Benedict, The Worst Man in the World

There are two versions of this story. One is how he sees it and the other is how I see him. I will start with what he sees.

He is Benedict, The Worst Man in the World. Benedict is a fretful creature and deservedly so. A slight Asian man who only smokes when he drinks and only comes in when he’s been drinking. He is too ugly for words and reeks of stale cigarette smoke. Nobody likes him, but they all recognize the familiar shadow of his loathsome figure. He takes solace in the embrace of a few light brown strippers with ample bosoms who he lures in with black magic spells performed with the aid of a fresh blood sacrifice. He bathes in the tears of first born infants to prepare for these fateful evenings. The twinkle in his eyes is pure evil, and once he enters the cursed club walls he is possessed by some lecherous wandering spirit. His back hunches and he foams at the mouth as his hands dart about, tearing away at the delicate flesh of his poor innocent captives. Benedict is a split man, a split soul. A Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The benevolent half tries in vain to overcome the relentless evil, playing puppet with his sad form, but alas he is subject to his wayward limbs and the basest impulses directing this cyclical transaction. Nobody is safe when Benedict enters the club. One stripper after the next, he drifts through the club bringing pain, suffering, and regret. We are compelled toward him like moths to a flame, only to meet our crispy bitter end. Finally, after the good Benedict exhausts every inch of effort battling evil Beelzedict, the ravaged corporeal host of good and evil, clinging to life, stumbles away from its kryptonian peril, out of the club, back onto the amoral streets of Los Angeles County, to rest and garner enough energy to return once again and repeat the bloody cycle.

Now my turn.

Benedict is a slight Asian man with mid length dark hair he wears in a little bun at the nape of his neck. I’d seen him several times before I decided to talk to him. I’ve had bad luck with Northeast Asians lately, perhaps because I work at a club with a variety of petite Asian dancers, whereas at the club I’d worked at prior, I was one of a handful of petite girls, and there was only one Korean dancer and she was on the curvier side. I don’t know, for whatever reason, I’ve been off my A-game with Asians, so I’ve been hesitant to approach them.

Candice came over to me and urgently whispered that I should make my move because he seems to like girls like me. I decided to shoot my shot. Benedict was sitting at a table adjacent to the stage with a wad of $1’s in his hand. I introduced myself and he smiled shyly and excused himself.

Him: Give me one second, I have to tip the stage.

Me: By all means, it makes a big difference.

Him: I feel like I should. You ladies work so hard and you aren’t working for free. I’m sorry, I’m drunk.

He had tipped me when I was on stage. At first I’d thought he liked me in particular but I realized he is a broadly generous man.

Me: I was hoping to sit on you, but if you’re busy I can let you be.

Him: I’m not busy! I’m sorry, what was your name?

Me: I’m Selena.

Him: I’m about to go smoke, but I’ll be back in a few minutes.

Me: If you’re just settling in, I can totally give you space.

It went back and forth like that for a while, two people convinced we were inconveniencing the other and apologizing for our rudeness. Eventually he managed to sneak out for a smoke and I went to the back for a showcase. He indicated he wanted me to come back, and I wanted him to want me, even though I knew I wasn’t his first choice.

Regulars are the bread and butter of the strip club economy, the people we can count on when the money slows down for whatever reason. We all make a litany of excuses for the lull in business.

It’s the beginning of the month and everyone just paid rent!

The government shutdown is affecting tax refunds!

Everyone spent all their money on New Years and they’re tapped out until the next payday!

It’s raining outside!

It’s like the meme from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, with Charlie standing in front of a whiteboard covered in magazine clippings and photos with red thread connecting a variety of points as he tries to explain a conspiracy. Maybe there is a rhyme and reason. Maybe not.

Benedict comes back in and I prepare to sit with him, but he cuts me short and asks if I would like to finish our conversation upstairs in the Heaven suite. Heaven is an hour long room that costs $600. Of course I want to go to Heaven. I know Heaven is an advertising trick for patrons, but sometimes I think it’s as much for us as it is for them. I’m in heaven when I’ve made $300 in one hour, not including the tip.

I guide him upstairs and I feel nervous. In part because I don’t really know what to do with a person for a whole hour. Of course, most people who buy this premium package have some notion of what they want. Most of the time they want to drink or do blow with a hot friend. Other times they want to talk and treat it like a GFE date. GFE = girlfriend experience. Still others assume they’re about to get laid, and when it doesn’t happen they pout in disappointment.

