All the Broke Educators of LA County

Saturday was a night of entertaining broke Los Angeles County educators. All of them seemed to be enjoying the scenery but none of them were willing to pay any dancers. The first one I encountered was a mild mannered black man in his early forties. He was sitting in one of the high back sofa chair by the small stage, and I hadn’t considered talking to him because he looked like he couldn’t afford it. He had on mismatched sweats. On the table beside him sat a worn bulky wallet and a hodgepodge of other items he’d removed from his ample pockets. I was lounging on the stage, posing while I scoped out the room for potential clients when he leaned over to talk to me. I hate to discriminate, so I addressed him.

Him: You’re not uncomfortable sitting on that hard stage?

Me: Not really. Would you like me to sit on your lap?

Him: I can’t say no to that!

I sat on him and looked for something to compliment.

Me: You look very— comfortable.

Him: Thank you, I am.

Me: How’s your night going?

Him: Much better now that you’re here.

Me: Excellent. You from around here?

Him: Yep, I live a couple minutes away.

Me: What do you do?

Him: Oh, I’m in education. I work at an elementary school, but now I’m mostly doing administrative stuff. The kids wore me out.

Me: Kids are exhausting. I can imagine.

Him: I don’t wanna waste your time. I can’t afford a dance, but you’re beautiful and I’ve enjoyed your company.

Me: Thanks for letting me know.

I hopped off of him and resumed my posed lounging on the stage beside him.

The night crawled on, slow as molasses dripping from a cold spoon. Every man looked like a “no,” as is sometimes the case when anxiety gets the best of me, but I decided to press on. Two dopey looking, middle aged, white men came in wearing collegiate sweatshirts and cargo shorts. After I watched one get a three-set with another girl, I decided to try my luck with him. He looked like Jim Carey in his new show, Kidding, where he plays a sad looking older man going through a traumatic loss. The man had thin brown hair and a bowl cut. It looked as if his mother had sat him down and placed a dish on his head and cut around the edges. I could not believe an adult man was sporting such a cut, but not all of us learn from the mistakes of our youth. I introduced myself and took a seat on his lap.

Him: Very nice to meet you!

Me: Thanks. Same. Are you from around here?

I looked down at his UCLA shirt and kicked myself internally. Of course he was.

Him: Yep, born and raised. What about you?

Me: I’m from Oklahoma.

Him: Wow, what do you think about it here? Must be quite a— a culture shock?

Me: I’ve lived other places and traveled a lot. It wasn’t a culture shock for me.

Him: Oh, I see. What do you do? I mean, aside from this, when you’re not here?

Me: I’m a writer. What about you?

Him: I’m a middle school teacher. I know that’s awkward. We’re not supposed to be in places like this. Educators, I mean.

Me: I was just talking to another teacher.

Him: Did he readily admit it?

Me: He did, but then back pedaled and said he works in the administrative end now. Anyway, middle school. That’s a very formative period.

Him: It is.

Me: What subject do you teach?

Him: History and English. I was a PolySci major. Or, I should say that was my undergrad. Then I got a masters, then a PhD.

Me: It’s easy to get trapped in education. I mean, I love learning. College was fun. I just think it’s too easy to go from learning to teaching or get stuck in the education institution. You know? I mean, I think about getting a masters sometimes.

Him: You still could.

Me: I know, but college tuition is ridiculous right now. And I already have a degree.

Him: Oh, what in?

Me: It’s a specialized kind of art degree.

Him: What do you want to do?

Me: Be a writer, I guess. Which is what I’m doing.

Him: Do you ever write about things here?

Me: Yep.

Him: Sounds like an interesting read. You seem like a very intelligent person, and you’re young. I believe you’ll be successful.

It’s funny how teachers do this. I have nothing against it. I still think about what my various teachers and professors have told me through the years. The affirmations are meaningful. I thought about my old middle school teachers. One English teacher in particular has held onto a story I wrote for over a decade now, and she still uses it as an example to illustrate one of her favorite assignments. The assignment was to rewrite a classic fairytale. I chose Snow White and changed it to Midnight Black. It was a telling remix, even then, and I didn’t realize it. I thought about this history teacher’s compliment and assertion that I will one day be successful as I sat upon his knee remembering my own teachers. Sadly, teachers make shit money, and I knew this man could not afford my time, but I still popped the question.

Me: So... Want a dance?

Him: I’m sorry, I wish I could, but I’m afraid I’m cleaned out for tonight. I wish you all the best though.

Me: Thanks.

The night lurched on, sometimes painfully slow and then suddenly more than I could handle at once. I saw a couple regulars who tipped me well. I didn’t take any new numbers because nobody was purchasing any long dances. I was making my money from sets of three and singles, which isn’t so bad. Getting locked away with a person for longer can be awkward and exhausting, as much as I wouldn’t have passed up the opportunity. I complained to my friends and they complained to me. Sometimes I feel so lucky to be around so many beautiful, kind women (and non binary people). I get to watch them dance, and dance alongside them. We flirt and it feels safe instead of coercive, weighed down by too many feelings or expectations. Men have so many feelings. They expect the world, and pout when you don’t give it to them. I pinch a friend’s bottom, and she looks back ready to swing, but it’s me, so she hugs me.

