this old guy is a real handful, way more than he seemed like he would be out by the bar. I keep having to catch and hold his hands as he swipes them at my boobs, dodge his waggling tongue, grab his hands again as he tries to pull my bottoms so far up my ass crack I fear for the elastic.
“I’m going to charge you for new bottoms!” I lecture. “They may be spandex but stripper shit is not cheap.” I really need to learn to sew in a practical way, embroidery is basically useless.
Inane laughter. He thinks I’m fooling.
Intercept another boob swipe, hold hands firmly, make eye contact. ”That’s $500,” I say clearly.
“$500! No way! I mean, I’m sure you’re worth it, but…” he trails off helplessly, like I’m gonna be offended.
“I’m a prize above rubies,” I assure him.
“Yeah, sure. But still, it’s not gonna happen.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement.” Beam at him, let go of his hands and turn my back, and again have to grab his hand as it snakes toward my bosom.
“There you go again!”
“It wasn’t real. If I’d really been trying—. But I respect you.”
“Then why? Why make this harder and more annoying for me when you could just sit back and enjoy my attention and not irritate the shit out of me?”
No answer. Like why not, why would you not just keep pushing at my boundaries, what kind of man would you be if you took no for an answer?
But he does settle down after that, eventually letting me off the dancing hook, just sits there, watching me, waxing hyperbolic about boobs and beer (IPA) in equal measure.