Sometimes it’s sad. Sometimes I look down at the plump young redhead I’m dancing for and see in him the old man I danced for last song. The old man whose fat hung yellow from his cheekbones, whose sexy face was a grimace of despair and hopes still mourned for.
Sometimes when I sit down with an old man and ask how he is he tells me, all in one breath, that he is lonely and his parents are dead and everyone he went to high school with hates him and his only friend, who lives hundreds of miles away, promised him that there was someone out there who really cared. He told him, he said John, you’ve gotta get out and find that person. Go to the strip club. Then he looks up at you, blinking back tears, and says he can’t afford a lap dance but he’d like to take you to a movie.
Sometimes I dance for a truck driver who says he misses naked women on the road but he’s afraid that prostitutes have pimps. He pays me double and espouses my virtues, from strong legs to beautiful hair and a good character, the whole time.
Sometimes they whisper and blush and ask if women really like sex because their girlfriend doesn’t, and I get to play teacher.
Sometimes I make this incredible chemistry and I love it and they love it and it is what it is.