The Butcher Knife

If you missed last week’s episode, here’s a quick recap: It was basically about my first house call that went awry when my client lost his contracts due to Coronavirus, and ended when I received a text from another client.

But let me back up really quickly: If you follow my entertainer Instagram account, then you probably saw a post where I advertised house call services shortly after the city shut down all the clubs, bars and restaurants.

I got a handful of takers. I didn’t go visit any of them. I’d like to pretend it was because I’m super virtuous and chose to stay home and self-isolate voluntarily like the rest of you angels, but no. I didn’t go visit any of them because they all looked huge and scary in their Instagram photos, and I wussed out.

Rajit was a different story, however. He wasn’t an Instagram follower of mine at all, but a client I had met my last night at Palazio. After just one lap dance, he fell in love and tried to date me.

So when he offered to pay me to come over and cuddle, I figured he was probably a pretty safe bet. (Sorry, Siggy. I know how itchy your trigger finger is!)

And he was safe, but oh, so annoying. Look at this shit, ya’ll. Look. At. This. Shit.

It goes on like that for MILES. Rajit was the texting version of the black and white static that appears on old TVs when you first turn them on. Boy, was he a tooth grinder.

It was a half hour drive to his apartment in south Austin. When I arrived, he came out to the parking lot to lead me in, but he walked far ahead of me without looking back. It was odd. He clearly didn’t want his neighbors to see him with me, and I think that was the first time I’ve ever felt the shame and stigma that people feel about hiring sex workers.

Inside a strip club, all the clients are there for the same reason. There’s no shame inside a strip club. Inviting a stripper you’ve just met into your apartment must make you feel some other way entirely.

I wish men didn’t feel so oddly about hiring sex workers. I wish there were less stigma in our society surrounding it. First of all, your sex worker is grateful to be there. Chances are pretty high they like you as a person and enjoy their job on some level. And finally, it’s not that different from driving by Cheddar’s (don’t laugh; I LOVE Cheddar’s) for some take-out on the way home from work: you may be a great cook, but sometimes you just want comfort without having to work very hard for it. It’s a very human desire, and there’s no shame in being human.

Rajit’s apartment was clean but barely furnished. It was the apartment of a man who cannot put down roots. Standing there, in the silence and emptiness of his space, I began to feel his loneliness creep into my bones.

“Wait here,” he said, disappearing into the darkness of a back bedroom. “I have something for you.”

I waited nervously, hoping he wasn’t about to pop out in underwear with a rooster head covering his cock or some weird shit like that.

No, thank goodness! Instead, he came back with a bottle of perfume from Victoria’s Secret. “This is for you,” he said shyly. “I asked my friend what you might like, and she said this was the thing to get.”

The perfume smelled sickeningly sweet, but I melted a little nonetheless. It was an adorable guesture.

“I would like to put on some porn,” he said. “Do you like porn?”

“I don’t hate it,” I confessed, “But for the most part, I find it a little silly.”

“Then we will not watch it,” he said.

I tried to protest, but he was firm. “I want you to be comfortable.”

I stripped down to my thong, set a timer and started some music. He immediately scooped me up and carried me into his kitchen. There was a huge butcher knife on the counter.

That was when the enormity of my new reality hit very hard. I was at this man’s mercy, and this was my first day on a brand new job. I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.

While I eyed the knife, memorizing its position on the kitchen counter, Rajit had other thoughts entirely. “I want to hug you in every room in this apartment,” he murmured into my shoulder. “That way, when you leave, I will walk into that room and remember you there.”

You think I was kidding when I said Rajit fell in love? You guys, I was not kidding.

We began our cuddle session, and Rajit could not stay still, switching positions every two minutes and trying to kiss me on the lips. It began to feel more like a wrestling match, accommodating his ever-changing positions while dodging his kisses.

After awhile, Rajit opened up and told me that his parents had arranged a marriage for him back in India. He had been making preparations to fly back and meet his bride shortly before all the airlines closed down. He was worried the young lady would not like him.

“How do you tempt a woman?” he asked me.

“Like, into having sex with you?”

“Yeah.”

I thought for a moment. “Take her on romantic dates, but you don’t need to spend a lot of money. Take her on a picnic with wine and cheese. Lay out on a blanket at night and watch the stars. Go for a walk around the lake. Keep doing that over and over and when she’s ready to have sex with you, she’ll let you know.”

Rajit seemed satisfied with my answer, but later, when I recounted our conversation for the bestie, the bestie laughed at me.

“That’s a very 1965 answer,” he said.

It was, but . . . AM I WRONG, LADIES?

Judging from numerous conversations I’ve had with with my girl friends, I don’t think I am.

The timer went off at half an hour, all Rajit had been able to afford. I was so relieved the wrestling match/cuddle session was over.

“Time, it goes by very fast with you here,” Rajit observed.

I really hope his new wife likes him, whenever he finally gets to meet her. He is certainly a very kind man.

And I hate the fact that I can’t melt away the loneliness of every single person on the planet. This job has made me keenly aware of just how much loneliness exists out there, and it weighs heavily on me sometimes.

But it does tell me that my job is necessary and valuable and that maybe, I’ve done well in choosing it.

Still not gonna make house calls for my scary looking clients, though!

One thought on “The Butcher Knife

  1. Pingback: One Heckuva Job, Part 2 | Tales from Da Club

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