Battle cry of the Brat Pack: “I just want to give you pleasure”

Stripping is an ongoing and very abject lesson in “You never know.”  You just never know.  I was talking to a guy who looked like Emilio Estevez in the Breakfast Club–a lot of it was in the hair but also sartorially. He was a pleasant and amusing conversationalist and within five minutes he suggested we do a dance.[1] Easy as pie, I thought. One of those dances where I’m laughing the whole time and grateful for customers like him.

I took him to the back room and we continued talking until the next song started.  He kept talking after that but all my energy was sucked up by monitoring his hands, letting out a half-hearted laugh where it seemed like he expected one, and then more hand holding.

“No touching,” I reminded him sweetly, and then more firmly.  “No touching when I’m naked, you don’t want me to get yelled at, do you?” This is a cue for the bouncer to intervene.

He loomed into the room. “Keep your hands to yourself!”

“Oh yeah oh yeah,” Emilio nodded.  “Right.” Bouncer went away, the guy explained, “It’s just so hard, I just want to give you pleasure.”[2]

“Ahaha, right. Well, you can’t, sorry. Not why I’m here. Now you just relax, don’t move, and enjoy yourself.”

We got through the rest of the dance without incident, holding hands for the rest of the song. I weighed the merits of another 40$ against the constant vigilance, handholding, and probable irritation of another song; decided I could cope.

“Let’s keep going!” I smiled, played with his collar. “I’m not done with you yet.”

“I don’t know… You know, I think you wiped me out but I really enjoyed this. You were great.” And with that, he swooped his hand toward my lap. I’d already turned away at “wiped me out,” but caught the motion from the corner of my eye and managed to catch his hand an inch above my [3].

I slammed his arm into the armrest of the chair and bent his fingers back. “If you try that again, I will break your nose.”
I paused to let that sink in and let go of his hand, moved away to dig around for my bottoms under the chair.

He found his voice. “I didn’t do anything!” I stared at him blankly. “You’re a crazy bitch! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t do anything.”

“Pay me.” I tried to give him a cold look but felt over the whole interaction. Annoyed and tired and almost hopeful that he’d try something so I could actually hit him. What a whiny little shit–it went with his entitled poufy haired aesthetic.

“You know what? You know what?” We waited while he figured out where he was going to go from there. “You can have forty dollars! But you’ll never see me again.” He flung two twenties at me with hilariously ineffectual force. I collapsed in laughter, spite giving extra force to my cackles until I actually sounded like a witch. He gave me a dirty look and flounced away, poufy hair bouncing indignantly.

I finished laughing, and hustled off to spend the rest of the night re-enacting his grand and unsuccessful gesture.
“And you will never–see me again,” I intoned dramatically in the dressing room, arm in the air like I’d just made it rain. Autumn and Virago stared at me incredulously.
“Really?” Autumn is easily shocked, a satisfying trait in one’s audience.
“Like, ‘Oh no’,” Virago laughed heartly. “Oh no, you’re never gonna see him again! Oh no, there’s not a club full of men out there who are probably nicer and richer. Oh no.
“He just wanted to give me pleasure,” I sighed. “I’m such an ingrate.”

PS: No, you’re not entitled to your opinion.  Cause some opinions are more equal than others. True fact.

________________________________
1- He was actually really funny and made me laugh a few times, but this was a month ago and I didn’t take notes–the whole interaction was so funny that I thought it would stay in my head but turns out only the last two minutes stuck. With reason.

2- This is like, a thing. Guys say this all the time, about how their only pleasure is in giving pleasure, &c&c&c. But think about it. The guys who talk about giving me pleasure are so wrapped up in their vision and version of what’s happening that they’re totally blind to what’s actually happening.
How responsive and good at um giving pleasure can someone so unable to pick up on cues be? My cues, for example, aren’t so much cues as solid verbal warnings and directions: “No touching, only I touch you, no you can’t touch me, no you can’t touch me, you really can’t, I am the only person who touches, just sit back and let me do my job, I will hurt you if you do that again.”

Can you imagine someone that wrapped up in themselves being good in bed? Happy chance alone would account for it, I doubt he would register it if you explicitly told him he wasn’t getting you off.

3- It’s so annoying that there aren’t any non-embarrassing crotch euphemisms for girls.  Women.  Ladies.  Whatever.  Vulva is technical and embarrassing, crotch is, as Regan rightly claimed, terrible (although also terribly hilarious), most of the rest are infantilizing (kitty? yikes) and a bunch are worse than crotch. Gregology.net (seriously where do I come up with this shit? By googling “vagina euphemisms.” BECAUSE I CARE) suggests droog which, as the russian for “friend” (although the fact that it is a male friend, and not “padrooga” is stupid–or the etymology of this possibly entirely made up word could be totally different) appealed to me most but actually I’m just going to leave the whole thing as a footnote. I have an exam to study for. Though to be honest I might just end up finishing the Forsyte Saga and wondering why male gingers are always so unattractive except for the Weasley twins. Call me, boys.

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