I led him into the back of the club and sat on his knee while we waited for Will.i.am to stop wailing about how he had a feeling tonight was going to be a good night and for some other unfortunate song choice to start up.
Since my customer (let’s call him Rabo Karabekian) was under the impression that I was an Armenian too, I attempted to make jokes about Kurt Vonnegut’s Bluebeard, but he didn’t seem to have any idea what I was talking about. It was incredibly awkward, but I refused to stoop to the level of something less esoteric but still Armenian-centric like Kardashian jokes.
Finally the next song started. I stood up and flung a leg over Rabo’s lap. I was nervous, though knew I had no reason to be, and very, very confused as to why this guy wanted to pay $25 for six minutes of dry humping.
I put Rabo’s hands on my waist, the one place where Heavenly Creatures not only allowed, but also encouraged, touching, and started to grind along to the rhythm of Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer.” I couldn’t really believe this was happening, it was just too ridiculous, a man paying money to sit in an uncomfortable chair while a girl young enough to be his daughter straddles him, removes her bra, and gyrates to terrible music. There are no orgasms. There are other people doing the same thing mere feet away. What is sexy about that? The more I thought about it, the closer I came to laughing.