BryCe

I didn’t write this story for some time because the DJ at the club, and the subject of this entry follows me on instagram. For the sake of his privacy, let’s call him BC. BC is a shortish white man with gelled, spiky dark brown hair and a thin chinstrap beard which serves to delineate where his jaw ends and his neck begins. BC is the primary DJ at my club. He works Friday and Saturday nights, which are the most important nights for club revenue. BC is a caricature of smooth, in a way that vacillates between endearing and creepy. Whenever he calls us over to the DJ booth to decide upon what songs we want for our stage set, he squirts a tiny keychain of mouth spray into his mouth so that he’s always ready for us with fresh breath. Which I appreciate. I’ve found too many men are utterly unaware of how their breath smells and somehow manage to breathe in my face.

BC is like your kid brother’s friend who wants to bang. He flirts with all of the dancers on the off chance that we might one day start looking at him as more than the guy who manages to find a completely unrecognizable house version of the song we requested.

St. Patrick’s Day, BC was off and celebrating. I came in to work and found him in the VIP booth by the bar, with a table full of mixers and water bottles of vodka. He was there with a circle of other dancer and “friends of the club” a.k.a. the group of guys from Torrence who come by every weekend to enjoy a free show, and who have never, to my knowledge, purchased a single dance. BC was drunk, wearing his boxy Ray Bans even though the club is dimly lit as a rule. A popped trucker cap made his forehead a six head. He came up to me and gave me a hug.

Him: OoOooo. Look who it is: the sexy Selena. You know what though, you’re not just sexy, you’re beautiful and sophisticated.

Me: Thank you, BC. You having a party?

Him: Yep! It’s my day off, so I went to the bar, had a couple drinks. Then I thought, you know what? I should stop by Bare to hang with all you pretty ladies. I thought to myself, I wish Selena was working tonight. And you know what? My wish came true.

Me: Here I am, your wish come true.

Him: See, I like that. You get what I’m sayin’.

Me: We’re on a level.

Him: I can talk to you in a way I can’t talk to some of the other girls. It must be you—

He looked up as if the word hung above him.

Him: Depth. That’s the word. You’re just so my type.

Me: Thanks?

Him: I don’t know what it is, but I’m just really attracted to mixed black girls. What’s your sign again?

There were three levels to this interaction. To start with, I felt profiled. I’m proud to be black and all, but it’s more complicated when someone who is not black vocalizes that my race is why they’re attracted to me. Additionally, while BC is consistently flirty with everyone, not just me, it still made me feel nervous because I didn’t want his crush to affect my stage time. I’ve crossed DJ’s before and had to essentially bribe them to put me on stage during peak hours. Finally, this was neither the first nor was it the last time we would have this conversation.

Me: I’m a Scorpio.

Him: Oh, that’s right! I remember now, you have all that dark, mysterious, seductive scorpio energy. What time were you born?

Me: I don’t know off the top of my head. I’d have to check my birth certificate.

Him: You should do it, then I could give you a full reading. It’s amazing how much that stuff affects us and we don’t even realize it.

Me: What sign are you?

Him: I’m Pisces.

Me: Oh nice, so duality.

Him: Exactly!

That’s the one thing Pisces love to hear. I know nearly nothing about astrology, but BC is very invested. He has an astral chart map for nearly all the girls in his phone, tracking minute to minute astral fluctuations so he can give us accurate readings.

Him: Do you want something to drink?

He gestured toward the vodka bottles and mixers.

Me: No thanks, I don’t really drink at work.

Him: Oh I forgot. You’re so healthy. I’ve been trying to get healthy too. I’ve been carb loading, trying to lose weight, getting ready for the summer. I’m been eating nothing but pasta lately, all vegetarian and I’ve been feeling a m a z i n g.

Me: Wait, shouldn’t you be cutting out carbs if you want to lose weight?

Him: You would think that, but actually your body needs the carbs in order to make energy for you to lose weight. I tried just eating meat for a while, but I actually gained weight and felt really unhealthy, but then I read that that was actually the wrong way. So now I’m mostly vegetarian and eating lots of good carbs like pasta, rice and bread. I’ve been reading a bunch of diet books lately.

