Stripper Chit-Chat II
- Thread starter justlooking
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"I like to get to know the customer sometimes.
"Like during a wall dance I was giving a few days ago. The guy told me a lot about himself. He got around to telling me about the two stillbirths his wife had had.
"Finally he said to me, 'This isn't what I expected. Here I am talking about death when I should be talking about coming in your mouth.'"
"Like during a wall dance I was giving a few days ago. The guy told me a lot about himself. He got around to telling me about the two stillbirths his wife had had.
"Finally he said to me, 'This isn't what I expected. Here I am talking about death when I should be talking about coming in your mouth.'"
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
Since everybody's decided that these threads reveal me as a rampaging egomaniac, I might as well post this story. I hope at least some of you can see that the point isn't that I'm bragging about this, but rather how absurd it is for some unpreposessing (OK, make that schlumpy) middle-aged professional to find himself in this kind of scene.
In the interests of full disclosure, I should tell you that this particular, um, "relationship" ended very badly (with a series of truly vicious voice mails). But I can't tell you the details of that without inappropriately revealing personal information about the stripper in question.
Owing to space limitations, I have to post this in two parts.
Part I: It's The Economy, Stupid
Tuesday night.
I go to see this UTR girl. She's gorgeous. She's fresh. If rumors I hear are true, there's only one person she currently sleeps with for cash, and it's me. The sex is fabulous. Draining. She ends up nearly asleep in my arms; I just lie there spent. Completely emptied, physically, emotionally, every way. Like a sex zombie.
It's still fairly early. Obviously, I can't go right home after that.
I decide to stop by an upscalish strip club to see how a "friend" is doing. I haven't yet seen her outside the club.
I walk into the club about 10 p.m. It's empty. Or rather, empty of
customers. It's full of strippers. Each of whom has paid a $100 (maybe $200) shift fee for the privilege of coming to work with no prospect of making any money.
My "friend" joins me. She's very tall -- a good six feet -- and striking. Her body ranges from excellent to slightly flabby, depending on how much exercise she's been getting. It's now in one of its near-excellent phases. She has unnatural breasts, unfortunately. She has long dark hair, and a face that's like Wynonna Ryder's in that it looks very attractive when you don't look hard, and sort of funny when you do look hard. She's very bookish -- coming from a very bookish background -- but also extremely troubled.
After talking for a long while, I buy a dance.
The dance is intense. Contact at a level far far beyond what you'd expect at an upscalish club like that. I go for three of them, and by the third, although I wouldn't have thought it possible after what I'd been through with the UTR girl . . . well, you'll have to ask my dry cleaner.
She puts on her dress, sits down, and smirks.
It seems clear to me what's going on here.
ME: You know, there's a decent amount of money to be made having meaningless sex and book chat.
HER: How easy?
ME: Very easy.
HER: Like, tomorrow night easy?
ME: Sure.
HER: Where?
ME: The Liberty. Then, we could add dinner to the meaningless sex and bookchat.
HER (not knowing how obviously patronizing she's being): You certainly know just when to strike.
ME: Well, I've been a lawyer for more than 20 years now.
HER: My rent is overdue. Can I have an advance on my salary?
ME: Can't do it. Against the rules. I wouldn't be able to show my face in . . . .
HER: The Club for Men Who Pay to Sleep with Strippers?
ME: Something like that.
HER: I think it's pathetic there's a club like that. And I think it's
pathetic you're a member.
ME: [Looks hurt]
HER: OK, if there's a club like that, I think it's cool you're a
member.
Since everybody's decided that these threads reveal me as a rampaging egomaniac, I might as well post this story. I hope at least some of you can see that the point isn't that I'm bragging about this, but rather how absurd it is for some unpreposessing (OK, make that schlumpy) middle-aged professional to find himself in this kind of scene.
In the interests of full disclosure, I should tell you that this particular, um, "relationship" ended very badly (with a series of truly vicious voice mails). But I can't tell you the details of that without inappropriately revealing personal information about the stripper in question.
Owing to space limitations, I have to post this in two parts.
Part I: It's The Economy, Stupid
Tuesday night.
I go to see this UTR girl. She's gorgeous. She's fresh. If rumors I hear are true, there's only one person she currently sleeps with for cash, and it's me. The sex is fabulous. Draining. She ends up nearly asleep in my arms; I just lie there spent. Completely emptied, physically, emotionally, every way. Like a sex zombie.
