It’s Saturday afternoon. Yes, I am still working the day shift.
The fantastic part about Saturday afternoon is that all of the suits are hungover as shit and unable to visit you at their favourite watering hole, where the beers are pricey and the babes aplenty. Today is not the day to play shrink. Instead, I am the sexy tour guide. In lieu of my Mon-Fri clientele, I am greeted by tourists and Bridge-and-Tunnel folk, boners eager and wallets meagre.
By the time the hour strikes four, I am dancing on stage when I smile to a man who is sitting nearby, breathing in my stellar moves. I walk over to him to say ‘Happy Fucking Saturday,’ to which he responds, loudly and with minimal coherence: “YOU HAVE BEAUTIFUL SHMILE!”
“Thank you,” I tell him.
This man’s right side of his body does not appear to be functioning in the same capacity as his left side. As a matter of fact, his right side is not functioning at all. He has a hard time enunciating, and his right side slopes a little. Because I’m a seasoned web-MD-er, I ascertain that this man has suffered a stroke. Mentally, he appears to be a fully-functioning male who thinks with his dick. Fortunately or unfortunately, strokes do not affect a man’s balls and all the idiocies that accompany it.
“What’s your name?” I ask him.
He yells, “NELTHON!”
“Nelson? Lovely to meet you, Nelson. Perhaps I could dance for you later?”
I finish my stage, slip my dress back on and saunter over to Nelson’s perch.
“Are you ready for some fun?” I ask him.
Silently, Nelson follows me to the benches where the lap dances take place. Nelson can walk just fine, it turns out it’s just his arms and face that have been affected by the misfortune that has struck his nervous system. I decide not to ask about it, and get naked instead.
I begin my dance. I start to grind against his crotch, only to discover that his very skinny legs are of a similar thickness to his cock. I know this because it appears that Nelson has chosen to show up at the club this afternoon in parachute pants. Commando.
Nelson wishes to continue for a second, and later third dance. His giant boner is annoying because the thin layer of fabric that separates his parts from my thigh does nothing to restrict it. It bounces around, sticking up and refusing to brace itself against one thigh, which makes it hard to grind against.
I turn around, my bottom in his face, and sit on his lap to go on with what could vaguely simulate the ‘reverse cowgirl.’
A warm wetness attacks my left buttocks. I scream in fright and disgust. I stand up.
“OH. MY. GOD.” I look over my shoulder and down at my ass. Under the black light, it glimmers. I turn to face him, refusing to conceal my fury.
My client has jizzed on himself, through his parachute pants, and onto my ass cheek.
“YOU JUST CAME IN YOUR PANTS. NOW IT’S ALL OVER ME. THIS IN UNACCEPTABLE. YOU MUST PAY ME EXTRA.”
I look around for a cocktail napkin to wipe the goo off me. No one seems to be nearby with a drink and so there’s nothing absorbent and disposable. On the table next to me is a glossy cardboard flyer for the club. I use it to scrape off the baby Nelsons from my ass. Unsasfied with it’s absorbancy, I squat to rub my ass against the back of a chair to get rid of the remaining spunk, as I am too embarrassed to walk through the club to the Ladies’ room with Nelson’s manhood on my ass.
To be physically disabled does not grant you a free pass to jizz through your paper-thin pants and onto my ass that is willingly granting you momentary pleasure. Nowhere, ever, is it ok to blow your load onto someone who has not consented to it. Strippers are, for the most part, strip-teasers. We dance. We are here for your entertainment. We are not here for your disposal of ejaculate. If you want to jizz all over your ghetto-tacular fashion senses, do it at home, or at the erotic cinema, or in the public restroom at Grand Central station. But not on my already-perfectly moisturized ass that has to work for another four hours.
You may have initially appeared to be sweet, but now, Nelson, you’re a fucking ingrate.
Nelson pays me double, the inflated price I demand for such acts of disrespect. I think he’s getting a deal.
I’m not a whore. I thought about it; it’s really just not for me. I’m an entertainer. There is a difference. Nelson fucking sucks because he completely disrespected me as an entertainer. The American idiom sucks for not making a clear distinction between the different kinds of sex work that exists and how to interact with different persons of this vocation.