“I’ll get you fired from this club,” a customer told me. “I’ll get you fired from every club in Vegas. I have that kind of power.” And I couldn’t help but to laugh. Had there been a reason to fire me, he would have had to know my name or give an accurate description. “She was blondish. Youngish. Sorta tall with heels on. Kinda short without. Her name is Chrysanthemum Moon or something?” He told me he would have me fired if I didn’t go home with him. That would be unfortunate. If I were fired from every strip club in Vegas, it would be hard to write about strip clubs. I mean, I have some spare stories in the attic but I think readers would catch on eventually. “Why do you like me so much?” I asked him. “You’re beautiful. You’re intelligent. You’re innocent.” Beauty is subjective.
Intelligence is arguable. Innocence? I don’t know your definition of innocence but I had just been rubbing my bare breasts all over him within a minute of our introduction. This man had been my customer for about half an hour. I drank chilled vodka while he rubbed my feet. “You know, this is illegal,” I informed him, as he kept at his massage. I believe the rules are that a customer may not touch your feet and your feet may not be near his groin. I don’t remember really saying much else to him. The music is exceptionally loud at this club. I could feel the vibrations in my body. “I can do whatever I want. I know everyone here.” And I guess he did. He was acknowledged by a handful of douche bags in suits. He dropped a bunch of names too. “I know Johnny, Phil, Tony” or something like that and so on. “I don’t know any of those people,” I said, unimpressed. “Who hired you?” he asked. I shrugged. “A guy in a suit.”
This customer’s name sounded like something that is calming, but my name for him would be a clubbing douche bag who wears tight T-shirts and likes to bully women into dating him.