It's still fairly early. Obviously, I can't go right home after that.
I decide to stop by an upscalish strip club to see how a "friend" is doing. I haven't yet seen her outside the club.
I walk into the club about 10 p.m. It's empty. Or rather, empty of
customers. It's full of strippers. Each of whom has paid a $100 (maybe $200) shift fee for the privilege of coming to work with no prospect of making any money.
My "friend" joins me. She's very tall -- a good six feet -- and striking. Her body ranges from excellent to slightly flabby, depending on how much exercise she's been getting. It's now in one of its near-excellent phases. She has unnatural breasts, unfortunately. She has long dark hair, and a face that's like Wynonna Ryder's in that it looks very attractive when you don't look hard, and sort of funny when you do look hard. She's very bookish -- coming from a very bookish background -- but also extremely troubled.
After talking for a long while, I buy a dance.
The dance is intense. Contact at a level far far beyond what you'd expect at an upscalish club like that. I go for three of them, and by the third, although I wouldn't have thought it possible after what I'd been through with the UTR girl . . . well, you'll have to ask my dry cleaner.
She puts on her dress, sits down, and smirks.
It seems clear to me what's going on here.
ME: You know, there's a decent amount of money to be made having meaningless sex and book chat.
HER: How easy?
ME: Very easy.
HER: Like, tomorrow night easy?
ME: Sure.
HER: Where?
ME: The Liberty. Then, we could add dinner to the meaningless sex and bookchat.
HER (not knowing how obviously patronizing she's being): You certainly know just when to strike.
ME: Well, I've been a lawyer for more than 20 years now.
HER: My rent is overdue. Can I have an advance on my salary?
ME: Can't do it. Against the rules. I wouldn't be able to show my face in . . . .
HER: The Club for Men Who Pay to Sleep with Strippers?
ME: Something like that.
HER: I think it's pathetic there's a club like that. And I think it's
pathetic you're a member.
ME: [Looks hurt]
HER: OK, if there's a club like that, I think it's cool you're a
member.
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A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
Part II: Stranger Than Paradise
Wednesday night.
I'm sitting at the bar in Macellaria waiting for her. I'm reading, so
I don't notice her when she walks in.
Normally, when you meet strippers off-premises for "dates", they dress down. But this girl has decided to campaign hard for a permanent staff position. She shows up in some strapless little black thing. Not stripperwear: it was well-cut and obviously fairly expensive.
You often read guys on the boards saying how much they love it when all eyes are on them and their paid companion in some public place. I hate that. I don't want to be stared at because I'm with some inappropriate young woman. I usually feel like I can get away with being seen in public with my Stripper Friends because they tend to look like people I might conceivably be with. But not this very striking six-foot-tall woman in a strapless black minidress. I immediately decide -- don't ask me why -- that my wife's boss and her husband are going to walk into the resutaurant any second. It gives me something to think about when I'm not gazing into my companion's eyes (and cleavage), listening to her talk about either her new boyfriend or all the weekends she and I could spend together in cute little B&Bs in the country.
Two wiseguy types sit down at the next table. They're very interested in my companion. When she leaves to grab a smoke, they strike up a conversation with me, obviously trying to size me up. When she returns, they try to talk to her. It's in this familiar, patronizing, sort of mock-nice tone that you hear guys like that use when they're talking to someone they don't respect but think they're covering it up. She later mentions to me how much she hates that, hearing it all the time in her club.
We leave to walk the three or four blocks to the Liberty. People are literally shouting at us on the street along the way. At one point, this bunch of boys starts shouting compliments at her. Then, after we've passed them, they start repeating over and over to me, in loud shrill voices, "You da man! You da man! You da man!" I look for a pothole to hide in.
We get to the Liberty. Her campaign for a permanent staff position steps up.
It's a beautiful night, so we take a walk afterwards. We stop in an all-night convenience store so she can buy more cigarettes. There's me in my semi-casual linen sportcoat, her in her strapless black thing, the counterguy, and two young blondes in tube tops and jeans. "For the first time, I feel like a prostitute," she says.
Part II: Stranger Than Paradise
Wednesday night.
I'm sitting at the bar in Macellaria waiting for her. I'm reading, so
I don't notice her when she walks in.
Normally, when you meet strippers off-premises for "dates", they dress down. But this girl has decided to campaign hard for a permanent staff position. She shows up in some strapless little black thing. Not stripperwear: it was well-cut and obviously fairly expensive.
