much for spending time with me. I know I’m old and all, but it means a lot to me.

Me: You’re welcome.