Frangelico-Induced Spontaneous Dance Party and the Geneticist’s 64th Birthday

I hung my head and walked out of the club with another $180 tonight, a screwed up muscle along my spine (again), and three pairs of shoes that decided to finally give up on me. I guess, at least, it’s $180, but it’s definitely fix-stripper-shoes-with-glue-instead money. The past four nights, I’ve made as little as $77 and no more than $320; this definitely qualifies as a slump. A post-Christmas-bullshit-slump. I fucking hate Christmas, anyway. If I wasn’t so sleepy, I might just segue into a long bit about how Christmas music is shit (and that shit’s everywhere) and the entire season is a flashy bit of assessing worth, financially and to others. Thinking about Christmas now has me grumpy. Thinking about how everything I’ve worked hard to save in the past year is going to mundane bills to pick up the slack for this month makes me grumpy.

Post-Christmas slump. Right. January is such a fucking unpredictable month.

[Am I swearing too much for a shiny new blog? Shit.]

My regulars — all of them — have disappeared. Many of them are shared with another dancer, Y*, who’s recently quit and begun solely spending time with former customers as a companion, and I suspect that’s probably part of it. Others, likely lost in the new wave of prostitutes hired and not yet caught. Regardless, I’ve hardly seen anyone I know in the past three weeks, which is starting to stink of someone-else-is-sucking-cock-for-cheap. My regular clientele was what put food on my table and paid the bills; maybe 70-80% of my net income.

The universe always fucks me over just when I think things are finally — finally — settling down for good. I had a savings account I was so very proud to keep building, saving for a car and feeling like, for the first time in my life, I wouldn’t have to wait until a car was beyond repair to buy another. My bills were paid ahead of time, I was eating well, I had a little cash in my pocket for “walkin’ around money,” and I had a vacation-style marathon planned in the warm desert in February that I recently had to admit I have to cancel because of finances. I was starting to worry about taxes, but feeling like maybe there was a reasonable solution to the problem that wouldn’t eat every penny I’d saved for a car for a year.

I spent Sunday night at a casino/hotel with Y* and a regular of ours, for his 64th birthday. I paid the dog-sitter, bought him some golf balls and tees as a gift/small gesture for all he’s given me over the last year, wrapped it in Disney Princess paper with princess stickers, and slipped into a tiny black dress at the hotel. After a few small drinks of Frangelico, the three of us headed down to catch our dinner reservation. I stuffed as much gluten as I could in my face, knowing glutening was impossible to avoid at the restaurant he chose, and accepted my fate of being sick for a few days in exchange for being able to eat the tastiest stuff in the world that’s now forbidden to me in my gluten-intolerant body. We ate. I had a few drinks. My heart started pounding like I was staring down the last 100 yards of a 5K, full-speed ahead. Apparently, my body’s no longer content with a stomachache and a migraine from gluten. I pretended to take my leftovers from dinner upstairs while giving myself a chance to sit and collect my now-fogged-up brain and circulatory system to make them function well enough to be a good little birthday companion.

We headed to my favorite table to play three card poker, and he dropped some cash for the games to begin. Our stash waxed and waned. Straights, flushes, pairs, straights, flushes, pairs. I managed to keep my foggy brain together. While talking about not having hit any “trips” (three-of-a-kind) or straight flushes and about how we were going to leave the table and find another, I hit trips, paying out 30-to-1, and giving our original stash a surplus. Y* and I were each awarded a black chip, and sent to play out another black chip apiece at the craps table while he hit up the bar for a bit.

Craps was the last thing I wanted to play. I didn’t know how to play, I needed to pocket the money I was supposed to be gambling with, and I needed to sit the fuck down and let the gluten and the few drinks I’d had at dinner run their course through every system in my body. I was exhausted to begin with, being on someone else’s daydwelling schedule, and standing up for an indeterminate amount of time and thinking quickly about odds and learning a new game were riding on the edge of too much. I made it, though, and played conservatively, managing to hang onto 3/4 the money I was given to play with.

Upstairs, we continued the party. A few more sips of Frangelico, but alcohol wasn’t cooperating with my bloated, angry intestines, either. 64 birthday spanks, alternating one rough tap from Y*’s hands and one rough tap from mine, as Geneticist lay belly-down on the bed. We reminisced about his birthday the year before, in the same casino/hotel, and the 63 spanks he’d received then. Y* belted out the Black Eyed Peas “My Humps” in various tempos while behind frosted glass in the bathroom, and then danced her way around the room while we tried to remember the lyrics to Kelis “Milkshake.” We laughed and laughed for a few hours, reminisced, and did somersaults and she jumped on the bed. There was discussion of he and I visiting Y* in her new city on the ocean, excitement about more travel and collective daydreaming of rough, unlikely plans to do it.

It took awhile to part ways, her having thoughts of not seeing him in the months to come, and me, awkwardly being witness to an intimate, emotional moment between Y* and her client, saying longer-term goodbyes. We shouted our final Happy Birthdays, thanked him, and headed out the door with the last 1/3 of the bottle of Frangelico.

We’d made only what we’d been given to gamble, this time, instead of the usual. It was his birthday, and I tried to excuse it. The man has been good to me in the past year, even going so far as to pick out a fancy, beautiful, comfortable bed and mattress to replace one that I whined about hurting my bones all of the time that sat on my floor. He’s bought countless dinners, bottles of my favorite wine, paid for a hotel in Vegas, expensive jewelry, and paid the usual rate, both in the club and outside of it for companionship. I suppose I could grant him his birthday celebration as a good time to scrimp on payment, right? After the dog-sitter, gas/gift, and finding food on the road, I made a pittance that barely makes a dent in this week’s bills.

I wish his birthday didn’t happen precisely at the same time as my looming tax debt and a wreck of a financial situation from the post-Christmas slump. Why couldn’t he be born in November? November would have been perfect! Fuck.

She and I hit our bed, she pounded the last 1/3 of the bottle, and we giggled over quiches (yes, the food). It all (d)evolved into a dance party with a flashlight app in the dark, and I soon fell into sleep, hard, needing so much more than I’ve been getting. Fucking daydwellers, man. Fuck mornings.

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~ by The Stiletto-Shod One on January 15, 2013.

One Response to “Frangelico-Induced Spontaneous Dance Party and the Geneticist’s 64th Birthday”

  1. Ouch. I had no idea after Christmas was so rough, hang in there Miss. And best of luck with the finances.

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