You often read guys on the boards saying how much they love it when all eyes are on them and their paid companion in some public place. I hate that. I don't want to be stared at because I'm with some inappropriate young woman. I usually feel like I can get away with being seen in public with my Stripper Friends because they tend to look like people I might conceivably be with. But not this very striking six-foot-tall woman in a strapless black minidress. I immediately decide -- don't ask me why -- that my wife's boss and her husband are going to walk into the resutaurant any second. It gives me something to think about when I'm not gazing into my companion's eyes (and cleavage), listening to her talk about either her new boyfriend or all the weekends she and I could spend together in cute little B&Bs in the country.
Two wiseguy types sit down at the next table. They're very interested in my companion. When she leaves to grab a smoke, they strike up a conversation with me, obviously trying to size me up. When she returns, they try to talk to her. It's in this familiar, patronizing, sort of mock-nice tone that you hear guys like that use when they're talking to someone they don't respect but think they're covering it up. She later mentions to me how much she hates that, hearing it all the time in her club.
We leave to walk the three or four blocks to the Liberty. People are literally shouting at us on the street along the way. At one point, this bunch of boys starts shouting compliments at her. Then, after we've passed them, they start repeating over and over to me, in loud shrill voices, "You da man! You da man! You da man!" I look for a pothole to hide in.
We get to the Liberty. Her campaign for a permanent staff position steps up.
It's a beautiful night, so we take a walk afterwards. We stop in an all-night convenience store so she can buy more cigarettes. There's me in my semi-casual linen sportcoat, her in her strapless black thing, the counterguy, and two young blondes in tube tops and jeans. "For the first time, I feel like a prostitute," she says.
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"I've had a lot of dreams lately where I've been rubbing food onto myself or having it rubbed onto me.
"In one, I was in bed at the Liberty with one of the chambermaids. She was rubbing lasagna all over my body.
"In another dream, I dreamt my club was having this special promotion. They took a bunch of us girls over to a construction site. They had us standing on this girder that was hanging from a gigantic crane. The crane would move the girder up and down by the side of this big unfinished steel-frame building on the site. We all lined up on the girder and stripped for the contruction workers who were standing in the unfinished building and watching us. After our clothes were off, we'd dance naked on the girder and rub meatballs all over our skin."
"In one, I was in bed at the Liberty with one of the chambermaids. She was rubbing lasagna all over my body.
"In another dream, I dreamt my club was having this special promotion. They took a bunch of us girls over to a construction site. They had us standing on this girder that was hanging from a gigantic crane. The crane would move the girder up and down by the side of this big unfinished steel-frame building on the site. We all lined up on the girder and stripped for the contruction workers who were standing in the unfinished building and watching us. After our clothes were off, we'd dance naked on the girder and rub meatballs all over our skin."
After finishing up a handjob, a stripper rummages through the pile of discarded clothing at the end of our bench to find her purse and pull out a couple of individually-wrapped towelettes.
"I got these at the Colombian restaurant near my apartment," she explains. "They had a bowl of them by the cash register. I grabbed a handful, thinking, 'I can use these at work.'"
"I got these at the Colombian restaurant near my apartment," she explains. "They had a bowl of them by the cash register. I grabbed a handful, thinking, 'I can use these at work.'"
STRIPPER: Where did you grow up? I can't remember.
ME: The South Shore of Long Island. It was awful.
STRIPPER: So your parents are these typical South Shore . . . . Wait a minute. Are you Jewish? [She's at least half Jewish]
ME: OF COURSE I'm Jewish.
STRIPPER: You don't look Jewish at all. You look so . . . Anglo.
ME: I look WHAT?
STRIPPER: You know, like one of those people in a picture with a wig.
ME: Maybe one of the Jewish ones.
ME: The South Shore of Long Island. It was awful.
STRIPPER: So your parents are these typical South Shore . . . . Wait a minute. Are you Jewish? [She's at least half Jewish]
ME: OF COURSE I'm Jewish.
STRIPPER: You don't look Jewish at all. You look so . . . Anglo.
ME: I look WHAT?
STRIPPER: You know, like one of those people in a picture with a wig.
ME: Maybe one of the Jewish ones.
