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I remember the first stripper I met. She was my lead singer's girlfriend. Her gig was fetish. Goth fetish. Marilyn Manson was popular to the extent that every other kid in high school had either black fingernails or some sort of "Matrix"-esque outfit in their closet even if they didn't necessarily wear it at school. My lead singer (we'll call him Jerrod for privacy purposes) had been dating her for a short period of time and she was beginning to realize just how much of an alcoholic schmooze he was.
She intercepted me in the hall one day and mentioned how she noticed I had a pager and reliable transportation- a truck Jerrod had convinced me to use as collateral for a loan which he never paid me back for. She asked if I would be willing to come pick her up after work sometime if she filled my tank on occasion. I told her I would be interested, and then forgot the conversation. About a week later, I got a page while on a date at about 2am. I was exerting all my charm and about to get into her pants when my pager went off, to be specific. Duty calls, and I left said strumpet on her doorstep, unwilling to risk the opportunity to help a damsel in distress, especially one that I had been nursing a crush on.
I arrived shortly thereafter to shuttle my little goth princess to her home. It took me a while to make the connection that I was actually fulfilling a fantasy of almost every man/boy my age- that I was about to literally take an exotic dancer home.
In reality, it wasn't that glamorous. I hefted two suitcases full of outfits and stage props to the back of my truck as the stragglers who were booted after last call haggled me from across the parking lot.
"Your sister's cute! You fuck her yet?"
All in all, it wasn't that bad. At least I was more of a man than her boyfriend. I had a job, I had a vehicle, and I was reliable. Too bad she liked boys. I still regret that I never even went to one of her shows. That was probably the only way I would have been able to see her naked.
Oh well. |
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