“Red, what was up with that guy?”
I look confused: so many guys, such a mystery what was up with any of them. Or any of us, really, who knows what kind of desperate tiny tragedies are happening and in the mean time making us all look insane.
I’m having that kind of month/year.
She clarifies. “that guy you were talking to at the end of the night last night. I cut him off; was he drunk or just nuts?”
Oh yes, I know exactly the guy she’s talking about. Him. I took a deep breath, and then reenacted the weirdest and most depressing interaction I’ve had in a while.
My last set of the previous night was at 1.40, I was pretty stoked to be able to leave so early but felt like I should hustle up one more dance. This guy at my rack on the second song told me I was beautiful, and I could tell I had him. My only other prospect was a married girl who was “here for her brother,” but actually wanted to pay me to make out with her. I thought about it, but didn’t know where to make it happen. She was totally cute, but I am a chaste, chaste maiden. I’m saving myself, I’ll know for what when I see it. So I have that and making out with some chick would just interfere. And she didn’t seem like she could afford the fifty I’d asked anyway.
This guy, who resembled Michael Pitt playing a hayseed in maybe an updating of The Grapes of Wrath, looked like a good prospect.
“You ready for a dance when I get off stage, cutie?”
“Can you… Can you give me a dirty dance?”
He stole the very line out of my mouth. I laughed. “totally!”
“I can’t tip you onstage if I get a dance,” he confessed.
Uh, let’s see. One more dollar over the cost of a lap dance. “totally fine,” I reassured him. I got through the next song, relieved that it had been so easy–no more striking out with endless bores, my quest for the night was done!–and took him by the hand as I left the stage. We got back to the dance room and sat down. I shoved my purse and top under the seat.
“Can you, can you show me your…you know.” he turned red. I felt like Hedwig about to give Michael Pitt a hand job; that corrupting.
“Uh, yes.” do you know where you are? You’re in the jungle. “yes, I can. And will.” I pushed him back and started to dance. But he wasn’t done.
“Can you–grind on me?”
Jesus Christ. “yes, I’m about to.” I sat in his lap with a thump and started moving.
Still not done. “I need to come. I really need to come. I’ve had a terrible day, I need you to grind on me til I come.”
“I’m going to grind on you, that’s what a lap dance is. But you paid for a song. And getting you off is not in my job description; I don’t deal with body fluids, that’s more than I get paid for, or you can afford.” I felt suddenly sad and sympathetic, but still totally unwilling to come into contact with any more biohazardous material than had already been smeared across the stage by my coworkers; they’d been on a rampage tonight; all the bachelor parties, maybe.
He looked hysterical. I kept on moving, careful and dreading an eventual spurt but it didn’t happen. Thank god. The song ended.
He clutched his money and begged for another song. It was too tiring to even argue. “I can’t do that. I don’t want to deal with it. I’m sorry. Maybe another girl.”
He stuck his chin out tragically. “My wife hates sex. I’m desperate. Can I sit and talk to you and look at your tits?”
Retrospectively I don’t know what possessed me, I think it was my old problem of curiosity taken to a terrible extreme.
“yeah, okay,” I said, feeling pity.
We sat and he told me his wife can’t have sex with him, he’s too big and hurts her. I thought about his lap and wondered if that was her thoughtful lie or his own ego filling in–it certainly wasn’t true.
It was a sad conversation and like something out of Dan Savage. I tried to offer advice, but I did what my friend Adrienne is always telling me not to do, which is offer solid direction (“therapy” in this case) and then look annoyed when my audience tells me flatly for whatever reason my good advice is just not possible. Apparently I’m a Capricorn.
“you’re helping me just by listening,” he told me, probably to shut me up, and asked, “would you have sex with me?”
I paused, not knowing how to couch the phrase “not in a million years, for so many reasons,” and he continued, “don’t think about it! Just answer!”
“Son, I don’t know you from Jesus.”
“you can’t have sex with Jesus though,” he said impatiently. “Jesus is holy.”
“he’s probably a tender lover?” I offered.
He looked appalled. Finally! “you’re a rotten girl,” he told me solemnly. I almost laughed, but he then ruined it by blurting, “I just need to –fuck your –pussy.” I could tell he was both thrilled at his daring and horrified at his own filthy language.
Oh, okay. okay. I pulled back but he held on to my hands. “Please! I just know you would like it! It would hurt you and you would love it!”
“that’s enough!” I said sharply. “call a phone sex line, I charge extra for dirty talk.” he clutched at my hand and pulled me in for a hug even as I tugged away. “it’s last call! I’m leaving! Goodbye!”
He held me tighter and tentatively tried to touch my ass; I took a deep breath but he finally let go, walking away before I had to scream for a bouncer.
The bartender listened in astonishment, while a waitress couldn’t get over the wife’s line about his dick being too big. She was actually slapping her thighs.
“so do you think he was crazy, or wasted?” the bartender asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered. “maybe he was just crazy Christian.”
They both nodded, like this made total sense.