I'm at the bar of a strip club, chatting with a stripper I've "dated". In fact, my favorite of all the strippers I've "dated". This is very early in our, fuck, I don't know what to call it, "relationship". Just shortly after the first time we "went out".
Somehow, she starts to talk about her relationship with her boyfriend. This is the longest relationship she's ever had, a few years. And the sex has gotten boring. It's become a chore to have sex with him. She looks for excuses not to do it. But she really likes him as a companion.
"I don't think it's possible for sex with the same person to stay exciting," I say. "But sometimes, in a good relationship, you go through the boring phase and come out the other side. It becomes really comfortable, and amazingly satisfying."
"I don't want comfortable," she says. "I want excitement and variety."
"Well, this is going to sound like a dirty-old-man rationalization," I tell her, "but I don't think humans, as higher mammals, are wired to be monogamous. I think it's unnatural to only have sex with one person for twenty or forty -- or even five -- years. It's a problem."
"So what do YOU do?" she asks.
I am incredulous. Coming from her to me, that's about the least likely question I can imagine.
"You KNOW what I do," I say.
She looks at me inquisitively. I can't believe we're having this conversation.
"I have sex with other people," I say, "but I try to do it in a way that doesn't become part of my real life. I try to keep it somewhere outside my real life. I have sex with . . ."
". . . people that don't mean anything to you emotionally," she finishes for me.
I can't believe we're having this conversation.
"But I don't want to cheat," she says. (I can't believe we're having this conversation.) "I feel like it would be wrong. At my first club, I thought it was OK for me to do two-girl shows in the Champagne Room, because I didn't really like the other girls and it was part of my job. But I wouldn't do anything with customers." (Am I that forgettable?) "And if my boyfriend knew even what I was doing with other women, he wouldn't have liked it."
"I think you have to do something to build a wall around it," I say. "Something that makes it clear that it isn't real. The way I do that is by making sure it's commercial. That one way or another I pay something for it. That way, I can always convince myself that it's just entertainment, not anything that could impinge on my real relationship. Maybe you would build a different kind of wall."
"I sometimes fantasize about picking people up and having anonymous sex with them," she says.
I grab a napkin and scribble "Philip Roth, The Professor of Desire" on it. "You should read this book," I tell her. "At least you'll see you're not the only person thinking about these things."
"Some people say it's good for the other person in your relationship if you do things like that," she says. "That it's OK to do it because it makes your relationship better. What do you think of that?"
"I think it's hypocritical," I say. "I mean, we both have to hide these things. We both know what your boyfriend, or my wife, would say if we asked them if they thought it was good for them.
"I mean, basically, we're both going to go to hell."
I'm beginning to find it actively disturbing that she can continue this conversation while completely failing to acknowledge that we have had sex with each other. I mean, I know I insist that paying for it makes it meaningless. But I don't mean THAT meaningless.
Maybe she suddenly remembers that she's a stripper chatting with a customer. Because finally she looks me in the eye and says:
"I hope you know how . . . refreshing it is for me to go out with you."
"The pleasure is all mine," I say.
Somehow, she starts to talk about her relationship with her boyfriend. This is the longest relationship she's ever had, a few years. And the sex has gotten boring. It's become a chore to have sex with him. She looks for excuses not to do it. But she really likes him as a companion.
"I don't think it's possible for sex with the same person to stay exciting," I say. "But sometimes, in a good relationship, you go through the boring phase and come out the other side. It becomes really comfortable, and amazingly satisfying."
"I don't want comfortable," she says. "I want excitement and variety."
"Well, this is going to sound like a dirty-old-man rationalization," I tell her, "but I don't think humans, as higher mammals, are wired to be monogamous. I think it's unnatural to only have sex with one person for twenty or forty -- or even five -- years. It's a problem."
"So what do YOU do?" she asks.
I am incredulous. Coming from her to me, that's about the least likely question I can imagine.
"You KNOW what I do," I say.
She looks at me inquisitively. I can't believe we're having this conversation.
"I have sex with other people," I say, "but I try to do it in a way that doesn't become part of my real life. I try to keep it somewhere outside my real life. I have sex with . . ."
". . . people that don't mean anything to you emotionally," she finishes for me.
I can't believe we're having this conversation.
"But I don't want to cheat," she says. (I can't believe we're having this conversation.) "I feel like it would be wrong. At my first club, I thought it was OK for me to do two-girl shows in the Champagne Room, because I didn't really like the other girls and it was part of my job. But I wouldn't do anything with customers." (Am I that forgettable?) "And if my boyfriend knew even what I was doing with other women, he wouldn't have liked it."
