The Satanist broke up with me last night. It was all very subtle and polite, but surprisingly disheartening. I haven't seen him since he offered me a fairly generous $300 for a blowjob, and I turned him gently down. Last night he shows up though, right around last call at 2am, and the first thing he tells me is that he's taken some crazy barbituates and is in a bad way. I offer to help him find a chair and he looks away and clears his throat and says, "Actually I'm here to talk to Andy." Poof: dismissed. I do help him find a chair, though, since the Friday night circus is in full swing, and that's not a nice place to let a man on barbituates wander alone. Then he kisses me on the cheek, rather coldly, pats my hand in the international sign for "get lost" and I zoom off.
Andy is his dancer room-mate's new best friend -- the other girl with rock n' roll tattoos and Manic Panic hair. More his type anyway. It's all good. The money's not a terrible loss. He was never a huge spender, though reliable and consistant.
I miss him, though. He was fun. I liked him. Customers don't have a monopoly on confusing fantasy with reality and getting their feelings hurt. Only my fantasy was that he and I had some sort of bond, that we were, kinda, friends. Repeat with me this strip-club mantra: Friends don't pay friends to take their clothes off.