Me: I missed you!

Her: I missed you too! You were gone for so long. Every time you leave I think, “She’s gone for good, moved onto better things.”

Me: Aw, no. I’m here.

It hurts me to know so many of my friends aren’t happy dancing while I get to choose. We hug one last time and part ways.

At 2:30 a.m., I’m debating whether or not to stay until last call. I wasn’t feeling like my normal, bubbly self. I was exhausted from jet lag and had managed to sleep until 4 p.m. I was ashamed with myself for oversleeping. I woke up late and got to work late, so I’d missed the 7 p.m. bonus. I decided to stay until close to compensate, but my legs needed a break. I perched on top of the arm rest for one of the VIP booths.

It’s so strange sitting around completely naked. Vaginas leak. Once, I was standing by the bar and had placed my hand on one of the booth seats, about to sit down, only to notice the familiar gummy texture of vaginal discharge on my fingertips. I pulled my hand back and grabbed hand sanitizer. I wasn’t grossed out, just slightly shocked. Then I came to the conclusion I was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner, with all this pussy flapping about.

While I was sitting on the arm rest of the VIP booth, I was posing again. You never know who’s looking at you, so it doesn’t hurt to strike a pose. The two Latino men with dark gelled back hair and exercise clothes on, sitting in the booth took notice. One shouted about me to his friend, over the music.

Guy 1: Look at her! Modeling naturally.

Guy 2: You hear him? He said you’re modeling naturally. What’s your name sweetheart?

Me: Selena. How do ya’ll know each other?

Guy 2: We’re both teachers.

Me: Do you work together?

Guy 2: We used to, but then he got fired because our principle is an asshole. But this guy is very smart and an outstanding teacher, so now he works at one of those private charter schools.

Me: Great.

Him: Here, I’ll show you a picture, because I’m proud of what I do. You could look me up even.

He opened his phone and pulled up a group photo on his Instagram. He works at Hawthorn High. I thought to myself, “this man doesn’t have money.”

Me: Nice.

Him: I can tell you don’t want to be here.

Me: Really 😒?

Him: Tell me, how did you end up here? I can see, just by the way you hold yourself that you’re smart, you’re above all this. What did you want to be when you grew up?

I’m so disinterested with this man trying to denigrate my work, but I answer him, in spite of my better judgement.

Me: I wanted to be a stripper. I was nervous, but my friends encouraged me. I dance because it’s fun.

Him: Seriously? Wow.

Me: Yep. Did you always want to be a high school teacher?

Him: No, I became a teacher after working at Starbucks. I hated that job, so I went into education. Now I like it for the financial security. I make good money now. I grew up poor.

Me: I get it. Financial security is a crucial deciding factor with any job.

Him: I still don’t get it. See, the way you answer my questions shows me how smart you are. Why not work in an office or something?

Me: Do you want a lap dance?

Him: Nah, I’m sorry but dances don’t do anything for me and I don’t spend money like that. You’re such a smart girl, though. I respect women too much for all this.

Gotta love these men who “respect women.”

Me: It’s unfortunate that you don’t respect sex work. Dancing is one of the few occupations that allows women across a wide age range, regardless of race, educational background, economic or immigration status a pathway to middle class income and upward mobility. There are few employment opportunities that are so egalitarian. It’s sad that you don’t support us or value our work.

Mic drop. I hopped off and left the conversation. So many educators and so little money. When I left the club that morning, I thought I’d hardly made my low goal considering how many people I’d danced with, but when I got home, I realized the negativity was more internal than external. I’d reached my goal, and then some, even if the night had been dissatisfying. As I was leaving, one of the girls pulled me aside. She’s so young, barely nineteen. I try not to worry about the younger girls, because I know how fiercely independent I was at that age. I narrowly avoided plenty of trouble and I worked a shitty job that paid hardly anything. I had to give her credit for her bravery. But tonight she looked sad and tired.

Her: Don’t look at me. I’m a mess now.

Me: You don’t look bad at all. You’re beautiful.

Her: Aw girl. I just wanted to say, ever since I got her I’ve admired you, because you’re so low key and I know you make money.

Me: Are you okay? You look kinda sad.

Her: I’m okay. Just been drinking, did a little blow, fucked some people I didn’t want to. I hate when that happens, but hey. The thing is, nobody knows about you. Other girls we be like, “that girl fuck, that girl fuck, that girl fuck,” but nobody knows how you do it. And I see you getting money. What’s your secret?

Me: Oh— I don’t really have any secret. I’m just myself.

Her: Oh.

She walked out after that. It’s a complicated topic in the club, often too taboo for any of us to explicitly talk. Lots of girls give hints. Some are brazenly forward about what they offer on their menu. I admire their cavalier honesty, but I’m more reserved, even if it doesn’t seem that way from what I write. I curate what everyone sees and knows about my work. I wanted to offer some simple piece of advice, but advice is too reductive. What brings me success is unique to me, and not something I can boil down into a few words. Still, her question lingers with me as I wonder to myself why luck smiles upon me.