"I think you have to do something to build a wall around it," I say. "Something that makes it clear that it isn't real. The way I do that is by making sure it's commercial. That one way or another I pay something for it. That way, I can always convince myself that it's just entertainment, not anything that could impinge on my real relationship. Maybe you would build a different kind of wall."
"I sometimes fantasize about picking people up and having anonymous sex with them," she says.
I grab a napkin and scribble "Philip Roth, The Professor of Desire" on it. "You should read this book," I tell her. "At least you'll see you're not the only person thinking about these things."
"Some people say it's good for the other person in your relationship if you do things like that," she says. "That it's OK to do it because it makes your relationship better. What do you think of that?"
"I think it's hypocritical," I say. "I mean, we both have to hide these things. We both know what your boyfriend, or my wife, would say if we asked them if they thought it was good for them.
"I mean, basically, we're both going to go to hell."
I'm beginning to find it actively disturbing that she can continue this conversation while completely failing to acknowledge that we have had sex with each other. I mean, I know I insist that paying for it makes it meaningless. But I don't mean THAT meaningless.
Maybe she suddenly remembers that she's a stripper chatting with a customer. Because finally she looks me in the eye and says:
"I hope you know how . . . refreshing it is for me to go out with you."
"The pleasure is all mine," I say.
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It's mid-evening, say about 8 or 8:30. I return a phonecall I'd gotten earlier in the day from a girl who works at an underground place. We talk disultorily for a couple of minutes. Then:
HER: I'm at work.
ME: I can hear.
HER: I'm in the middle of a lap dance.
ME: Oh. I guess you should call me back.
HER: I'm at work.
ME: I can hear.
HER: I'm in the middle of a lap dance.
ME: Oh. I guess you should call me back.
In a private room in a strip club.
We've both spent a lot (I mean A LOT) of time with our mouths on each other's genitals.
Knock on the door. Time's up.
We get dressed.
She looks at the table in the room. She's barely touched her drink (which is the same as mine); not at all since we started.
HER: Do you want it? I'll pour it into what's left of yours.
ME: Great. Thanks.
HER: You sure you don't mind? I had my mouth in it.
We've both spent a lot (I mean A LOT) of time with our mouths on each other's genitals.
Knock on the door. Time's up.
We get dressed.
She looks at the table in the room. She's barely touched her drink (which is the same as mine); not at all since we started.
HER: Do you want it? I'll pour it into what's left of yours.
ME: Great. Thanks.
HER: You sure you don't mind? I had my mouth in it.
This was already posted elsewhere on UG, but might as well put it here where posterity can locate it.
I arrive at a restaurant downtown, where I'm meeting one of my Stripper Friends.
I'm running late, and I had hassled her into meeting me a bit earlier than she had wanted to, so I'm feeling a little rushed as I come in. I see a tall blonde sitting at the bar, her hair pulled back in a pony tail the way my "friend" sometimes wears it, her head buried in a book the way my "friend"'s would be, so I can't see her face.
I rush up behind her and begin playing with her hair.
"I think you have the wrong blonde," the bartender says. "The person who's waiting for you was sitting at that table over there," he says, motioning to an empty table with a coat draped over a chair and a half-drunk glass of wine.
The blonde at the bar looks up. She isn't my "friend".
"I'm so sorry," I say.
"No," she says. "I'm flattered. I was just telling him [looks at the bartender] how beautiful your friend is after she passed us on the way to the ladies' room."
The bartender walks me to my table. "I guess the person sitting here is your friend," he says. "I'll take any blonde you give me," I say. He eyes me warily. "You're sure you're [my name], aren't you?" he asks.
My Stripper Friend returns to the table from the bathroom.
ME: I attacked that woman sitting at the bar when I walked in. I thought she was you. She told me she was flattered, because she thinks you're so beautiful.
STRIPPER (sharply): You thought SHE looks like ME??????
I arrive at a restaurant downtown, where I'm meeting one of my Stripper Friends.
I'm running late, and I had hassled her into meeting me a bit earlier than she had wanted to, so I'm feeling a little rushed as I come in. I see a tall blonde sitting at the bar, her hair pulled back in a pony tail the way my "friend" sometimes wears it, her head buried in a book the way my "friend"'s would be, so I can't see her face.
