remnants of the temple
This is one of the pieces I wrote for that crap memoirs writing class I took a while ago. I realize its a bit, no-duh for a sex work blog, as it was written for a vanilla class.
I see him sitting in the back corner on the main floor of the club. I strut over to him, a style of walking that is nearly unavoidable in the four inch black stilettos I’m wearing.
“Would you like some company?” I ask him in my stripper voice whilst gesturing to the empty chair beside him. My stripper voice, which I had been honing for months, was a few octaves higher than my norm, sickly sweet and patronizing with all the silky smoothness that I could muster given the smoky atmosphere inside the club.
“Sure” he says looking at me with his round, watery eyes.
Robert is a small man wearing a striped polo shirt and jeans. His face is aged and stressed, he has a round, knob-like nose and hairy forearms. He drinks a Heineken and fidgets while we chat.
It doesn’t take long to convince him he needs a dance. I lead him to the back, hand in hand, where there are rows of booth like upholstered benches and us ladies straddling, grinding and caressing away hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars. I think this is where the scales become a little more balanced.
I sit down with him in one of the dance booths and we wait till the next song starts. I make small talk and take note of how his eyes scarcely make contact with mine.
Finally the song begins, hip hop rhythms boom through the club speakers and I start my mojo.
Eye contact is my first weapon of choice while I hold on to the sides of the booth and roll my hips to the beat. I move my body close to him, in his space, breathing in his ear, down his neck, imitating foreplay-like behavior. He looks nervous and keeps his hands by his side.
I like that.
I turn around and bend over with my ass thrust purposely in his face, head bent over, hips still moving in slow waves to the music. I arch my back and flip my hair. I have done this so many times by now, my own routine bores me.
I turn around and begin pulling the thin material that makes up the imitation evening gown I’m wearing over my head.
Now it’s time to grind. I get closer to him and start to straddle his lap when he hoarsely asks me to stop dancing.
“What?” I ask.
“Can you not dance?”
I looked at him puzzled thinking I had done something wrong.
”Can we just sit here and hug?”, he asks timidly.
I sit down next to him still wearing my g-string while he hugs me and feels up my body rather awkwardly. I hug him back and caress his body.
Then he starts to talk. He tells me about his marriage, his wife and how cold she is and how all he wants to do is touch her body and feel her.
I wish everyone in the whole wide world could see our interaction right now.
We stay like this for three or four songs after which I escort him to the door and embrace him again. Robert continues to visit me in the club every other week for his hugs.
He’s still one of my favorite customers and I think about him often.
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