I Forgot Your Name Sorry

I truly don’t remember people sometimes. White men all look the same after a while. I bumped into a guy who looked familiar, but I couldn’t tell if it was actual familiarity or if he just had the look of a man who likes brown chicks. Thankfully he clarified the matter.

Him: There you are!

Me: Here I am.

Him: I was going to look for you, but here you are.

Me: It all worked out. How have you been since I saw you last?

Him: Things are fine. About the same as they were Thursday. I got back in about an hour ago and came straight here.

I still don’t remember him, and I’m afraid he’s onto me. I work by an airport, so many of my favorite regulars fly in once or twice a month.

Me: Remind me of your job again?

Him: I work in tech.

Bingo. It all came back to me. He’s the guy who holds some high level position at IBM. I imagined my eyes bulging out of my head with my pupils replaced by dollar signs while a long pink tongue flaps to the side.

Me: Oh! Sorry, sometimes I forget.

Candice came by to seat him in a VIP booth and I followed, unsure of whether or not I had caught him too early. He’s an tallish white man with graying brown hair tidily combed to the side. He’s wearing black slacks and a striped button down with a navy blue pullover sweater. We had met only once prior and only briefly because he had popped in to kill a bit of time before his flight. I only remembered we had discussed running and he had mentioned being proud of his calves. It was like starting from square one, except that at least I didn’t have to convince him to like me since he had come to see me in particular.

Today we were hosting our annual Valentine’s Day extravaganza, an invite-only event where regulars can enjoy free alcoholic drinks and a full buffet. It’s an advertising scheme, created to bolster the seasonal slowdown between January and February. The year prior I had met Danny, and made my first double rack. This year was much less impressive. Management hadn’t advertised the event beyond handing out flyers to patrons in the weeks leading up to the event. There was no giant tent outside for the food and drinks. Nobody had set up any special lights outside the club to signal anything special was happening. And it had begun to rain. We were pessimistic, dancers anxiously texted regulars to make sure they would show up and support our nightly goals. While the club was full, an alarming number of patrons were of the seat filler variety: guys who regularly come in and don’t buy dances. The club got its cut from their entrance fee, but the managers were worried. Very few girls were getting dances, which meant even the club’s bottom line was in jeopardy.

Meanwhile, I was on what felt like an awkward first date with Innocuous White Man, who’s name I still cannot for the life of me recall. I want to call him Mark?

Him: So, tell me about yourself.

Me: Well... I need a bit more direction than that.

Did it feel more like a first date or like a job interview?

Him: Right, um. What do you like to do?

Me: I like to do a lot of boring things. I think I mentioned last time that I’m a writer.

Him: You didn’t, and writing isn’t boring.

Me: Well, I love writing.

The repetition of some of these conversations can be agonizing. I have to lay out about five primary skills and interests for my customers to latch onto that establishes our baseline connection. I like writing; stripping is my primary source of income; I went to college for a specific art degree; I taught myself Portuguese; I’m originally from Oklahoma.

Him: Oh right! I forgot you were from Oklahoma. I lived in Newcastle briefly when I was a kid. My father was in the military, so we moved around all the time.

Me: Oh yeah! I must admit, I have no idea where Newcastle is on a map.

Him: Do you know where Norman is?

Me: I grew up there!

Him: Did you really? Newcastle is about half an hour west of Norman, not that you needed to know. What did you think of Oklahoma?

Me: It sucks. One of the worst places in the states.

Him: Oklahoma was one of the most racist places I’ve ever been to, and I’ve lived all over, even places like Texas—

Me: —Just don’t compare, because Oklahoma is so isolated.

Him: I’ve never been around so many white people. It was like, in my school there was only one African American kid and one Mexican kid, and that was it.

Me: Sounds about right.

Him: One thing I remember was, I was friends with this African American kid, and he and I would always toss around the football in the front yard. I noticed people were always watching us. We would go over to another friend’s house and play in their yard to. I didn’t find out until later that we were playing in the yard because the white kid’s parents didn’t want to let a black person into their house.

Me: Wow. Did he know?

Him: I don’t think so. I wasn’t aware until years later.

Me: That’s so sad, but I’m not surprised. Oklahoma bombed Black Wall Street. They destroyed one of the biggest black economies in the nation.

Him: My history teacher was a member of the KKK. He kept a KKK pin on his desk, right in plain sight.

Me: Yikes. How could they let him do something like that?

Him: I’m not surprised.

I remembered growing up in Norman, one of the more liberal parts of Oklahoma, but still my experience was heavily colored by micro aggressions. I don’t typically name names, especially here where I intentionally change everyone’s names, even their fake names, but now I will name one name: Coleman McCauley. Coleman McCauley seemed to be a never ending font of racist epithets. We went to elementary school together, and I remember as young as first grade, he was making jokes like, “How do you find all the Mexicans in a neighborhood? Roll a penny down the street and see who runs out.” He created parodies of Christmas songs that involved murdering Bin Laden and assaulting Muslims. And let’s not forget his favorite thing: performing his jokes with various stereotypical accents. In case you couldn’t tell from the tone of this tangent, the blatant racism of this kid still haunts me today. The worst part was he was rich. His parents owned a local chain of banks. I remember one year we went on a field trip to the bank and his father, likely the source of his son’s vitriolic language, handed each of the kids in the class a freshly minted golden dollar. Coleman and his family lived in a sprawling manor in— you guessed it, Newcastle, where all the rich white people seemed to congregate.

