"It's not really the best idea to just walk away when you have people lined up for you – especially when some girls have no one to dance for," Yasmine says again.
I shrug and take a sip of my drink. "I needed a break," I say.
"You've been needing a break since you started, Misty," Yasmine says, using my stage name again. My real name is Ashley Lane. But on the floor, it's like I have a pen name. And it's only professional for her to use it. "Are you sure you want to be here?"
That's the rub, isn't it? I graduated cum laude from Yale University. Sure, Art History may not be Engineering, but it's still Yale. What am I doing at a strip club?
"I need the money, Yasmine," I say to her for the millionth time. "You know that."
"Isn't there anything else you could be doing to make money instead of making yourself miserable every night from 8 pm to 4 am?" Yasmine asks, as she too orders a glass of wine. "This can't be good for you."
It's not a question I haven't asked before.
But there is one unavoidable truth in America for a woman today that is kind of depressing but still hard to escape.
That truth? Sex will always sell.
No matter what you end up looking like, women can always make money selling some form of sex. Which is basically what I've been reduced to because of my financial situation. A sex worker.
"I just wish I could find something that pays like this that didn't involve … " I begin, looking for the proper words, but struggling.
"Having to deal with men?" Yasmine asks, as if she's in my head. I look up at her because she hit the nail on the head. She smiles at me.
"If I didn't have to deal with ugly guys all night, I could still do this," I tell her. "Hell, I could do a lot more."
Yasmine pauses for a moment, as if thinking to herself. I wonder what's going through her head.
Finally, she reaches into her bra, and pulls out a business card. I had no idea she kept things in there, but she hands it to me.
"Take the night off, darling," she tells me as I take the card. "And call these people in the morning."
"Simulated Pleasures LLC," I read aloud.
"Same owner as Scorcher's," Yasmine says nodding, referring to the strip club. "Only you can work from home and it's a phone sex line. They could use someone with as much imagination and intelligence as you."
I look at Yasmine, grateful. This could totally be it!
"Thank you, Yas-" I'm about to say, but Yasmine has already gotten up from her chair and interrupts me.
"Now go home," she says. "I'm serious. You're no good here."
***
It's nearly midnight by the time I get my makeup off, tip out the DJ, the makeup girls, Yasmine, the waitress, as well as the club.
I'm waiting on 6th Avenue for a taxicab but tonight, they're hard to come by. Finally, I see one that stops and I go to get in.
Just as I get inside, the door opens from the other end. A man gets in.
This is my cab! What the fuck!
"59th and Fifth Avenue, please!" the man literally shouts at the driver. I can tell he just came in from the club.
"Hey buddy!" I yell at him and he turns to me. His eyes widen and he looks at me as if he knows me.
I can't lie. He's cute. More than cute. He's gorgeous. He's muscled and he's got a smirk and if he wasn't coming out of the club, I would totally be crushing on him right now.
"This is my cab," I manage to finish.
It takes a moment, and finally the guy speaks.
"Listen, uhm, Miss," he says. "My dad just died and the cab is already on its way … "
Whatever. This is the last time I'm going to have to deal with people from a strip club.
"Just make sure you give me the money before you get out," I say and pull out my phone.
I put on my earbuds and turn on my music. I would have loved to just stare at the guy, but his stop comes by way too fast-in like 5 minutes-and he hands me a $100 note before rushing out.
"34th and 8th," I tell the cabdriver, wondering what kind of people I'll be dealing with on the phone sex line.
Regardless of what they're like, at least I'll be safe from people like this guy who just tossed me a C-note.
I'm okay if I never have to go inside a strip club again. Or deal with the people who frequent them.
Well, I mean, I wouldn't mind if I run into the guy who got off at the Plaza again, though.
Just saying.
35
Ashley
The taxicab is taking me past the Plaza, where Gorgeous Jerk got off, and is heading onto 8th Avenue. I look at my watch as we approach Times Square.
It's just barely midnight. I can see Peter's apartment on 50th Street.
