Life, the universe, and foot fetishists.

Yesterday was another one of those days off where I still worked. I meant to be at the club by ten, but I took a nap and ended up not getting there until 11:30. When I pulled in the parking lot was full of RVs, and I rushed to finish my dinner and let Bro out to pee so I could get in there and start making money.

The manager gave me a little shit for being so late, but when I offered to leave she pushed me towards the dressing room and told me to hurry up and get ready. I love being a stripper.

Fresh from the dressing room I noticed a table of guys watching me. I moseyed sensually over and sat down to introduce myself. They started talking… in French. No English. No English at all.

Never fear tho, I have a friend, a haughty red head, who is fluent in a gazillion languages. I got her on the phone, “hey, could you talk to this guy in French? Ask him if he wants a lapdance.” Who else but a stripper could you call at midnight and get to ask a guy for a lapdance in French for you? Alas, the connection died, but not until she got the concept across to him. I tried to pull him back to the lapdance area. He made that gesture, a sort of cyclical floating of the hand, that I have learned is often used by european men to mean “later.” I smile, nod, and move the fuck on.

The next guy has long blond hair and bright blue eyes. He seems nice. He likes me. For some reason I just can’t make it click though. I keep making conversation and find out that he’s a single father from Minnesota who comes here to kill fish every summer. As a very general rule, most Minnesotans are awful customers. They expect to touch everything at a discounted price. So I pop the question, he says maybe later, and I move the fuck on.

Contestant number three was really my first choice when I approached the second guy, but he had a different stripper on his arm at that point. Now he’s free, so I slink up. He’s from the big city and he has a Very Important Job, with his own Car, Cell Phone, and Company Credit Card. He’s also a recently divorced drummer. In other words, sensitive, idealistic, and a lot to prove to a pretty young woman like me. He buys me a drink. I sit and talk for longer than normal. I tell him I love his hair, drummers have the best hands, company credit cards are so sexy, and omygoddess I love Metallica too. I can smell the money, but I want to be absolutely sure of the yes before I pop the question.

Finally I tell him, “I’m ready to play with you in the VIP, come on.” He follows, of course.

We start with a song. Then I tell him about my three song deal, so we do that. Then I tell him about my half hour deal, so we do that. He’s sweet: gentle with his hands when I let him touch my hips, and spends the whole time complimenting me on my beauty and skill. He’s into my feet. Especially the arches.

When we come out, the club is almost empty. In the dressing room everyone’s leaving. I figure showing up at 11:30 might make me just a little obligated to stay till close. Plus I hate leaving before it’s all over.

I hang out with Mr. Very Important Sensitive Drummer dude until he leaves.

Another guy comes in. He used to own a head shop here, and live in buses. He’s not interested in spending money, just in being cool. There’s no one else there, so we talk about bus engines and this guy we both used to know who lived in a refrigerator truck and blew glass pipes until last call.

I sleep at the park so I’ll be in town when I wake up, and I dream that I’m living in an intentional community on the Yukon River and a very old woman is teaching me to play with babies. When I wake up, I want to drive north. I lay in bed and take a mental inventory of my cash situation. I have the money to drive north, just not to buy land there. I have every confidence that I could find a way to stay there even without money (my haughty red headed friend recommends endearing myself to someone about to kick the bucket and getting in their will). Money seems less complicated, though, so I stay.