The following is a look into my own experiences and conversations with a regular at the bar at which I dance. The patron to whom I will specifically refer has come in to buy at least five dances from me every single time I have worked since I started.
When I first met Mark, which is the alias he said he would prefer in order to keep his identity a secret, I viewed him as a middle-aged, fat, alcoholic, pervert, of whom I could easily take advantage.
These initial assumptions turned out to be completely true, and now that I am putting it into words, I feel a little ashamed of myself.
Last Saturday, I was not doing so well as far as financial gains go, but just when I thought I had no chance of recovering, here comes ol’ faithful Mark, stumbling in his dingy New Balance shoes, which he said are the only pair he has owned for over four years.
On this particular night, he had consumed a little too much alcohol, which was apparent through the overpowering smell of whiskey on his breath and clothes as well as his overly-slurred speech.
As usual, he paid for five VIP dances up front, I grabbed his sweaty hand, lightly pressing my cold finger tips into the back of his palm, and escorted him to “our favorite room,” as he calls it.
At this point, I began to realize just how much I genuinely did not care about this person who seems legitimately interested in me as not only an object to be desired, but a human capable of more than dancing and looking beautiful.
I arrived at the conclusion as he was boisterously telling me about a dispute he and one of his coworkers at the factory had gotten into the previous day.
I remember specifically thinking about what I planned on eating when I got home from work. As I was doing this, I was pretending to care about his feelings by holding his head to my chest and lightly rubbing his back.
He then told me he did not mind if I chose not to dance on him because he just liked the “human contact,” something he said he does not often experience.
Though I did feel sympathetic for him at that moment, I am still unable to say I legitimately care about him considering the circumstances.
How could I? He is an overweight, 50-year-old pervert who I would never even consider seeing outside of my workplace.
Of course I would talk to him in public if I randomly saw him, and I would likely be concerned if his waist-length hair got caught in the machinery at work, something about which we have joked on numerous occasions.
Other than that, he is just another aging, corpulent patron who drinks too much too often.