it was a dark and stormy sunday night. i waited for the bus in the torrential downpour with a hipster girl who ate a blow pop with such theatrically inconsiderate loud wet smacking slurping licking chomping sounds that i became literally OVERWHELMED with the desire to punch her in the face. i balled up my fists in my pockets. clearly, it was misplaced rage. (is that the word? i mean that makes it sounds like it was rage that was lost and i couldn't find it, instead of rage that i had full possession of but wanted to place upon the wrong person.) i don't even know what i'm so mad about, i'm not a generally angry person. but something about that girl just made me want to knock the pop right out of her mouth.

i experience a similar rage at the gym when men make groany sex sounds while lifting weights or exerting themselves on the cardio machines. i guess i don't like being exposed to other peoples' sexual sounds without my consent. so you see, it's more an issue of consent than of my being a hair-trigger rageaholic.

when i got to work there were about five customers in the whole bar. i was working with my #1 favorite girl to work with, though, so i just figured it would be a night about fun instead of money. and if i happened to make money that would be a nice bonus.

i danced a few sets and then i noticed a super handsome guy sitting back against the wall. i went and sat with him for a minute and got him to buy a dance. and then he bought four more in a row. he was dutch. i love a dutch accent, i have to say. he really reminded me of one of my favorite massage clients, a very tall dutch man i think i've written about before, and like my massage client, we had a natural chemistry that made the minutes tick by without feeling like work at all. just like a fun sexy connection with someone you're never going to fuck, but whose energy feels exciting for a minute.

there. i admitted it. i sometimes get turned on at work. i'm now officially out of the closet on that one. i used to talk about it with the girls at the massage parlor all the time, how arousal is such a sneaky lil force, just pops up sometimes when you're going about your business. it's funny to write about it, though, especially now that i've got some queer readers. i feel like there's this expectancy/assumption that if you're a lesbian, you're only in sex work for the money. and yes of course money is the #1 driving force, but it's also a really fun job that i happen to enjoy for the most part. it's fun to get to try out different sexual personas with customers, i like talking to them and i like the license to exude as much flirty sexy energy as i want without any judgement or expectations, because it's my job. it's kind of a lucrative exploration. or something. i don't know.

after five dances with the dutch guy, he excused himself and on his way out told me, "you're my portland dream. unforgettable." it was really a cute thing to say.

after that, THE MOST annoying girl came to sit at the rack for a long time. she was really pretty and probably normally sweet, but she was extremely drunk and likely tripping balls. she kept tipping, so that part wasn't annoying. but she was just super lovey and needy. the kind of person who will suck a lot of energy out of you if you let them so it's better to ignore them. which only makes them want your attention more. anyway she kept standing up and beckoning me over to her, desperately. i finally went up to her and she said, in the serious tone of someone delivering an important message, "you're really beautiful. i mean it. like, really really really. do you even know that?" i said, "yes honey, i know it. you're beautiful, too. now please sit down and just relax. it's fun here, okay? not serious." she did sit down then and try to relax.

but the next time i was up on stage, she was back to being all high and crazy. she kept standing up and trying to caress my legs as i danced past her. i shot her a warning glance, which she ignored. instead, she stood on her chair and reached over to yank my thong back and cram a bunch of dollars into it in a sloppy motion that involved her fingers clutching into my asscrack. i grabbed her wrist and said, "do NOT touch me." she looked wounded and goes, "geez. you're SCARY." i said, "oh girl, you don't even know. do you want me to show you scary?" at this, she stepped down from her chair and went back and sat with her boyfriend, who had long since grown embarrassed by her antics and taken a seat in the back, near the door.

a late 30's butch dyke came in with a guy friend. he also seemed gay, and totally disinterested. they both had weird hot topic fashion. (or maybe it was actual st.mark's place fashion. what do i know about these things, and is there even any difference anymore?) anyway the dyke looked like a female adam lambert from american idol. (is it redundant to say "female adam lambert"?) getting to the point: the dyke was fucking rad. she sat at the rack and smiled and tipped well and clapped heartily after each song. she only stayed a little while, but i was happy she'd come in.

some airline pilots from texas came in pretty late. they didn't want to buy dances, but they were a good time and got all of us girls liquored up. by that time, they were the only tipping customers. we three girls and the three pilots sat together at the rack, sipping cocktails and watching whichever girl was dancing. the guys gave us stacks of ones to tip each other. i liked dancing for my co-workers and having them tip when i smiled at them or did something they liked. it was really really cute. it felt like a cozy little party. a perfect sunday night. and then before i knew it, it was time to get off work and go to bed.