Sometimes a dance is the ultimate dead show

Speaking of Memorial Day, a few days ago was the anniversary of my father’s death. I believe he still crosses my mind maybe one or more times a day, though I don’t really talk about him much. Captain Cake, my fellow stripper and good friend, says she thinks of me as a person who was hatched from an egg, a person without parents.

Anyway, I think it’s creepy when I see men who look like him. I have a customer who looks just like him and even has the same name, which proves that the fates conspire to gross me out. Yuck. A girl in the locker room was taking an informal survey (meaning she was yelling out a question for anyone to answer) asking how much money it would take for you to give your own father a lap dance. Well, there’s a thought. My dad would be very stiff. Did I cross the line? Humor is the best medicine, they say.

Some people cannot cope at all. I had a suicidal customer start crying with me because he said I looked like his dead wife. I think that’s weird, because I don’t think anyone looks like me. He hugged me and started crying. “I miss you so much,” he whispered into my hair. Then I started crying. I didn’t cry much because I would have smeared my makeup. I’m allegedly empty inside, but there’s a whole lot of carefully applied war paint on the outside.

I wiped his tears off and brushed his long dirty hair off his face. I did not say, “Your wife would have wanted you to give me more money,” as much as that seemed appropriate for a stripper to do. I really did let him talk it out and show me his kid’s picture. It really could have been our love child. I wonder what this dead wife looks like. I told him that the next time I see him, I want him to tell me that he got involved in stuff he loves to do. He promised he would.

This job is so much easier when I just get objectified.


Previous Discussion:

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