I circle the room in an uninterrupted round, trying to make sure I’ve noted every customer and gauged their level of interest through eye contact or a smile before committing myself to having to actually sit down and talk to them. My favourite time of night, especially if I’m not getting dances right off my stage sets, is the two hours from 12.30-close, when mostly all I have to do is walk up to a guy, announce, “you look like you need a lap dance,” to drag him off to the private dance room like a Neanderthal dragging a clubbed bit of prey.
I vary it, sometimes they need a “wild dance”, but actually that one makes them give me side eye, like I might take that Yeah Yeah Yeahs song seriously, get a little crazy, cut off their head, or dance dance dance til they’re dead.
Tonight I think they need “a really dirty lap dance” and this is going well. I haven’t felt like I’m dragging the clubbed spoils of war back to the dance area, so much as going back under the bleachers with delighted boys at a middle school dance, to sneak shots and make out. It’s been rare this January to get customers so gleeful about spending money.
I walk up to a man standing by the first stage. “you look like you need a really dirty dance,” I purr into his ear.
He frowns. “I look dirty? How do I look dirty?”
oh for god’s sake. “no, sugar. You look like you need a good old dirty dance.” I’m already annoyed and bored by this conversation and want to walk away but feel like I have to see it through.
“oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“oh, I don’t know. You’re just so clean cut and buttoned up. You need to loosen up.”
“well, I’m a cop. So I need to stay buttoned up.”
oh jeez. I can’t help laughing at the whole stupid interaction. “fine by me!” I smirk, and pat his arm. “have a safe night!”


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