"Stop the cab!" I yell to the driver who stops with the characteristic lack of surprise based on having seen everything most likely in his tenure as a New York City cabdriver. I pay the fare and get out of the car, heading toward Peter's building on the corner of 50th Street and 8th Avenue.
Peter lives by himself in a 4 story walk-up, and as someone who graduated from college a couple of years ahead of me, the fact that he has a job and an apartment to himself makes him a pretty big catch in the dating pool of New York City.
I reflect on this as I take the keys to his apartment out of my purse and open the front door.
That's right. He's given me a set of keys. I think he gave them to me last month – after we'd been dating for two months. I know what he sees in me. He thinks I'm hot, or whatever. I mean, I try to work out and look good. I save up for things like dresses or heels or yoga pants. I don't spend obsessively going shopping all the time, and I'm not vain, or anything. But I try to look cute. And I guess he appreciates it. I mean, if you ask me, there are a thousand other prettier girls you can find at any given moment-I'm not anything that special, but Peter always likes showing me off for whatever reason.
But then again, aren't I kind of doing the same thing? I know that's what you were thinking maybe, weren't you? When I said the fact that Peter has a job and his own apartment makes him a catch, I did my own aspect of superficial judging there I think.
I mean, on paper, that's great. But he's not perfect. I don't think there's such a thing as a perfect guy. He's okay to look at-he's tall enough, and he's not like super hot, but he's not ugly. He's just … average.
We have sex. I mean, it is what it is. It's not like super-crazy sex or anything. Like I'm not yelling at the top of my lungs. Sometimes I don't really cum. I mean, everyone knows that to be a girl means sometimes a guy's cock isn't going to do it for you, right? And Peter isn't a big fan of going down on me, so sometimes I just fake it to make sure everything is going well. I mean, a part of me is really turned on and gets really wet knowing what I can bring him to. What I can do to him.
That's what I'm thinking about tonight. I'm thinking I want to have sex. I want to fuck. But is his 5-inch cock going to satisfy me tonight? Some nights I'm lucky. If I'm coming from the club, already kind of horny, then sure, I can get off no problem. But some days, 5 inches, no matter how hard, doesn't really do it for me.
Maybe if Peter worked out a bit more. But every time I ever bring it up, he talks about how busy he is from work and how much he needs to decompress. I guess I can understand that. I mean, the guy who shared the cab with me today-he was hot. Obviously doesn't miss a gym day. Gym day is every day for someone like that.
I wonder what having sex with someone like that would be like as I finish climbing the four sets of stairs and open the door.
Maybe tonight I can close my eyes and pretend that Peter is the Gorgeous Jerk. If I keep my eyes closed and not think about the body I'm feeling-the slight man boobs and bit of a potbelly-I guess I could pass it off.
"Oh fuck, baby, that's so good. Just like that," I hear Peter say from his room. He's got a one-bedroom apartment in Midtwon West and I know he basically pays an arm and a leg for it, with very little left over to afford.
But that's not what I'm thinking about as I hear him again.
"Oh fuck, fuck baby," I hear him.
Is he jerking off? Maybe I should have texted him instead of just coming up here like this.
I don't know why I make my footfalls softer.
But then again, I also don't know why my heart is beating so hard.
I'm at the threshold to his bedroom. The door is closed. I hear the bedsprings squeak.
Someone is in there with him.
I give myself a moment to close my eyes and prepare for the worst.
I mean, I thought we were good together. That this was as good as it gets. But maybe I was wrong? Maybe I wasn't good enough for Peter? I don't know, okay. Have you ever been in a situation like this? Because I haven't. I don't know if I'm thinking right.
I open the door. I don't even both knocking.
The reaction is almost immediate.
Peter is on top of someone and he stops while he's raised up. He twists his head back and sees me. His eyes go wide.
"Ashley!" Peter exclaims.
I just stand there as he looks back down to whoever it is below him and then to me, like a deer caught in headlights.