I rush up behind her and begin playing with her hair.
"I think you have the wrong blonde," the bartender says. "The person who's waiting for you was sitting at that table over there," he says, motioning to an empty table with a coat draped over a chair and a half-drunk glass of wine.
The blonde at the bar looks up. She isn't my "friend".
"I'm so sorry," I say.
"No," she says. "I'm flattered. I was just telling him [looks at the bartender] how beautiful your friend is after she passed us on the way to the ladies' room."
The bartender walks me to my table. "I guess the person sitting here is your friend," he says. "I'll take any blonde you give me," I say. He eyes me warily. "You're sure you're [my name], aren't you?" he asks.
My Stripper Friend returns to the table from the bathroom.
ME: I attacked that woman sitting at the bar when I walked in. I thought she was you. She told me she was flattered, because she thinks you're so beautiful.
STRIPPER (sharply): You thought SHE looks like ME??????
In private room. In bed.
STRIPPER: You're so virile.
ME: [Looks at her incredulously]
STRIPPER: That's a compliment.
ME: I know it's a compliment. But it's not a word I'd ever use about myself.
STRIPPER: You've got five or six "girlfriends". You have sex with your wife. Not a lot of men your age could do that.
ME: That doesn't make me virile. It makes me immature.
STRIPPER: You think you're immature?
ME: Look at me. Here I am, in bed, with a girl grinding her breasts into my underpants. Does that seem mature to you?
STRIPPER: [Laughs wildly] I'm not going to be able to do anything for you anymore.
STRIPPER: You're so virile.
ME: [Looks at her incredulously]
STRIPPER: That's a compliment.
ME: I know it's a compliment. But it's not a word I'd ever use about myself.
STRIPPER: You've got five or six "girlfriends". You have sex with your wife. Not a lot of men your age could do that.
ME: That doesn't make me virile. It makes me immature.
STRIPPER: You think you're immature?
ME: Look at me. Here I am, in bed, with a girl grinding her breasts into my underpants. Does that seem mature to you?
STRIPPER: [Laughs wildly] I'm not going to be able to do anything for you anymore.
STRIPPER: I've been having a lot of nightmares recently.
There was one last night, where I was in line at the grocery store. I didn't have any clothes on.
ME: I have dreams like that sometimes. But I wouldn't have thought it would bother you.
STRIPPER: It was at the grocery store!
But that wasn't the worst one. I don't dream about here a lot. But I had one last week.
I was with one of my regulars. He had his credit card out. He was about to take me to a Champagne Room for two hours. Then, suddenly, I started telling him what I really thought of him. I told him he was a jerk. I told him he was boring. I told him he was ugly.
Then, HE PUT HIS CREDIT CARD AWAY. It was horrible!
There was one last night, where I was in line at the grocery store. I didn't have any clothes on.
ME: I have dreams like that sometimes. But I wouldn't have thought it would bother you.
STRIPPER: It was at the grocery store!
But that wasn't the worst one. I don't dream about here a lot. But I had one last week.
I was with one of my regulars. He had his credit card out. He was about to take me to a Champagne Room for two hours. Then, suddenly, I started telling him what I really thought of him. I told him he was a jerk. I told him he was boring. I told him he was ugly.
Then, HE PUT HIS CREDIT CARD AWAY. It was horrible!
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After finishing a blow job in the Champagne Room (did you read that, Chris?).
HER: Do you believe in Jesus?
ME: No.
HER: Why not?
ME: For one thing, I'm Jewish.
HER: Jews don't believe in Jesus?
ME: No.
HER: Then what do they believe in?
ME: The 1964 Democratic platform.
HER: Do Jews believe in the Bible?
ME: Only half of it, the way you'd see it.
HER: I believe in the Bible. What I just did was wrong.
[a little later]
ME: Want to go out sometime?
HER: Sure. When?
HER: Do you believe in Jesus?
ME: No.
HER: Why not?
ME: For one thing, I'm Jewish.
HER: Jews don't believe in Jesus?
ME: No.
HER: Then what do they believe in?
ME: The 1964 Democratic platform.
HER: Do Jews believe in the Bible?
ME: Only half of it, the way you'd see it.
HER: I believe in the Bible. What I just did was wrong.
[a little later]
ME: Want to go out sometime?
HER: Sure. When?