I wanted to bring all this up, but while it was nice to vent to someone who knew a bit of my childhood struggle, I knew it wasn’t particularly sexy banter. “Mark” and I sat shoulder to shoulder sharing a drink while we watched girls dance on the mini stage. He got a vodka soda and I drank a jack and coke.

Him: I can’t drink whiskey. I think I’m allergic.

Me: That’s unusual. I’ve mostly heard of people allergic to wine. What are your symptoms?

I inquired as a completely legitimate doctor and not some badgering hypochondriac.

Him: My throat closes up and I get hives.

Me: Wow, you really are allergic 👩🏽‍⚕️

Him: Let’s get a room. Should we do a three set, then take a break and get a half-hour, or should we go straight to the half-hour?

Me: Let’s go for the half hour.

It was a little bit greedy on my part, but I didn’t want to leave any openings for him to decide against the half hour later. Men are very fickle. It’s funny how women are characterized as such when I could provide ample evidence of male vacillation, but I digress.

He bought the half-hour room, but all the rooms I wanted were already taken, leaving only the back booths, and my fallback booth was having some kind of speaker volume trouble. The noise was overbearing, and apparently the volume couldn’t be adjusted by the DJ, so we had to set up in the sketchy secluded end booth. I hate the end booth because it has no cameras; it’s tucked behind a wall; and as a result it’s easy for the floaters to forget to keep a timer on your dance. I’ve been stuck in dances for way too long, and it’s suffocating. I’m not having fun. The guy I’m on is either having too much fun or he’s trying to figure out a polite way to check his phone to see how much time we’ve got left on the clock. Short of sex, it’s hard to fill up that amount of time. Still, selling a half hour is what we all aim to do. Up-sell up-sell up-sell! I brought “Mark” in and danced for a while, probably 20 minutes before he stopped me.

Him: Drink break!

Me: Yes!

I sat beside him. He’s a deeply cerebral person, as am I, and while the draw of the carnal is fun at first, without talking it becomes repetitive.

Him: So you’re an artist?

Me: Yep.

Him: My eldest daughter is very artistic, unlike me. She must have gotten it from her mother. She’s a ballet dancer. Now she dances with a company in Germany.

Me: That’s amazing. You must be very proud.

Him: I am.

Me: What about your other daughter?

Him: She’s also creative. Younger. She’s also a writer. She has a way of describing things that’s very unique.

Me: Do you have any more kids?

Him: A son.

Me: Is he creative?

Him: No, he’s a teenage boy.

Me: Boys can be creative.

Him: They can, but he’s not, I’m afraid. He’s mostly interested in sports and girls.

Me: Are your kids white?

Him: Yes. My wife, I mean my ex wife, was a tall blonde Swedish woman, so they all inherited her genes. The girls are about 5’9”, the boy is still kinda short for now, but hopefully he’ll have a growth spurt.

Me: Oh.

My curiosity was swiftly extinguished. Just another white man with a blonde wife and a white family. I heard a knock on the door, and we both promptly popped up and fixed ourselves as if we had been caught by our parents and were trying to save face.

Him: Come sit with me at the table?

Me: Sure.

He tipped me $100, and I followed him back out. It seemed like the party had taken a turn for the better and the dancers were making money. We sat back at the booth and watched girls pantomiming gay sex on stage. I asked for money to tip them. He gave me a couple fives that I tucked into their money bucket.

Me: I’m glad I caught you so early. I was worried it had been too soon.

Him: No, it was perfect timing. I wish this club served alcohol all the time. I like to come, buy a couple rooms and share a few drinks with a girl. It’s much more relaxed that way.

Me: Legislators are always trying to create unnecessary red tape around sex work. The alcohol ban is stupid. If you come here more often and the managers get to know your face, you can buy a water bottle of vodka when you come in. We have a whole “prohibition” style economy here.

Him: I don’t know how much longer I’ll keep coming here. I only go to the club when I’m single, and I’m not often single for long.

Me: You’re a hot commodity.

Him: I just got out of a long relationship, only a few weeks ago. I’d ordered her a Valentine’s gift ages ago and forgot to cancel it. Then I got a text message today saying the bouquet would be delivered tomorrow.

Me: That’s awkward. I’m sure she’ll understand if you send her a text.

Him: I did. It will be fine, but it’s still awkward. We were together for four years. She’s the one ex I’m not completely over yet.

Me: Why did you break up?

Him: She wanted a baby, and I’ve already had a surgery to prevent that.

Me: A vasectomy.

Him: Right. And I’ve already been a father. I didn’t want to do it again.

Me: It’s hard when you and your partner want conflicting things.

Him: My deepest regret is that I didn’t end things sooner. She’s older, so she doesn’t have much time left.

Me: Did she freeze her eggs?

Him: Yes, she did. And I knew that going in. I wish I’d been more considerate in that regard.

Me: The heart wants what it wants. Want another dance?

Him: No thank you, but here’s a little something for your time.

He tipped me $80. I stood and hugged him. We exchanged numbers. I asked him to send me a picture for his contact photo. He sent me a selfie of him on a boat wearing dark sunglasses. It seemed like a strategic choice to me. Since I couldn’t see his eyes, he had plausible deniability should I ever try to lord anything over him, but that wasn’t my intent. I only wanted the picture because I had not been brave enough to ask for his name. We parted ways, and now in my phone his contact is:

“I Forgot Your Name Sorry”.