Listening to Strippers, and Loving Them Anyway

The problem isn’t talking to dancers. It’s listening to them. Talking with people is a habit I can’t avoid. Jobs and life have put me in conversation with pretty much any type you can name: the elite intellectual and the unremarkable everyman, the rich and the poor, the beautiful and the hideous. Liar, saint, or psychopath, there aren’t many types I don’t know. I know people who devote their lives to others. I know people who killed for money. And dancers. There is no single dancer type. Their conversation is as diverse as their looks. Except for one thing. With too many dancers, it’s hardly ever normal. If you’re listening, you’ll likely hearing things you’d rather not. But if there were a “regular” for dancers, it would be dysfunction. Like this one. Because she had a truly outstanding pair, I sat barside one afternoon listening to her describe life at home. Special needs child. Heroin-addict daughter. And that’s just to start. The addict was the child’s mother. The dancer was caring for both daughter addict and her child’s child. What started this sad glimpse into her desperate, ill-fated world was the daughter had just wrecked the car. A day in the life. Poor judgment is par for the course too often. Like the gorgeous young women who pulled my dick from my pants and observed that I was circumcised. Enough said, right? Proceed with the blowjob plan? Nope. She thought this would be a good moment to discuss the pros and cons of circumcision. Are you happy with your circumcision, she asked. Huh? Could it wait until I cum? Because your tip will. Pathetic is available in abundance. One dancer was one of the best at a certain club. She could sell it. And she could deliver. I asked her what brought her into this place, an establishment known as much as brothel as a bar. She told me her stepfather dropped her off here at age 18. She’d been giving it away to the local teens. He’d told her if she was going to suck and fuck, she might was well make some money on her knees or her back. What a parent he was. She was a suicide not long after. More pathos. The other dancer stole $400 from me! How did that happen? I left my money in my purse in the back, and she just took it. Someone stole $1,700 from me at a club. Why were you carrying $1,700 at a club? I forgot to take it out of my purse before I went to the club. There’s a theme here. Dancers raising cash to bail out no account boyfriends. Dancers raising money for lawyers so they can sue for custody of kids. Dancers earning so boyfriend can buy his drugs. Dancers needing cash for another fix – and another – and … Conversation isn’t easy even with the ones whose feet are more firmly on the ground. One beauty gave an outstanding blowjob in the back for not much cash at all. What it didn’t cost in cash it cost in time and attention,however. Before she would take you back, she wanted conversation. Her version of conversation was she talks, you listen. You listen to endless complaining. Money. Men. Women. Weather. Anything and everything. Rather than GFE, it was the wife experience. Only the BJ was better. One of the dancers who fucked me most and best met me OTC one time. Can’t recall whether her license had been suspended, her car wrecked or both, but I had to pick her up at her shabby home. That was depressing enough. Worse was her choice of topic for the ride. I’m going to spare you my pain and recount only how (in her mind) her addict boyfriend somehow foretold her impending catastrophic illness, sending her to the emergency room just in time for a doctor to attempt some unheard of therapy that staved off death or lifelong paralysis, allowing her to make a full recovery faster than anyone expected. No adverse side effects on mouth, pussy or price that I could discern. And on and on … I’ve had enough civilian pussy to know that few things in life are free. Most of the sex came with more conversation than I cared for. The difference is the content. No lawyers vying for partner in the clubs. Not even moms POed about the PTA. Nope. Sadly, it’s most dope and dopes. Not all. Mostly. But I’m still listening – because they still make me come.