In the Champagne Room before my VIP session is to begin. The Champagne Hostess has brought in our drinks and my credit card receipt. She starts chatting with us.
HOSTESS: I'm going to be out at the end of the week. I'm going to have surgery.
ME: Without wanting to pry, I hope you'll be OK.
HOSTESS: Oh, it's supposed to be outpatient. Don't worry. Just a woman's problem.
STRIPPER: Can I ask you something personal? What is it?
HOSTESS (sits down): I've had these cysts in my vagina. I keep having them. It's a disease. It's called endometriosis. They keep doing scrapes. This time they may take out more. I don't know.
STRIPPER: Does it hurt when you have sex?
HOSTESS: Yes.
STRIPPER: What does it feel like? Can you feel, like, something blocking, like, here? (Points to lower abdomen)
HOSTESS: Yes. That's it.
STRIPPER: I have that same feeling. And I've felt cysts in my vagina. I went to the emergency room to have them removed a few months ago, and they told me not to worry. But I still have the pain, every time I have sex.
HOSTESS: With me, it differs. It was worse with my ex-husband than my boyfriend because my ex-husband was, you know, bigger. [Turns to me] This won't come out of your time. Don't worry.
ME: That's fine. This is fascinating.
STRIPPER: With me it always hurts. The cysts never burst, do they?
HOSTESS: Nothing like that has ever happened to me. [pause] Well, I guess I ought to get going so you two can get started.
[leaves]
STRIPPER (kissing me deeply): So what should we do tonight?
HOSTESS: I'm going to be out at the end of the week. I'm going to have surgery.
ME: Without wanting to pry, I hope you'll be OK.
HOSTESS: Oh, it's supposed to be outpatient. Don't worry. Just a woman's problem.
STRIPPER: Can I ask you something personal? What is it?
HOSTESS (sits down): I've had these cysts in my vagina. I keep having them. It's a disease. It's called endometriosis. They keep doing scrapes. This time they may take out more. I don't know.
STRIPPER: Does it hurt when you have sex?
HOSTESS: Yes.
STRIPPER: What does it feel like? Can you feel, like, something blocking, like, here? (Points to lower abdomen)
HOSTESS: Yes. That's it.
STRIPPER: I have that same feeling. And I've felt cysts in my vagina. I went to the emergency room to have them removed a few months ago, and they told me not to worry. But I still have the pain, every time I have sex.
HOSTESS: With me, it differs. It was worse with my ex-husband than my boyfriend because my ex-husband was, you know, bigger. [Turns to me] This won't come out of your time. Don't worry.
ME: That's fine. This is fascinating.
STRIPPER: With me it always hurts. The cysts never burst, do they?
HOSTESS: Nothing like that has ever happened to me. [pause] Well, I guess I ought to get going so you two can get started.
[leaves]
STRIPPER (kissing me deeply): So what should we do tonight?
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will I get banned if I add something here?
not a stripper, just a young and upcoming escort.
Ill make it quick.
Was connected through another young escort.
I go up to her appt off Junction blvd.
She insists, (I didnt know her kid was going to be in next room sleeping in crib, but I found out)
Anyway, after 20 minutes I finish round one.
We talk.
She tells me that a month before, her babys father caught her up in this apt with her new boyfriend and the babys father, a huge spanish fellow, beat the shit out of her new boyfriend, hes the jealous type.
She took away his key after that, he swore he had no other keys.
Thats why she told me to park around the block and she met me at the laundry room entrance, so in case he was around, the babys father who lives 2 buildings away, he wouldnt see her come down to let me in.
I never saw her again.
if this post breaks any rules or insults JL, please delete it. Sorry in advance.
not a stripper, just a young and upcoming escort.
Ill make it quick.
Was connected through another young escort.
I go up to her appt off Junction blvd.
She insists, (I didnt know her kid was going to be in next room sleeping in crib, but I found out)
Anyway, after 20 minutes I finish round one.
We talk.
She tells me that a month before, her babys father caught her up in this apt with her new boyfriend and the babys father, a huge spanish fellow, beat the shit out of her new boyfriend, hes the jealous type.
She took away his key after that, he swore he had no other keys.
Thats why she told me to park around the block and she met me at the laundry room entrance, so in case he was around, the babys father who lives 2 buildings away, he wouldnt see her come down to let me in.
I never saw her again.
if this post breaks any rules or insults JL, please delete it. Sorry in advance.
Last edited: