Lap dance styles

I was giving a dance the other day; it was slow and only one other girl was doing a dance, kitty corner from me. She was waving something around and the shininess of it caught my eye. It looked like a thermometer, or maybe a spoon. I kept watching, thinking I was being crazy, but it didn’t resolve into anything more logical. It continued to resemble nothing more than a long copper sundae spoon which… she was dipping in and out, twirling it, and then dipping down again.
I was so absorbed in trying to figure out what was happening that I was frowning, and my customer could see.
“is anything wrong?” he asked.
“oh no!” I smiled at him. I smile too much. “I was just thinking.”
“about what?”
“if I remembered to wash the silverware?” not sexy! Too late, the song ended. “do you want to keep going?” he did not.
The other girl was done too, so when we were safely back in the dressing room I asked her.
“Spoon?” she looked really confused. “that’s my vibrator!”
Of course, of course it was.

Speaking of vibrators, last week a girl in the dressing room was complaining that hers got stolen. From the dressing room.


hard times, difficult dances, hand holding: part one

A guy fell in love with me off my rack. I like when this happens, it spares me the trouble of having to sit and make small talk while gauging their level of interest and income. It was the kind of night where I kept finding myself having conversations about extras; one particularly oblique one went like this:

“Do you work on the side?”

“No, this is my only job.”

“No, do you work on the side?”

Beginning to understand but annoyed enough by the stupid question to play deliberately obtuse, “I go to school.”

“No, do you work on the side?”

“No, this is my only job.”

Really angry now, “NO DO YOU WORK ON THE SIDE?”

Blink blink. “I just don’t understand what you mean. Do you want a dance?”

“I don’t want a dance! I want to touch you outside of here!”

I hunted around once I was offstage and finally found my enamoured man at the bar. He was ecstatic to see me; I don’t like prolonged conversations in general. Take the money and run, that’s my motto! I mean that’s an exaggeration, some conversations are really great—the banker on the way to Qatar comes to mind—but for the most part they run exactly the way I post them. Kat said at some point that most of her conversations with customers run along the same predictable track which, left uninterrupted, would go all the way back to the moment of her conception. So tedious.

This man kept touching my knee and trying to caress my thigh, his hands kept darting toward my crotch and then restraining themselves before I actually had to hit him. Mentally I heaved a sigh of exhaustion; the trend set by Do-You-Work-On-The-Side was going to continue.

“Are you ready for a dance?” I asked him.

“Yes!” he said enthusiastically, before ruining it all with, “but after I get my drink.”

Fuuuuck. He assured me that he’d already ordered but I could tell he’d order some froufy time consuming drink, the line at the bar was long, and moreover, it was obvious the bartender had already forgotten. I was in for at least another ten minutes of tedious conversation and paw-blocking before I could get him in the dance area and have actual control (and money). I reminded myself about moving, about how I have bills to pay and a mattress to purchase, and moreover, a 40$ cancellation fee from the Friday night shift I cancelled so I could pack for my big extravagant trip to San Francisco. So dumb. So here we were.

Eventually I caught the bartender’s attention and she started making his drink. I asked him to order a snack for me too.

“Do you want to wait for it here?” he asked.

What, so I can keep fending your hands off me for free? “No, let’s go do dances!” I cheered. He beamed at me.

If I hadn’t already known this guy was more trouble than he was worth, his next comment would have yelled it loud and clear.

“I should have worn sweatpants!” he told me brightly as we started.

Unsurprisingly, like the girl from C—–, this gentleman was an airhumper.

Thank god he did not also moan. I had to physically restrain him by holding his hands as the dance progressed, and more than once he darted in for a kiss, actually planting a nasty wet one on my shoulder at one point. Household goods, I reminded myself. Bills. Making in three minutes what takes over five hours of changing diapers to earn. The bouncer was watching me anxiously, I kept baring my teeth and rolling my eyes at him every time my back was turned to my customer. The wet spot on my shoulder begged for sanitizer.

“Let’s do more after you eat,” he suggested. That sounded like a terrible idea, but I’d already wasted so much time and energy on him, it hurt me to think of kissing more dances goodbye. I’d just have to start over again with someone else. We sat down and immediately his hand went back to fluttering over my crotch. I grabbed it firmly and held it as I ate, realizing I wasn’t even hungry and was definitely annoyed. He took a chip.

“Here! You eat some!” I let go of his hand and pushed them toward him. Big mistake. I flinched as it dove back into my lap, looking like it was getting in position to fist me. What the fuck.

He laughed and pulled back. “I scared you, huh?”

“Let’s do another dance,” I suggested. I could go back to holding his hands, he could go back to paying me, I would feel more fairly reimbursed for this crap, and then I could wash my hands of him. And that food. And just literally wash my hands.

“Ooooh, you can’t wait for it can you?” he crooned in my ear, flecking my dry shoulder with spit.

“I am at work,” I offered patiently. He looked blank. “I mean, no, I just can’t wait to dance for you some more!” I pulled on his hand. “Let’s go!”

The bouncer looked startled to see me heading back with a guy who was so plainly a handful, but what are you gonna do?

pro boners

(sort of)

‎”what does your tattoo say?”
“it says, I give an awesome lap dance, you should get one!” helpfully, “in Latin!”
“oh, I’m poor.”
“then WHAT are you doing in the club, son?”
“I don’t know.”
“the door is that way!”
“but what does you TATTOO mean?”
“I’ll tell you in the dance.”
“this whole idea of exchanging money for something isn’t working for me. I have some Latin for you: Quid pro quo!”

Pretty sure he meant pro bono.  Either way, no dice.