Ten Zits in My T-Zone

I am once again on a date with a client.

I really don’t do this very often. I’d tell you if I did, because I have no shame. My clients either enrage me, annoy me, or frustrate me, but most of them make no memorable impression at all. In fact, the longer I do this, the more their faces blur together and the more remarkable a man must be before he’ll capture my attention.

Toby was remarkable for his laser-focused perception. Several comments he made in the VIP booth caused me to stop mid-dance and gape at him. Still, when he crawled into my DMs and asked me out, that’s not why I said yes.

I said yes because I had just extricated myself from a predatory but brief relationship and had shit all going on. I said yes because I was bored.

I also said yes because, despite spending an hour in VIP with me being butt ass naked, he never once touched me inappropriately or begged for a blow job. Respect: It’s so hot these days.

You might ask me, “Circus, is it weird going on a first date with a man who’s already seen you butt ass naked?

No, it’s not that weird! Considering my penchant for spontaneous public nudity, you might not be surprised how often this happens. My mother would say it’s weird, though. My mother would say the mystery was gone, and men like mystery. My mother would say once I presented as a sex object, he’d always see me as a sex object, never again as a human being with value and worthy of love.

I wish I could get my mother’s goddamn voice outta my head. Anxiety, thy name is Mother.

I couldn’t even remember what this guy looked like. He had very little social media presence, so I couldn’t stalk him pre-date. What if he were casually racist or a Trump supporter? (Oh, sorry, that was redundant.) All I could remember about him was that he went to CrossFit, but considering that wasn’t the first thing out of his mouth, even that spoke well of him.

I was on my period and counted ten zits in my t-zone as I prepped for the date. If I wrote an album about my love life, “Ten Zits in My T-Zone” would be the title track. Sigh. Fingers crossed for a restaurant as dark as da club.

Three minutes into the date, Toby told me he had read my entire blog, bottom to top. It had taken him three days, at work, on his phone.

Well. FUCK. ALL. YA’LL. I don’t think even my closest friends have read this entire blog bottom to top.

“It’s pretty funny,” he commented, “You’re funny.”

I started to sweat a little. I am total sucker for people who laugh at my lame jokes. Forget sucking oysters or pouring tequila shots down my throat; just make me think I’m funny, and you’re 38% into my panties.

38% goes a lot further than you might think, considering these ain’t no granny panties:

Toby was not a Trump supporter, which meant that his chances of making it all the way in increased dramatically.


This is what I wear for Trump supporters, in case you were wondering:

Anyway, back to the date: Toby was a very pleasant, absolutely perfect gentleman. We went to Jack Allen’s Kitchen, where I tried chicken fried meatloaf for the first time. It was absolutely decadent.

(Fun Fact: My daughter was in high school musical theater with Jack Allen’s daughter, and that family spent so much money on that theater department, making that two Macabre girls dancing in dollar bills.)

At the end of the date, he walked me to my car and left a very gentlemanly kiss on my cheek, mercifully missing all ten zits in my t-zone.

I feel another rap song coming on.

Ten zits in my t-zone, in my t-zone / Baby, where you have you gone, where have you gone . . .

Doncha wanna pop this, pop this / Baby, got me squirtin’ like a Swiss, like a Swiss

I’ll work on it.

The day after our date, the City of Austin ordered all bars and restaurants to shut down across the city in order to slow the spread of coronavirus.

There goes my side hustle, but don’t worry: Baby’s taking her show on the road! The stories will continue!

In addition, all new relationships are shut down in order to slow the spread of coronavirus.


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