“Fuck me like a bitch in heat,” I repeated to Regan, barely controlling my giggles.
“He said that? Like a girl?”
I considered. I knew what she meant but, “Not like a girl exactly. Or even like a command. ‘Fuck me like a bitch in heat fuck me like a bitch in heat fuck me like a bitch in heat,’” I mimicked the way he’d actually said it, jaw and teeth clenched, a high-pitched singsong whine of trite sexiness. I couldn’t finish without exploding into a loud cackle of laughter and even Regan had to cover her mouth so she didn’t spit out her energy drink.
“I had to keep slowing down and moving because sometimes it seemed like he was actually going to come. But then he caught on and got mad and didn’t want any more dances.” I frowned. It was a slow slow night, like the past three had been, and I was worried about both my average (for vanity’s sake: I broke the record of the most dances sold in a month at my club and am unwilling to dramatically drop in number, even though bachelor party season is over so it’s to be expected. Also Regan has sworn she is going to beat me, and since I’m about to take some time off, I believe her. But I don’t want her to beat me by too much) and my income, because of the approaching time off.
This worry led me to target people I would otherwise pass over–too much trouble, one-offs, &c–which is how I found myself an hour later ferociously clutching a different customer’s hands, on high alert to keep dodging his tongue, which had yet to spend more than a few seconds consecutively in his mouth; like a dormant zombie it lay inert, hanging out of his lips until I came within some magical limit, and then it would flicker to life, leading him to crane his head toward me while his high pitched giggle made a constant soundtrack to our struggle, punctuated every now and then with,
“You control those hands, girl! Control those hands.” Like he had nothing to do with it. If someone had told me that he was a corpse animated by some distant voodoo practitioner who was speaking through him, I would not have been surprised.
After the song ended he paid me and left and I collapsed against the cushions. The bouncer on back room duty poked his head in and trilled, “Control those hands girl! Control those hands!” and started cracking up. Very helpful.
The cherry on the sundae of that night came at the very end, when Regan and I hustled a last two girl show out of a guy I’d been working on all night. He was a little bit slow, with a group of people as annoying as they were broke, and the first time I tried to get dances from him he had trouble with his card, but Regan decided he should run it as credit, so we tried various prices until finally the minimum charge for a two girl show was accepted. The bartender, looking increasingly harried, shoved the receipt at us and went back to cleaning up; we took him in back. The only other girl dancing was Courtney. With the advent of curtains I find her lapdances less objectionable–it’s no longer a constant battle to keep the customer from noticing what’s happening across from/next to us, saving us both arguments about economics as it becomes clear that my fingers won’t be going anywhere near my orifices–but I’ve never danced near her when the room was empty, and it turned out either I’ve been missing something, or she’s added some new tricks to her repertoire.
“Aaaaaughh…. Mmmmmmmm ohhhhyeah, ohhhh baby just like that. Ohhhhh yeah like that mmmmm oh harder baby harder oh harder ohhhh it’s so tight. Ohhhh yeahoooooooohhhhhmmmmmyeah.“
The onslaught of Courtney’s dramatic moaning was the last straw after the frantic moaning of everyone else. My facade collapsed first as, despite my best efforts at muffling myself, I let out a small strangled croak. I got ahold of myself and resumed dancing, with only some small shaking to give me away, but after a minute or two Regan lost control; a huff of breath alerted me and I had time to shove the guy’s face in my cleavage while she sat in his lap, covering her face with her hair until she was calmer.
“Ooooh ooh oh oh oh oh oh yeeeeahmmmmmm, baby!”
1-He reminded me of Buster from Arrested Development if Buster was a body builder. At one point I vacantly commented on his sizeable biceps–this is something that seems to work on nearly all men: whatever the size of their biceps the vast majority will mumble “d’awwww,” and flex for your admiration. This guy took it a step further, and shoved his drink at me so he could flex like the hulk and show me his traps. I think bulky traps are gross at the best of times, smacking of poor posture and self-upkeep, with a correlating drop in vocabulary and brain function, but his rose all the way to his ears, forming a perfect triangle with his head and the edges of his shoulders. I gagged, jumping to cruel conclusions at how perfectly he illustrated my theory about the correlation between overdeveloped traps and underdeveloped vocabulary/social skills/brain function.