Yesterday I stopped by the salon to get my eyebrows done after an afternoon spent at the gym and tipped the girl extra to make it quick because I was meeting Scarlett for sushi-and-martini happy hour downtown and all of a sudden, there in the chair with my head tilted back and the big blond Swedish lady tormenting the delicate skin over my brow bone it occurred to me that I have become my own tropy wife. And it fucking rocks.
My hot streak continues unabated. It's nice. So, so nice. So nice to be able to pick and choose the guys with whom I spend my time. So nice, when the guy I'm sitting with starts pressuring me about how much it costs to fuck me after work, to just get up and wish him a pleasant night and walk off, knowing that there's always plenty of money for me somewhere else. As an added bonus, the gentlemen for whom I have been dancing lately have been total sweethearts, to a man.
I should start a dating service. No, I mean it. A stripper is in a position to vet men pretty thoroughly. We meet a lot of them, and we get to see what they're like when they're not on their best behavior -- when they're drunk and high and lonely and horny and desperate and they don't think anyone important can see or hear them. A man who is polite and fun under these conditions is a pretty good bet.
Fr'instance. I think met the man of my dreams Friday night -- a former teacher of at-risk youth who quit to drive a truck for a year and pay off his student loans. Pasty, wry, and bespectacled, the way I've always liked my men. Yum. He was celebrating paying off his loans and getting out of the trucking business, had a stupid ammount of money and hadn't been laid in a year. We talked about Hunter S. Thompson and Memoirs of a Geisha (which, thanks to Joel, I have read) and psychedelics and GWNN and were deeply, madly in love until 3 am when they closed the bar and turned all the lights on and hearded the dancers back into the dressing room to mill like cattle until the customers were shuttled out of the parking lot and the coast was clear. Seriously, this guy is awesome, if you are into the responsible-drifter type. I've got his phone number. I'll give it to you.
In other news, the Satanist offered me $300 for a blowjob, which I hear is a pretty good rate for that kind of thing. Not enough to tempt me, but it's nice to be offered a decent professional rate, anyway. Nothing is less amusing -- or, in the right mood, more amusing -- than the guy who spends twenty minutes telling you how rich he is and then offers you $100 for sex.