Rewriting Truths

I’ve been telling clients about their stories. Not any particular details, just that they exist for an audience somewhere. A few I’ve given this account information to, for better or worse. Part of me thinks it’s a mistake, to include my subjects in the making of their narratives. The other part is fascinated with their reactions. It’s an honor to be seen and considered in such detail, regardless of the words on the page. Each story is an hour or more of meditation. An hour I spend thinking about one man or another and consider everything I remember of him. How he smells, what he wears, the cadence of his speech. Is it exact? How could it be, unless I kept a recorder going in the pocket of my purse? It is as much the truth as any truth we recall. Memory changes constantly, and all we are left with is a faded impression of what we believed to be, processed by our paradigms of belief. Maybe some have “photographic memories.” We make word mansions to recall details. I walk into my imagined palace and on the front step is a red baseball cap, I open the door and see a garage sale reproduction of the Mona Lisa on my wall; there are one, two three umbrellas in a ceramic pot by the wooden accordion doors to a blue den; in the blue den is a phonebook and I open to a page with five Johns: John Smith, John Doe, John Patrick, John Couch, John Redding. Can you remember the contents of my word mansion without re-reading? Did you see the three umbrellas? What colors were they? I don’t remember.

All sex workers go to heaven.

If you’ve made it this far, this story is for you.

Charlie, gemini ketamine man, returned recently, during a bustling Saturday night. The club was packed with patrons and a handful of new girls I hadn’t met before. Charlie had tried to sneak into a corner by the ATM but instead found himself hounded by a new older dancer from the East Block who I found rubbing her ass against his groin. It’s a known rule that dancers aren’t supposed to interfere with each other’s customers. Now, I was aware he had come to see me, however she was not and had already cornered him to make a sale which meant I had to keep my distance until she had shot her shot. Charlie caught me watching him and looked apologetic. He pointed to me.

Him: That’s her! I am here to see her. Thank you.

Me: No, it’s okay! Y’all can finish up.

He pulled me close to him so she was out of earshot.

Him: No, please. She won’t take “no” for an answer.

Me: I don’t want her to get upset at me for stealing her customer.

Him: I could tip her if you think that would help.

Me: Nah, never mind it.

Him: Let’s go somewhere quieter where we can talk.

Me: How about to an hour room upstairs?

Him: Perfect. Did you get the party supplies?

Me: I didn’t. I thought you said you would handle it. Anyway, you can buy some in the bathroom.

Him: How? How much is it usually? Is it good quality?

Me: Just ask the guy, usually like $100 I think. I don’t know about the quality. It’s fine, I guess.

Him: As long as you’re okay with it.

When he’d texted me he was coming, I was worried I might not recognize him. With so many men rotating through who fit a similar type, it’s easy to confuse one man for another. I have to rely on that initial spark to assure me. Thankfully when I saw him, I knew. We went upstairs for the room. This time he wanted closeness, to be touched and touch. Sometimes it’s jarring when clients feel as though you’ve established intimacy, and want to jump back in to where you may have gotten after a multi hour session. Every night my body is different. Some days I live for touch. Other days I recoil instinctively. I was dancing on Charlie as we talked. He wanted to know what was going on in my life since we’d last met. He’s been consulting on a large project that had taken him away for the past few weeks, swept up in early mornings and late nights.

Him: Which do you prefer, men or women?

Me: It depends on the person.

Him: Are you into men at all?

Me: Yeah, I like everybody.

Him: But which more?

Me: I guess I like penises more. So men?

Him: That’s good. I wasn’t sure.

I get this question a lot. I think all dancers do, because even if we don’t explicitly discuss it, the strip club is a very queer space. Men come in groups and experience sexual attraction in close quarters with their buddies, often shunning women for male companionship. On the other side, strippers form deep physical and emotional relationships with each other where the line between performance and true feelings is constantly blurred. Do I love the women/nonbinary dancers around me as friends or lovers? Yes.

Him: What do you look for in a man?What’s your type?

In my head “No Type” by Rae Sremmurd plays.

Me: Physically, I’ve dated all kinds of people. Tall, short, fat, thin, white, black, Asian, Latino. Generally, I’m attracted to independent people who are passionate about what they do. I love slutty people. I don’t want to be with just one person forever. I want someone who wants to be slutty with me. What about you?

Him: I just want to please a woman. Whatever she wants, that’s what I want.

Me: What if she doesn’t know what she wants?

Him: I love giving head.

Me: I don’t really like oral sex.

Him: Wow, that’s a surprise. What do you like?

Some conversations are circular.

What do you like?

I don’t know.

I like this thing you don’t like.

I don’t like that thing. I want this completely different thing.

What if we wanted the same things?

We don’t.

There’s nothing wrong with diverging, but I try to be clear. I don’t want people falling in love with the wrong girl, but I also know that that’s out of my control. After we do some blow, the conversation naturally shifts to platonic territory.

Him: How was your trip home for Christmas?

Me: It was fine.

I was hesitant to say anything contrary. It’s one thing to make small talk, it’s another to bring up trauma during a session with a client. But, I trust Charlie, at least this much.

Me: Actually it wasn’t.

Him: What happened?

Me: My grandfather revealed that he’s had feelings for me since I was fifteen. The last time I’d seen him, he’d come onto me verbally and physically. He kept suggesting I crawl into bed with him. Then he touched my leg and groped my breasts. I’d tried to write it off like, maybe he’s just getting old and losing it. But then I confronted him about the incident, and he confirmed in no uncertain terms that his actions were intentional.

Him: Wow. I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.

Me: Thanks. Yeah, it was. I was really close to him, but I guess all that’s over now.

Him: I had something similar happen to me when I was a kid with my uncle.

Me: Really? What happened?

Him: I was about sixteen and one evening I was alone with my uncle. We all knew he was gay, but I never thought about it that way. He started taking off his clothes and tried to get me to take off mine. I ran out. I tried to tell my family, but no one believed me. Except my brother.

Me: Wow, that must have been really frightening. I’m glad you ran. It’s too easy to freeze up in situations like that.

I started reading a book about affairs and why they happen. I came upon a passage recently that said essentially, in the Western world, the pain of an affair isn’t simply the act itself, but the way the revelation shatters the victim’s internal narrative. Dates and events must be disrupted, reworked and reimagined to include the new truth. People avoid recognizing signs to protect their internal narratives. It’s a survival strategy. I think about the explicit statements my grandfather made, prior to the transgression, and realize that was what I’d subconsciously done, to avoid the pain of the truth.

Me: What ever happened to your friend’s daughter?

Last time we were together, he’d told me a story about his friend’s daughter who was grieving the tragic murder of one of her girlfriends studying abroad. In the midst of her grief, one of her father’s friends had taken advantage of her. They had the kind of sex you cry about after. The line was blurred because the girl had just turned eighteen. There was no legal recourse for the assault.

Him: She’s a mess. Suicidal. I’m still the only other person who knows. I think about my daughters. I don’t know what I would do in that situation.

Me: Poor girl. The legal system isn’t built to protect sexual assault survivors.

Him: It’s sad, but true. Maybe with my daughters’ generation we’ll see change.

Lust, love, and pain live in close quarters in my profession. We spend the final open hours together, talking, holding each other, and dulling reality with drugs.