I drape myself across his lap and he places his hands gently on my shoulders to nudge me off of him.

Him: No, you don’t have to do that. Not that I don’t want you to. You’re beautiful. But don’t feel like you have to.

Me: I don’t feel like I have to, but I can sit over here if that’s better.

He scoots over to the corner of the couch, as far away from me as possible, and folds his hands in his lap.

Me: You don’t have to sit so far away. I’m surprisingly soft and warm.

He inches closer to me. For the first half hour we get to know each other. He’s an engineer turned businessman with three businesses spread between here and New York City.

Him: My mom is staying in my New York apartment, which is nice because home cooking and all, but I’m so glad to get away.

His mother immigrated to the states from Hong Kong when he was a child and raised him as a single mother. We discuss my writing and love of science fiction. He tells me I must read Neuromancer.

I feel like I’m talking too much. Each minute is precious when you set a price to it. I move onto his lap and put my tits in his face. He tries to shoo me off, but I can see in his eyes that he wants touch, but can’t bring himself to ask. He kneads my breasts like they’re bread, like he’s cultivating glutinous connections. I feel comfortable in this role. Clients want to talk and cuddle up to a point, but the beauty of in person experiences is that physical connection. Near the end of our hour, Benedict checks the time on his phone and begins apologizing and saying goodbye. He hands me $300.

Him: I’m so sorry for myself. I’m very drunk. You’re amazing. This has been amazing. I hope you succeed with your writings because I can tell you’re a good writer, just from the way you speak.

Me: Thank you. Are you leaving?

Him: Am I? No. Probably not for another hour. I’m going to smoke. Then maybe we can go for another hour, if that’s okay with you?

Me: That sounds excellent. I’m going to clean up in the dressing room, then I’ll find you.

He pops outside to smoke and I run to the back to brush my hair in a hurry, praying his other favorite isn’t working tonight. I run back over to the bar and he’s waiting for me by the register. He thanks me before we’ve even begun.

The next hour passes in near silence. I feel hypnotized by my own repetitive movements. It’s like I’m using my entire body to message his body. I can’t tell if he’s enjoying himself half the time. His hands are locked onto my breasts. His eyes are shut. I gaze at my reflection in the mirrored glass of the booth judging my body now that I can watch it contort. I suck in my stomach for myself, not for Benedict because he isn’t watching me with critical eyes.

Me: Are you okay?

Him: Yes! I’m sorry, I’m very drunk.

Me: Is your head spinning.

He sat up for a moment to gauge it.

Him: Actually, yes.

Me: I hate when that happens.

We finish the dance and he checks his Apple Watch.

Him: I should be going home. But you’ve been amazing. And I’m sorry for— myself. For everything. I’m a terrible person.

Me: You sound Catholic with all that guilt.

Him: Do I? I just feel bad. You all are amazing, and I’m just another terrible man in this place full of terrible men.

Me: You’re not terrible. I promise.

Him: Thanks—

He pauses and looks down.

Me: But you don’t believe me.

Him: I’m afraid I can’t. I know what I am.

Me: Well, just know that I do not in any way believe you are a bad person.

Him: You’re so kind.

He checks his watch again.

Him: Maybe we can do one more? After I go out for a smoke?

Me: I would love nothing more.

He pops out again. I’m relaxed because I know I’ve made my goal. I use the restroom and check my pussy for toilet paper, the greatest menace of strip club bathroom breaks. I’m good. I walk out and he’s searching for me by the register. We walk up one last time.

Him: I’m sorry, I smell like cigarettes.

I tuck my nose into the crook of his neck.

Me: You don’t smell like cigarettes, you smell like fresh laundry.

Him: I’m glad you think so.

At the end I gave him my number and made sure he was übering home. In the morning he texted me to apologize yet again. He said he didn’t remember much of that night. I wasn’t sure if I could believe him, but some people are covert drunks. Some people can blackout without slurring their words or tripping over their feet. Drunkenness is also reliable excuse for when your actions get out of hand and you don’t want to assume responsibility. But regardless, his excuse wasn’t a concern to me if this was the truth or the truth he had chosen. I just hoped he might pick me again with sober eyes.