The Freakiest Sexual Proposition Ever
You know those posts where I’ve clearly had a couple glasses of wine and I sit down at the keyboard, when I probably shouldn’t. Well, get ready for another one…
For some reason, I’ve decided that it’s high time I tell you about the night I was cocktail waitressing in a dingy little strip club and I got the strangest sexual proposition of my life. Let’s be fair, that’s saying a lot. I’ve certainly never claimed to be a shrinking violet, but this dude… he was special and I think it’s a hilarious, yet slightly scarring story that my Lovely Babies deserve to hear.
I hope you have your therapist on speed-dial, you are welcome for the warning:
Strip clubs smell of hairspray, cheap perfume, six kinds of lotion, two people sweating, a half-eaten cheeseburger, and a cigarette burning in an ashtray all mixed together to land a punch square in the middle of your face. Sexy.
For some reason, men still find them hot. Don’t ask me why.
So, one night I had this particularly squirrely guy at one of my tables—thin, middle-aged man, half-balding, almost spindly, Mr. Rogers-looking kind of guy (light blue cardigan, orthopedic shoes and everything). To get my attention, he reached out and grabbed me by the wrist when I walked by; which automatically made me want to junk-punch him.
He ordered a Seven and Seven and offered to buy me a shot. He was wearing a nametag for the Public Library that said his name was Paul. Uhm, hey, Paul. I drew my fingers into a mock rectangle the size of his nametag on my own imaginary lapel to let him know how I knew his name.
Paul looked totally freaked at first (since I had just magic-ed his name out of the clear blue) but glanced down at his nametag and fumbled to take it off so quickly that I thought he would stab himself in the hand. I got our drinks from the bar and downed my shot. He drank his cocktail and leered at me in the most super-creep way instead of paying me for the round.
Paul seemed edgy and looked around the room, stage lights bouncing off of the smoke in the air, mirrors on every surface that sat still long enough. He stared at the ceiling, not looking me in the eyes when he told me his idea of fun.
I have an offer for you.
He pulled a Snickers bar and some packaged cheese crackers out of his pocket and explained how he wanted me to eat them and walk around for about half an hour. Then ask the barmaid for a plastic cup. He wanted me to go back to the bathroom in the dressing room and throw them up into the cup so that he could take it home and drink it. He offered me three hundred dollars.
I thought it was funny, to the point that I almost laughed in his face, because I was so disgusted I almost puked on him for free. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think straight. Who the hell… what the fuck… oh god… what am I doing… how did I end up here… slow breaths… say something… bouncer was fifteen feet away, back leaned into the wall, staring at the girl on stage.
Uhm, I’m flattered, but I don’t really do that. I’ve got to go get to my other tables. It was nice meeting you.
Paul grabbed my left wrist again as I tried to walk away, They’ve all got fresh drinks, you’ve got a while before you need to go. I think you misunderstood. I just want you to warm it up for me. Just carry it around for me for a while, get it started.
I totally snapped. His grip on my wrist had been tightening as he explained the freaky shit I already understood. My instinct was to come around with my right fist and break his nose; I fought that instinct. I leaned down so that he could hear me clearly over the music. Hey Freako, you can either get your fuckin’ hand off me or I can call your boss at the Public Library tomorrow and explain why you’re going to show up with claw marks across your face, and have a little talk about your fondness for junk food. What do you say?
Needless to say Paul left pretty quickly. It happened ten years ago, and any time someone asks me about the freakiest sex I’ve ever had in my life, I can’t help but think about the freakiest sex I didn’t have. Everything else seems like vanilla pudding pops compared to that weirdo. If you took my advice, you should be reaching for that therapist’s number right about now. If you didn’t, maybe next time you’ll believe me.
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