Khanvict Music

So I have this new customer. He buys seven or eight dances, and then leaves. He's an Indian guy who must be close to 70, but his dye-job hides his age very well. I think he fell for me because he likes my Hindi and my heiny. Our lapdances consist of him trying to perform cunnilingus on my bellybutton and my pushing him away, then him telling me he'd give me a generous mehr if I agree to be his second wife, and various lackluster conversations in Hindi. (FYI, he also told me he fucked one of his "servants" back in Calcutta. His wife found out and was pissed, hence the move to the US. See! I told you reasons for immigration are complex!!!) The lapdance dirty-talk is repetitive and hilarious, as it mostly consists of: how much he wants to fuck me, but he would only do it after we got married; that his dick can't get hard unless someone sucks on it for about 5 minutes; recollections of the 75-100 occasions on which he's paid for sex.

Anyway, last time he came in and told me he dreamed about me. He said he lay in bed, put lotion on his hand and "massaged" himself thinking about me. Then he told me he wrote me a song, and he began singing to me in a very ghazal-singer-esque voice: "Tumhe chutne ko dil karta hain. Tumhare gaand khaane ko dil karta hain." (Roughly translated? My heart wants to fuck you. My heart wants to give you a rim job.) Basically, he's singing me an Akon song in Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan style...Let's call him Akhan!

Okay, okay, I'm doing that thing again where everyone sounds like a crazy/perverted customer. Not true! Simply just fun to blog about! Irish Gold and I had an awesome conversation today about Pat Buchanan's wicked conservatism yet fierce pro-Palestinianism and the American obsession with abortion and "life" debates. I also kicked it with this new guy who said he'd never heard someone discuss the Malcolm X assassination while topless, leading to a hilarious whole conversation about what appropriate strip club banter usually consists of. Not to mention, I air-guitared on stage every time the DJ played a shitty song (i.e. Live's "Lighting Crashes"). A fun day!

Tiring Tirade

A few weeks ago, I got a new customer, James. Or, as I began calling him, Sissy James. Sissy James gets turned on by humiliation. The first time we met, he asked if I was into domination at all. Of course, I indulged. He ended up coming in every time I was working, flashing me the bra he was wearing under his manly outerwear, and bowing his head in shame as I mocked his humility during a few "lapdances." "No, mistress, I'm not a man, I'm just a sissy." Sometimes he'd give me a $20 bill to go dance for another guy so he could feel ashamed. When I'd dance for him, I wasn't quite sure what to do, especially since I'd established that I was his goddess and he wasn't worthy of even glancing at my beauty. It was sort of hilarious, but I felt it getting kind of repetitive. I'd call him a sissy, a pansy, tell him he wasn't worthy of me, tell him he wasn't a real man, all with slight variations, on shuffle. Sometimes I'd lightly slap him across the face or pull on his hair. I'd tell him about how some day I'd put a leash on his neck and take him for a walk on all fours. But there was only so much I could do! (My friend rightly pointed out that it was fucked up to mock him for being effeminate, and that perhaps I should instead mock him for having bad gender politics! Hat tip, RP!) The last time he came in, he was wearing adult diapers under his clothes, and also brought a makeup kit so I could put lipstick on him. (He told me that I should use his face as my toilet seat. I didn't, of course, but I did tell him I'd love to.)

The thing is, I got really bored with him, as easy as the whole thing was. (I didn't even have to undress for him!) Or, not bored, but (and, perhaps for the first time ever) at a loss for words. I just couldn't do it anymore. It's like I got domme and dumber. I called him a sissy, a pansy, a nobody, a pussy, a loser, a wimp, "not a real man." And then, I would start at the beginning again. When I ran out of words, I'd ask him to worship me. But all he could produce was a very stifled "You're so excellent, I'm nothing compared to you." Bo-ring. I think he caught on that I wasn't into it, or maybe I just stopped doing it for him, because he hasn't showed up since last week.

Anyway, if you see a guy wearing a Yankee's jacket with a brastrap peeking out, tell him his goddess is going to punish him for going AWOL on me.

Maid In India

Jesus Christ, for the third time I had an Indian customer today relay to me the memory of fucking a "servant girl." Today's customer was this guy Arun who works in IT and lives in Jersey. (Sorry for helping you narrow it down to about 45,000 possible people!) He told me that when he was a teenager up until he was 21, he was always very horny. (He quantified this by telling me that one day, when he was 20, he masturbated 18 times in 1 day.) But, being from Hyderabad, there was very little time he got to spend alone, particularly with girls. Prostitutes, he said, were out because of fear of the law. Girls from college "were risky, because some issue might develop. They might get pregnant or start pressuring you for marriage. Which, I guess, is the right thing to do. So one time, this girl was cleaning my hostel. I mean, she was like a servant girl. And she used to come all the time to clean, and she was very sexy. I mean, in that village-girl way, wearing her sari and what not. She was Hindu, not Muslim. So anyway she would always complain about her husband, and how bad he was to her, and one day she just fell in my arms crying. And what could I do? I'm a man, and there's a sexy woman in my arms. There was no option. So, it happened." I was like, "oh so you lost your virginity to her?" And he was like "No, I mean, how can you call it losing virginity? I was so excited that I finished in like 2 minutes, less than that even. I like you."

Wow, though. Seriously, I know that domestic workers are often - and have always been - sexualized, often sexually abused, and usually thought of as readily available for appropriate sexual release for men who live in the homes where 'domestics' work. They're like sex workers in maid uniforms! Except instead of black fishnet stockings and a frilly white trim on a black skirt, it's a hand-me-down sari and a revealing blouse.

I appreciate his honesty. He told me that his dick was "practically Muslim" from masturbating so much. (I can only imagine what this means. My guess is that it has something to do with foreskin and circumcision, but lord knows.)