The dancers on day shift like me a lot. More specifically, they like to grab my ass and shake it like a dog with a chew toy.
I just realized that, basically, my ass is the human version of a chew toy.
It IS very entertaining, but this story is not about my ass.
It’s sort of about Ginny, one of the daytime dancers who was leaving just as I hit the floor. After amusing herself with my ass for a minute, she said, “Girl, I got a rich, white guy for you.”
She took my hand and led me over to a man named Roman, introduced us and told me to take good care of him.
Roman had been there awhile. He was eight drinks in and feeling chatty.
“Are you freaky like Ginny?” he asked me. His voice sounded almost just like Forrest Gump’s.
I wasn’t sure how to respond. My super religious mom finds oral sex pretty freaky. On the other hand, I have friends who like hamsters in their butt.
The term “freaky” is somewhat relative.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to respond because Roman kept going.
“If Ginny really likes you,” he said, “she’ll be in your pants in twenty seconds.”
“Oh,” I said, learning a lot about how other dancers do things.
“Do you do that?” he asked.
“Oh, definitely for the clients I like!” I said, nodding vigorously. I have never liked a client that much.
“Well, I can tell you right now that I’ve been drinking a lot. The little guy is just not gonna be popping up again tonight.
“I just want you to know that because when you dance for me later, I don’t want you to feel like you’re not doing your job right or that I’m not having a good time. It’s just that he’s asleep for the evening.”
“That’s, um, very thoughtful of you to let me know that,” I said, feeling incredibly relieved. Until then, I hadn’t been sure whether or not he expected me to fill Ginny’s shoes. Er, gloves?
“Do you know Adrienne?” he asked, naming another day dancer. “Now SHE is the girl who always makes me do stuff I regret the next day.”
I love gossipy customers because I am nosy as fuck. “Like what?” I asked.
“Like the thing I have in here,” he said, fumbling around in his pocket. “Would you like some?”
“Uh, no thanks,” I said hastily, my nosiness waning a bit. I’m not sure what he had in there. Cocaine? Hamsters? Probably best for my continued employment not to find out.
Roman continued with a story about how coming to a strip club had helped him deal with his social anxiety. “I suppose I could go to a regular bar now and talk to the ladies there,” he told me, “but why?”
Why, indeed, when, for about the same amount of money, he could get a hand job and a blow buddy?
Who says the best things in life are free?
Speaking of which, you know what else isn’t free? Ginny and Adrienne’s actual dancer names. You want them? Message me. We’ll negotiate