This is Jim Bob. Don’t Be Like Jim Bob.

My clients continue to be the absolute worst.

Take Jim Bob, for instance. Jim Bob is a slow-moving, slow-talking non-cowboy with a penchant for wearing cowboy hats and large belt buckles. I met Jim Bob back in December during a conversation in which it became obvious that he had no idea the difference between polyamory and swinging. It was just all wild, crazy sex to him, and Jim Bob is all about wild, crazy sex.

He never shuts up about it. The whole time I spend perched on his lap at the club, Jim Bob details exactly what he’d like to do to me. He also dissects every other woman in the club and shares his fantasies about what he’d like the three of us to do together.

The minute Jim Bob found out that I am open to polyamory, he decided that I am the woman for him. He has not yet clued into the fact a) That’s not how being poly works and b) “Not Yet” is actually a “Big, Hard NO.” I rarely tell my clients I won’t date them, because then I lose them as clients. My job is to dangle that pussy on a string as long as possible until they spend themselves broke. Most clients figure out after a few ignored texts that I will not be dating them anytime soon, but Jim Bob is a slow learner.

“I’m willing to wait until whenever you’re ready,” Jim Bob, “Because I know a lady as special as you is worth the wait.”

Well, fuck.

I’ve probably got at least a few more months of smiling and lying through my tightly gritted teeth before he either gives up or does something terrible.

Jim Bob thinks he is a nice guy, because most fantasies end with him saying something like, “And you’ll feel comfortable having all that wild, crazy sex with the three gnomes pounding your pussy while you ride a Sybian up your ass because afterwards, I’ll take you back to my bed where we can be alone, and I’ll tell you how special you are to me.”

“How was the steak?” I asked him brightly, trying to change the subject. Jim Bob nodded approvingly. “It was good,” he said, “but not as good as I’m betting that pussy tastes.” I wanted to throat punch him. CAN HE NOT HAVE AN ACTUAL CONVERSATION LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING JUST ONCE?

“Oh, my gosh, look at that girl onstage!” I exclaimed. “She is such a bitch! I once asked if I could borrow her deodorant, and she was straight up, like, no, but guess who she came to when she needed a hairbrush? Me! And I said yes, she could borrow my hairbrush, because I’m not a bitch! Can you believe her?”

“She’s clearly a stuck up bitch,” Jim Bob laughed. “I’ve seen her walking around here like her pussy don’t stink. She looks like she needs to be hate fucked with a piece of rebar.” I cringed and immediately regretted my conversational choices.

Jim Bob is a teacher, ya’ll. This man is teaching your children. This man is shaping the future. Are you horrified yet?

I am gonna assume that being hate fucked with a piece of rebar would be my fate as well, were I to anger Jim Bob at some point down the road if I were to date him. This is what ladies think to themselves when you say awful things about other women.

When I’m dancing for him, Jim Bob asks me what I like about him, and I have to think hard and fast to come up with some redeemable quality, of which he has a dearth, that I can make sound believable.

“I love how sincere you are,” I cooed, feeling incredibly insincere.

“Have you ever thought about me naked?” he asked.

“Um.”

This is where my skills as an actor fail me. I am a mediocre actor at best anyway.

“Uh, I’m really more into your intellect. That is the first thing that turns me on about a person.”

I dodged that question better than Joe Biden! Jim Bob was pleased. I was proud of myself for that one.

To think I got into stripping because I thought it would be easy money! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

“I’d love to take you out to dinner and a movie sometime. And then maybe some making out. I know you can’t kiss me here at the club, but I can tell you want to. And we will, if you’ll let me take you somewhere nice and quiet.”

“I’d love that,” I cooed again, batting my eyelashes and wondering what the fuck I did to make him think I wanted to kiss him. Damn, maybe I’m better than I thought.

I’d rather remove my eyeballs with a spoon.

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