My best day ever, in all my spotty dancing career. It was slow again, but I was pulling some bills. Mr. A came in with a Valentine's Day present for his ATF, Katrice. (A gift card and an unscented candle, since you ask.) Katrice was busy doing something or other, though, so I entertained Mr. A for three songs worth, then tactfully vanished when she showed up, like the soul of discretion that I am.
I was about to lolly back into the dressing room and finish out the shift reading the Missed Connection ads in the newspaper, but I paused to say hello to a non-descript, heavy-set chappy with glasses, who happened to be sitting in my can't miss seat -- the middle table in the raised section that used to be the VIP Room but is now simply the area outside the private dance booth room. In general, this section is a good sell; it's far from the stage, so the peepshow guys avoid it; it's private, so you can have an actual conversation, and because it abuts the PD area, the guys who sit here tend to be serious about their lap dances. This particular seat, though, is a magic charm for me. Guys who sit there are all mine. I know it's crazy, but I don't make this shit up.
So when I see someone sitting there I make a beeline for him. This guy turns out to be a computer programmer, so I sell myself on the basis of my nerdiness and former history as an engineering student. He gives me $200 and tells me to dance as much as I think it's worth. I am in love. He gets the best dances of his life, and knows it. I am athletic, sensual, and tireless. Three trips to the ATM and several hundred dollars later, we part with mutual expressions of esteem.
By then, my boyfriend, so I slide back to the dressing room to change into my unraveling sweater and stinky jeans and float out of the club on air. I am a rockstar. I am invincible. Was I saying around three o'clock that I needed to quit this lousy club for an establishment that deserves me? Forgive me, I misspoke.