Tales from Da Club #29 | Part Two: The Second Isabella

For Tales from Da Club #28 | Part One: The First Isabella, click here.

The second Bella picked up exactly where the first Bella left off. There was even some overlap as D’Isabella, also a former stripper, immediately launched into her seduction technique, which was unsurprisingly similar to the first Bella’s, but included an incredibly racy twist I won’t detail here plus scented/flavored lipgloss.

The universe had apparently decided that Wednesday night was “let’s make Circus a better stripper” night. Also, it was apparently, “since Circus’ mother has spent years tearing her down, let’s find a few strangers to build her up” night. 

“You have a spirit about you,” D’Isabella purred into my ear, “that is so beautiful and pure, and it’s wildly attractive.”

I’ll take it.

Following her seduction technique, D’Isabella felt the need to detail her credentials. “I dated a Wall Street icon once,” she informed me matter-of-factly. I recognized the name she then rattled off as well as some of his financial accomplishments that I had read about in the news. “He wanted me to accompany him to Vegas, but I told him, ‘I can’t go on such short notice. I’d wanna get my hair done, and my nails done . . . ‘ so he immediately scheduled an appointment for me at this really swanky salon so I could go to Vegas with him. And girl, I did not fuck him all weekend. We just hung out. He wanted to get to know me as a real person, because he was a real person too.”

“Girl,” she continued, talking a mile a minute, “You do not suck and fuck unless you want to. The Lord wants you to value yourself. Do not do something that’s gonna make you feel bad the next day. You can get these guys to help you out so much, and you do not have to suck and fuck them unless you want to. The world is your strip club, you know? That’s how I look at it.”

“There are so many men in this world who just want to help you reach your dreams, and you do not have to suck and fuck them to get that. They just want your time. They just want your company. They just want to know someone is listening to them. And you can give them that. Your value does not lie in your pussy. Your value does not lie in your mouth. Your value lies in your heart. Your value lies in your spirit. Your value lies in your ability to be a good, honest person because that is what they want. Just a beautiful woman who will spend time with them and listen to them.”

My head was swimming at this point, but I must confess I was mesmerized. I do not circulate in a world in which men like me so much they want to fund my dreams in exchange for my company. A world like that is a fantasy to me, and like all fantasies, they are all upside and no downside. In reality, however, I was skeptical that it came without a price tag. Even if what D’Isabella was saying about not sleeping with her sugar daddies was true, the unspoken message I was getting here was that she had exchanged a lot of her time, and in my opinion, that’s a commodity just as valuable. Maybe if I weren’t working two jobs . . .

“Like my roommate over there,” D’Isabella continued. “He wants me so bad, but I have never fucked him. But sometimes I just mention I need something, and he will buy it for me. OMG, your eyes are so expressive. Honey, you could own the world with those eyes. Hey, come with me to the bathroom.”

Ladies hate peeing alone, so I went. D’Isabella pulled out a perfume sample. “Did you know you can go to Sephora, and they will make any perfume into a sample for you? I never buy perfume. Check this out. It’s Dior Addict, and it’s so thick and musky. Guys love it. It’s so good it even stays on after you get all sweaty dancing. Here, try some.”

She sprayed it in the air and had me walk through it from several directions. She even had me bend over so she could spray some on my ass. A hot female spraying perfume on my ass in a strip club bathroom was definitely a level up for me.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the sample into my hands. “I like you so much I wanna give it to you.” It was the first of many presents. She also gave me a tube of lipstick, eyebrow gel and a brush, and a piece of crystal azurite. I could barely close my purse by the time we were done. 

She proceeded to redo my make-up for me, showing me her make-up tips all the while continuing to talk a mile a minute. She had clothes for me. She had a wig for me. She wanted me to be her work out buddy. She wanted me to come over after my shift so she could give me things.

She was beautiful and bubbly and bright and enthusiastic and complimentary and amusing and quirky and had much of substance to say even if she never let me get a word in edgewise. She asked me questions about myself and then would immediately say something like, “I’m asking because, like . . . “ and launch into a long explanation of why she was asking, and I never had the chance to answer any of her questions. I adored her.

“Let’s go play poker!” she said, pulling me out of the bathroom and over to the poker table. We plopped down at the table, and she received a text.

“Oh, look,” she said. “I met this dairy farmer at Fogo de Chao last night. He has 15 cows, and he’s 36 years old. I wanna sit on his face!” She showed me photos. He looked like the Marlboro Man. “I’m supposed to meet him a hotel tonight. You wanna come?”

I definitely did. I anticipated a big, juicy story would come from that.

“When did you want me to come tonight?” she asked the dairy famer. “Can I bring a dancer I’ve been infatuated with all night? She has eyes like a cat!”

I may never know how the dairy farmer felt about that because just then, Sam approached us. Remember Sam? Sam had been approaching all the dancers all evening, face planting in their asses every time. I hadn’t seen any of them privately dancing for him all night. They had, however, spent a lot of time in his lap trying to convince him. At one point in the evening, I too, had been one of those dancers. Sam kept saying he wanted a dance but when push came to shove, he just “wasn’t ready right now.” He seemed more interested in finding out how you were going to make it worth his time and how much you liked him.

“Hey, are you Leila?” he asked D’Isabella. “I’m looking for Leila.”

It was unclear why Sam was looking for Leila, but D’Isabella did not hesitate. 

“I am!” she said. “Hiiiiiii!” She gave the one-syllable word the multi-syllable treatment. 

“Do you want to dance for me?” Sam asked. I realized I had a front row seat to watch D’Isabella work her magic. I sat back and took mental notes.

“I do want to dance for you,” D’Isabella replied, “but I’d honestly rather get shots for me and my friend here instead.”

“How much is a shot?” Sam asked. 

“WAY cheaper than a dance,” D’Isabella replied. “Here, just give me the money, and I’ll buy it for us.”

To my surprise, Sam produced a couple of crumpled bills, and within minutes, two shots of Jameson were on the table.

As luck would have it however, the deejay called me onstage to dance. I don’t know how D’Isabella fielded Sam off. I downed the Jameson and ran to the stage.

I never saw D’Isabella again after that. Perhaps she was an angel, sent to show me that other worlds were possible, that the things my mother said were lies, that I was valuable enough and good enough to pursue my dreams and accomplish them. It’s easy to lose sight of our worth; we all need to be reminded sometimes. Together, the Isabellas had not only poured life back into my empty vessel, they had plugged the hole. I will forever be grateful.

The Jameson made me horny. That was a pleasant surprise. Perhaps I’ll begin every shift with a shot. It could make my job sooooo much easier.

With half an hour left to make money, I employed the Isabella Method and within five minutes had a complete stranger shelling out eighty bucks for three dances. I’m ‘bout to be hella dangerous, ya’ll. HELLA.

Also, Hella Dangerous would make one heckuva stripper name.

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