Me: Oh.

I’m no dietician, but hearing BC talk about diet tips made me feel like an expert in comparison.

Me: I’m glad it’s working for you.

Him: Anyway, I won’t hold you up, beautiful. Go make that money. Thanks for coming by.

Me: See ya, BC.

Him: Oh, and I wanna buy a dance with you during the next two-for-one special! Can I do that? Is that okay with you? I’ll treat you well.

Me: You can buy dances?

Him: Yeah! And I would just pay you. I don’t have to pay the club fee, só I could be extra generous with you. Think about it.

Me: Okay, BC.

He flicked his fingers in a little wave goodbye. At the club I’d worked previously, a DJ had gotten reprimanded for purchasing a dance at the club. BC read to me weird, but harmless. Or maybe I was just ignoring my super stripper senses. I figured I could handle him. I wasn’t about to say “no” to money.

Me: Sure.

Him: Yaaaaay! Oh my god, I’m so excited. I’ll be waiting.

The twofer special came up fifteen minutes later. I’d hoped to snag someone for a VIP set at least, but no such luck. I walked over to BC and held out my hand.

Me: Are you ready?

Him: Yes! Could we go to the three-set area for the dance? It’s more private there.

I looked at him sideways. On the one hand, I get wanting more privacy, but on the other it’s just a twofer.

Him: Pleeease?

Me: Fine.

By the VIP set area, Brigitte was standing, chatting with Marcos. She raised her threaded blonde brows in surprise.

Her: Look at you, BC, buying a dance!

He looked a bit bashful.

Him: I know, right?

He picked out the booth furthest from the entrance. He took off his hat and his belt. I have most clients remove their belts because belts are excellent at hurting exposed pussies.

Him: Can I unbutton my pants?

Me: Um.

Him: I just wore the wrong ones. These are so tight.

Me: Ugh, sure, but roll the zipper so it doesn’t cut me.

BC has been at my club for over a decade. I overheard him say this to one of the Russian dancers I see occasionally working day shift. Her features are almost feline, both pointed and puffy from a combination of fillers and plastic surgery. Her hair is a dark matted curtain. It’s hard to imagine being at this club for so many years, but I’m constantly meeting people who have come here for decades. They tell me about renovations and notable movies shot here. One of the owners started off as a patron and worked for years to purchase a share in the business.

Her: Fifteen. I’ve been here fifteen years.

Him: Time just flies, doesn’t it?

Her: Don’t remind me.

He unbuttoned his pants. He was wearing checkered boxers. I started my dance. He immediately began moaning loudly so I switched from dancing on him to dancing in his general vicinity.

Him: You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed of this! You’re so hot. So sexy and seductive.

BC has a profound love of alliteration.

Me: Thanks.

Him: You feel so good. You skin is só soft! What products do you use, or are you just naturally perfect?

Me: I don’t use anything.

I put my boobs in his face to give my own strained expression a rest.

Him: Can I take it out?

I stepped away and crossed my arms. He gestured at his groin, as if I didn’t understand the question.

Me: God no.

Him: Awwww. Please?

Me: No!

Him: Not even if I pay you?

Me: Some things, money can’t buy.

Him: Awwww.

BC hands me $20 for the dance, plus a $10 tip with a heaping side of “generosity.”

Him: Thank you, beautiful. Let’s do it again sometime.

If I was considering the percentage this tip is, of the cost of the dance, I would say this is a reasonable tip, however, we all know twofers are bullshit. It’s the bargain bin, Coors Lite of dances, and yet twofer clients act like they’re bestowing upon us the greatest gift. BC got a $31 discount and then had the audacity to tip me less than $31? Usually customers are tipping in addition to paying $51. I was more wrapped up in the tipping affront than I was to giving a lap dance to creepy old BC. I have a pretty high tolerance for boners, bodies and the weird broadly, but if I’m not getting adequately compensated for it, I’m not gonna celebrate you flying your freak flag.