ELEVEN
“You should come out with me one night,” Mitchell whispers. His ugly mustache itches next to my earlobe. His breath is warm and sour, traced with that nasty O’Doul’s aftertaste which is about a million times worse than the aftertaste of real beer. I pull away and look at him suspiciously.
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Cause you and me’d have a wonderful time together.” He winks.
“I don’t go out with customers,” I reply. I sip stiffly at my drink.
“And I don’t go out with most of these girls,” Mitchell says. “I only play with the kind of girl who understands the game.”
This is the most I’ve ever heard him say out loud. I kind of wish he’d stop talking. His spittle is hitting my face and I’m trying to be discreet while I wipe it off. I’m also afraid that Tim will hear him. So I don’t answer. I sit as far away from him as I can.
“You never have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he continues. He’s either oblivious to the fact that he’s making me uncomfortable, or he plain old doesn’t care.
“What happens if I go out with you?” I whisper, placating him so that maybe he’ll keep his voice down.
“The city is our playground,” Mitchell lisps, his eyes twinkling. I feel nauseated. “And I pay you. I’m sure you could use the money.”
I roll my eyes. “How much?”
“Five hundred dollars. And it’s four, maybe five hours – not those long hours like when you work here.”
I frown. “What would we do?”
“We start out with dinner at a fancy steak house. You like to eat like that? Ever been to one?”
“I haven’t,” I admit.
“Then I take you to some strip clubs, nicer ones than these, and I buy you dances with the girls.”
“That’s not so bad, I guess,” I concede, reluctantly.
“We only do the role-playing in the motel room, not in the clubs or the restaurant,” he continues.
“Ok, back up. You said ‘motel room.’ I knew it. Sorry. No sale.”
“Yeah, but no sex. We’re just role-playing. A little bit of light B & D. You don’t even take off your costume. It’s nothing.”
“That’s all you want? I don’t believe you.”
“Well, I think you don’t really understand the lifestyle so well like you want everyone to think you do,” Mitchell goads me.
“Is that what you think.” It’s a statement, not a question. Because what he’s doing is calling me chicken.
“Look. You want to make the easiest money you’ve ever made in your life, have a good time doing it, without the hard labor?” Mitchell scratches his chin. “You give me a call.”
I take the piece of paper he’s offering with his number on it, fold it up and put it into my little metal purse. I’m mainly doing this to shut him up.
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him.
“Sure. Think about it. I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt to make some more money, easier than you do in here.” He puts his coat on.
“You’re leaving already? Why don’t you buy a lap dance, at least?”
Mitchell smiles. “I don’t like to play in here. You know that. Call me.”
As I watch him leave, I feel strangely detached.
Most of the girls I work with here, the ones who make a lot of money anyway, they also have at least one sugar daddy. It’s steady income they can count on even when the club is slow.
They all claim that they don’t have to fuck these men. That the daddies simply like to keep pretty, young girls around. So their daddies give them money and take them shopping.
The girls spin the story as if they are fully in control of these situations. I think they’re lying. But maybe I’m just not pretty enough to have some guy spend a ton of money on me for nothing but the pleasure of my company.
I wonder what they talk about. What does a chubby, balding middle-aged man really have to say to a twenty-year-old girl?
What if there are exceptions to all the rules we know? What if I could be one of those exceptions?
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