Orgasms and Cartwheels and Pizza

I woke up a full hour before my phone dragged me out of bed this morning; utterly surprising. A full day ahead, I sprung into action: feed the dogchildren, drive to the city, find a mailbox, hit the bank, pay the vet an outstanding balance, swat dogs away from my 5pm breakfast/lunch/dinner. I meant to pound out about six miles on the road today, but taking a few weeks off from running has really helped with the stress of a slight addiction to hitting the trails a little too hard.

Work. I convinced the other girls to order from a pizza place offering gluten-free ingredients/crust for certain pizzas, but not long after I started eating the stupid  thing, I wound up dizzy and short of breath, heart racing again. Fortunately, I have an intensely physical job, and was then up on stage to some techno and under strobes, on broken/glued-back-together shoes. Floor work!

My first customer approached me, an out-of-town guy from a few hundred miles away who’d heard of our wee club and decided to drive down to check it out. In his mid-sixties, I couldn’t tell whether he was spun out or had numbing eye drops coating his dark-brown, never-blinking eyes. He was a sweetheart, asking for nothing and basking in the experience of it all, a bit whelp-eyed like the eighteen-year-olds across the room. We parted ways, and he said he had to go, hitting the road for another four-hour drive home. Four hours in one day, to sit in our Dark Box for an hour, get his dick hard, and turn around and drive another four hours home. I don’t think I’ll ever understand men, no matter how long I work at turning their brains inside out for my income.

Stage sets, some kicking my heels up in the dressing room between them and bullshitting with the other girls, hitting the floor to mill the few customers we had. Ran into Hot Defense Lawyer, chatted nervously for a few minutes, knowing it’s not what either one of us is good at with the other. He blurted out that we should go for dances, and we both jumped up. That. THAT is the only reason we see each other sporadically. Because the dances catch fire and take on a life of their own.

Hot Defense Lawyer has been growing his hair out, and keeping it under a ridiculous baseball cap. It’s fucking luscious and thick, and should really be out in the open for the world to run its fingers through and tug on a little. Combined with his face scruff and his expensive casual clothes and shoes, I can’t decide whether he’s cool and quiet, or painfully awkward and accidentally hot. Whether he has this hot shell of outsides, and is a train wreck socially, or whether he is actually cool and just quiet because he thinks he might not be the “kind of guy” that goes to a club to look at pussy.

I got off, he managed to get off, and our naughty bits never touched. No matter how much sexual tension I’m up against, that zipper stayed put. I’m pretty sure we’d both just explode into tiny gory pieces after bursting apart, anyway. I apologized for his now-soaked pants, he laughed about soaking the inside as well. I maybe get off once or twice a year at work, and it’s usually a complete surprise and some weird hormonal thing when I haven’t gotten laid in too long — and usually, on someone at least twice (or more) my age, not a Greek god with spectacular hair in his early 30s.

“I didn’t know you liked to be choked.”

“I didn’t know I did until tonight.”

$250 and an orgasm later, I felt like my week and my work environment had significantly fucking improved.

A thong change, a few baby wipes, and I still felt like I needed a shower. More stage sets, more nicotine gum, more and more water to drown out the dumbass who made me a pizza with wheat on/in it somewhere and maybe flush out some of the cold chills I’d been getting from it. Every day is like a fucking food gamble in my life.

Midnight comes and goes. Banter with an executive with 175,000 flyer miles in ’12, who thinks he’s younger than he is, who’s smart and quick on the draw with language. Perfect. My kind of person. He’d been fucked over by a coworker of mine a few days back, who’d told him to pay half up front to meet him at a hotel, and never showed to fulfill, an easy stunt to pull off on drunk guys for girls who are unwilling to actually prostitute. I bit my tongue when the girl told me the story, holding back on a bit about being unethical or some shit. What is ethics? No one writes a handbook on this shit and we all just make it up as we go, anyway.

The dancer who’d fucked him over managed to get him to agree to a hefty number of dances, somehow. They reappeared, and we pretended to hand off a baton, while standing next to him, as he dribbled on and on about how he couldn’t wait to dance with me. He’d spent their dances talking about me, about everything I’d said, fuck I don’t even remember what had fallen out of my mouth during that little bantering session, I just stored his name in my memory for the hour to look like I remembered these things.

Some easy dances, quiet talk, his amazement of my ability to speak well, my involuntary rolling of the eyes in response. Time passes slowly, and our clientele dies off for bedtimes on a work night. I pass the time joking with coworkers in and out of the dressing room. After our end-of-night finale, a younger single mom with hips for days, N*, and I belt out and dance out the lyrics to “I Believe in a Thing Called Love.” We danced silly, our shoes off, leaping all over the now-empty, lights-on club, thrusting hips and waggling arms in all directions.

I left, headed to a friend’s to catch an old episode of Dexter — because technology renders me practically Amish — and sure enough, I wind up watching an episode featuring a strip club run by a Ukrainian mob. Of course. Mobsters and strippers and serial killers. Perfect bedtime television for a real-world stripper who’s getting ready to settle into an old house alone for the night.


~ by The Stiletto-Shod One on January 16, 2013.

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