Michael, Michelangelo Pt. 3: Uniquely Important Men

CW: sexual assault

The following evening, I checked in with my regulars to see who was coming by. One of my favorites was flying in from Idaho and predicted he would stop in at ten or eleven. Michelangelo seemed to be waiting on me to set his arrival time. I texted him as I pulled into the club lot.

Me: You can come by anytime now. I’m here.

Him: I’m not sure if I can make it tonight.

I was disappointed, but not shaken. At least he hadn’t strung me along and kept me working late with some hope he might come in.

8:00

Me: Okay, I understand.

8:20

Him: So what you’re telling me is not only are you beautiful, you’re also an understanding lady?

9:00

Me: I understand that as a customer who just wants to see one girl, the club isn’t always the most inviting spot.

10:45

Him: LOL are you crazy? I will come right now.

It was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, I had two regulars committing to visiting in one night, which would guarantee me at least my minimum quota. On the other hand, because Michelangelo had flip-flopped around his time slot, the two were due to arrive simultaneously, which meant I had to make a choice. Mr. Idaho has been with me for months now and he’s very consistent. He buys a Skybox and told me a hundred for the room and then ones for my stage show totaling between fifty to a hundred dollars. Michelangelo would definitely buy at least one thirty minute room and also tip me at least one hundred, possibly more if I timed it right, but he would require more emotionally, which is not usually how I work on weekends when customers are plentiful. Mr. Idaho arrived first. I spent some time with him and his crew until ten minutes later, Mikey arrived. The DJ called me over to eat my food, and I excused myself.

Michelangelo was standing at the bar with a water bottle of vodka and cup of cran-cocktail talking to one of the waitresses. I gave his forearm a genitalia squeeze as I passed him on the way to my food. I’d ordered grilled chicken and vegetables, and I was famished. He shooed the waitress away and came over to me.

Him: I’m here.

Me: You’re here.

Him: Now correct me if I heard you wrong, but did you say you don’t like working here?

Me: No, I like my job. I said that I can understand not wanting to spend too much time here, as a customer.

Him: Oh, I miss understood.

Me: I wish you had come earlier. One of my regulars is here.

Him: Well, I won’t hold you up then. I was only planning to stay an hour, then leave.

Me: Let me talk to him.

I’ve mentioned this before, but properly working the club requires a kind of performative monogamy. One guy at a time, unless you’re lucky and find a group that wants to share. You usually can’t talk to one guy in a group and then move over to talk to his friend, even if you realized belatedly the friend was the one with the interest in you, and the money to make your night. I’ve tried it numerous times, to hop from one friend to another, but ninety-nine percent of the time I’ve lost before I even ask about a dance. Men want to feel uniquely important, as if you want nothing more than to be with him and only him. That’s why dancers don’t talk about their boyfriends or girlfriends or partners. In the club we’re all single and looking for “the one,” and if you’re there, you’re the one.

The situation made me anxious because I had to balance these two men who are both very emotionally invested in our relationship. I had to communicate to both that the other was “much less important” and that “I would rather spend time with you.” So, that’s what I did. Mr. Idaho gave me his blessing and I returned to Michelangelo, in the same spot at the bar, this time trying to flag the bartender.

Him: I’ve been trying to get her attention for five minutes now! All I want is a f—, a glass of ice. If I were her and someone came up to me, ordered something and tipped me a twenty, I would know who I’m dealing with. I wouldn’t just treat them like anybody. I know you said ole girl is your friend, but—

Me: I’m sorry. Usually she’s on it. Let me get her.

Him: You shouldn’t have to get her. She should be doing her job. This is some bull!

Me: You’re getting all worked up. You need to breathe.

His shoulders nearly reached his ears. I could see him trembling with frustration.

Him: She doesn’t know me, but she’s seen me before. Everyone else knows who I am and is very polite. That one man—

Me: Marcos?

Him: Yes, him. He was there and I didn’t have to say anything. I’m not dressed poorly. Home girl needs to get with it! It makes me so angry!

Me: Michelangelo. I’m here. I’m sorry about the service. Let’s not let it ruin the night. We’re together. You’re so tense.

Him: You can tell?

He softened a bit. I reached to touch his shoulder and he flinched.

Him: I’m sorry.

Me: Don’t be. You’re allowed to flinch.

Him: But I don’t want to.

I started massaging his shoulders. Eventually his breathing slowed and he relaxed. I caught Alexa’s attention and she brought us a glass of ice.

Him: Let’s go for the thirty minute so you can get back to work. I don’t want to take up your time.

Me: Thank you.

We went for the room and I appreciated that he didn’t try to rush contact. He was as nervous as me. Afterwards I walked him back to the bar. It can be jarring to immediately leave someone after spending a half hour together.

Him: Do you think one day you might want me?

Me: I don’t know.

Him: Will you come see me outside of here?

Me: I don’t know.

Him: Why?

Me: I’m afraid that if I went to see you, you would expect sex.

Him: I’m telling you now, I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t do anything unless you wanted me to— unless you opened for me like a budding flower. Otherwise, what’s the point?

Me: Exactly. What’s the point otherwise?

Him: I’m gonna work for you, put in my time until you’re ready for me. And in turn, you’ll have to work for me too, because I’m a prize too. You know what I mean, Ma?

I nodded because I didn’t have anything to say.

Him: Earlier with homegirl, you saw me immediately. I didn’t have to say anything and you already knew how I felt. I want that, Ma.

His eyes shone brightly for a moment as he looked down.

Him: So much has happened in my life. I was molested by my uncle when I was four. I didn’t realize it until years later. I told my mom and she didn’t know what to say to me. What is there to say? Now sometimes I fantasize about a dick in my mouth. And I’m not even gay. Nothing wrong with being gay or anything, I’m just not gay. All because my uncle took advantage of me as a child.

Tears rolled down his cheeks. I grabbed a napkin and folded it into a stiff triangle and dabbed his eyes. He kept his arms at his side, at that moment he was a trembling little boy. I hugged him, and ran my fingers over his bald scalp. I thought of my mother and the devastation she had endured from a similar breech of trust. I wanted to care for him, but I couldn’t in that moment. I wanted to cry with him, but I couldn’t not stay and cry. Mr. Idaho was waiting for me, and I’d promised to return in forty-five minutes. I kissed his eyes.

Him: You give such good loves, Ma.

Me: I have to go.

Him: Will I see you again?

Me: You have my number.

I walked off and continued my night.