What Can (Chris) Brown Do for You?

Rihanna just can't win, can she? (And by "can't win," I mean "make millions of dollars before hitting 30".) She's getting her skin lightened on November's Vogue (which Vogue vehemently denies, of course - but there's no denying that blonde wig, Ms. Wintour!), Dutch magazine editors are making overtly racist comments about her, the results of an ugly, abusive relationship are in the public spotlight, and finally, she gets critiqued for collaborating with her former abuser! Yes, everyone thinks Rihanna's an idiot for collaborating on Birthday Cake with Chris Brown, overlooking all the very real, nuanced, living dynamics of fucked up relationships, abusive or not.

Well, my friends, I'm no Rihanna, but I totally dig what the article linked above gets at. Thankfully, I've never been in a relationship that escalated to any physical violence (though I did hook up with a big-dicked guy who refused to use lube - ouch!), but in June this motherfucker basically finger-fucked me while I was giving him a dance and I had to pry myself off him...as soon as I got to the dressing room, I was all in runny-makeup tears yelling at management "Where the fuck were the bouncers while this fucking asshole tried to rape me?!" and caused a big scene. Two weeks ago, the same dude was back at the club, nursing his beer ("I get Budweisers here because the bottle is metal and so no one can tell when I've finished it so I just have to buy one drink the whole day.") and I totally hustled him for lapdances. On my walk back to the lapdance section, I gave the bouncer a stern look, letting him know I actually wanted him to watch me (yeah, the bouncers at our club don't do that unless specifically asked) and gave the guy two shitty "air dances" for $40. Is that bad? I have a knee jerk feminist response inside me telling me the best thing is to just walk away, that I don't need his $40, but for some reason, a savvier, stripper feminist in me tells me that, if possible, he should pay for that unwelcome finger-fuck for the rest of his miserable life. Yeah.

There's this other guy, "teacher nurse." (He used to be a teacher, and is now a nurse. I am considering revising the nickname to something more caustic, like "Rapist Molester," but then how would I tell him apart from the others?) He is fantastic for money. He doesn't want to talk; he finishes his drink and takes me for 6 or 7 dances, then leaves. His demeanor, though, is less than desirable. First, he always asks me to remove my lipstick before I dance for him "in case I get any on his shirt" or something. Bullshit. The reason he has me take off my lipstick is because, every time, without fail, he puts his hand behind my head and force-kisses me as I try my best to pull away. I hate it (mostly because he's old, ugly, and an asshole) and renegotiate space by putting my booty on his lap, or turning around for him, but he always manages to get me in a compromised position and uses his jabby little tongue to rape my face, chin, and cheeks.

I was in a bad mood when he last showed up and didn't feel like getting mouth-violated by him. I strapped a dark lipstick to my ankle in my rubberband stash (it was Mac's Matte Diva, for those interested - great under the blacklight on my tan complexion!), but approached him clean-lipped and took him back to the lapdance area. While he put his coat and drink down, I quickly applied two or three coats of Diva, turned around, sat on his lap, held him down by his hands and said, "You wanna kiss, rapist?" and proceeded to put my lips all over his face for a whole fucking song, leaving smeary burgundy all over his mouth. I'm sure he gave his face a good scrub-job before pathetically going home to his wife, but I'm also sure he was freaked when he saw my pouty dark lips coming at him.

In other news: After work yesterday I went to Duane Reade for some vitamins, and I had forgotten to change out my singles before leaving work. I paid for those $60 fucking pills in singles! The (cute, but too young) cashier looked at me, smiled, and said "coming from a strip club?" I smiled right back.

Also, and this is me on brand new territory, do people ever make friends with their customers? I know people date, fuck, and escort with guys they meet at the club, but how about just friends to shoot the shit and catch a movie with? I've met this guy a few times at the club and (in addition to being rather cute) him and I just have terrific friend chemistry! He's never explicitly asked me to hang out with him, but he always says stuff like "You're hella cool! If I hadn't met you here, we could totally have become friends." And I got to thinking, what's the big deal? So, he's seen me in a G-string (Elena, most NYC strip clubs are topless only) and thinks I'm 2 years younger than I am - does that rule out the possibility of being pals? This last time I saw him, I unabashedly told him to take my number down and smoke a joint with me sometime. Stay tuned...