Cowboy and Indian

This is another, let's let the transcript speak for itself type post. Friday afternoon, a new guy strolls in the club and flashes me a smile. I approach him.

"Well hello there, young lady. Do have a seat."
"Thank you! You're a new face - nice to meet you."
"Well you are a VERY well spoken young lady. I'm guessing you're hyper-intelligent."
"That's my story and I'm sticking to it."
"What are you drinkin?"
"Water, neat."
"Ha, ha. Water neat. Well if I don't have you drinking whiskey by 5:30 then I'll be damned. So tell me, what is an intelligent, well-spoken young woman like you doing working here? I mean, I don't mean this with any level of disrespect toward these girls, but most of them have an abusive boyfriend, who resembles quite closely their abusive fathers, and side jobs selling dope. But you know, you look like an Asian woman, probably someone from a tradition where family is very very important. And you're hyper-intelligent, which is sexy as hell. You could look like Rosie O'Donnell and I'd be coming back from Amarillo Texas just to see you. But you know what the great part is? You're as sexy as you are hyper-intelligent. It's those eyes. You speak with those eyes. I can tell you started off trying to dumb yourself down for me. You must dumb yourself down for a lot of guys in here, which is a damn shame, because it's how hyper-intelligent you are that is a big part of your beauty. That, and your wild hair. Woo! (girl steps down from stage for a tip) Well, hello young lady. Here's a little something for you; I'll tell you, there's nothing a cowboy like me loves more than a beautiful black woman. Take care now. Anyway, see, you're nothing like her. You are hyper-intelligent. But that can be a curse too, because no guy is good enough for you. Let me guess... You hate relationships, because the boys get too clingy and get in the way of your ambitions. And you do have ambitions, let me tell you. You probably appreciate older guys, in their 50s like myself, because we know to give you space, and we know how to make love to you. Do you, let me just ask you this, do you know where your G spot is? Oh, my god, I love how honest you are with me. You know, the biggest medical myth is that every woman's G spot is in a different location. But actually, and I know you appreciate the scientific method, reliable studies have proven that there is actually more variation in size and location of the clitoris and not the G spot. You see, the G spot corresponds to the prostate on the male, it's differentiated earlier in embryonic development. But it's in the same space. Now, let me just take a moment to tell you how breathtaking you are. I'm only in town from Texas now and then, but you call me, on a moment's notice, we could be eating seafood in Barcelona, admiring Gaudi. And the good thing about Barcelona is that there are plenty of men my age with women your age; we'd fit right in. Now, I wouldn't say I have a foot fetish, but there is nothing more erotic than a beautiful, hyper-intelligent woman showing me her feet in stockings, and letting me suck on her toes. Have you ever taken Viagra? Next time I come, I'll bring you some. Don't tell anyone; that sort of thing can get me fired. But it doesn't make you hornier, it just makes your genitals more sensitive; the blood rushes there. Now there is nothing a man loves more than the scent of a woman's genitals. I mean, it's just the source of all pheromones. Men, on the other hand, we need to wear musk and cologne to attract women. Oh, see that girl? I'm embarrassed to tell you this, but she's given me oral and manual stimulation in the lapdance room. I mean, I'm sure she does what she needs to. But I can tell by looking at you that you don't break any rules here, or anywhere. No, you're not looking for a pimp or a sugar daddy. I mean, I won't insult you by paying you a fee for our trips to Spain, but believe me, I will treat you right. We can get a suite, stay there. I will shower you with affection. And if you don't want intercourse, that is fine. I am an old man. I've had enough intercourse in my life. I want you. I want intimacy. If I have to hold you and caress you for three nights straight, and then fly straight back to Texas, I'd be fine with that. Yes I would."

This conversation lasted as long as his supply of $20 bills did - a LONG time.

(The) Skids These Days...

July has sucked so far. It's been slow, agonizing, frustrating, and uneventful. Money trickles in, but nothing compared to my lucrative spring months. Not only is money slow, other shit is going down that is crazy-making.

1) A bouncer was hired at the club a few months ago. A retired cop (not my favorite category of people... but better, I suppose, than a working one!) was put in charge of collecting money for champagne rooms, house fees for lap dances, etc. He is one greedy motherfucker. He has charged my customers double the rate for champagne rooms, pocketing the extra cash (not only ripping off my customers, but eating away at the tip that would be, ordinarily, mine). He never watches the lapdance area, making it easy for guys to be grabby assholes, and then has the nerve to ask dancers for tips! I had a pretty good day a few weeks ago (before recession hit) and he was complaining to another dancer (a friend of mine who loyally reported back to me) that he was really upset with me, that I should share my earnings with him, blah blah. I did slip him a couple papers, begrudgingly; it was a wise move. Asshole is now the club manager. And to think I was going to go to management with my complaints about him!

2) I have realized that I am not a good stripper on days when the club is slow. I get cranky, I don't have patience to talk to customers, and all I can think about is making the money I need to make. Friday, I even wrote a note to a deaf customer that read "stop staring at my feet and give me $10." This is not an approach I normally use! When money is a-flowing, I have no problems stroking a guy's arm, chilling with him while he orders yet another cheap ass beer, etc. Desperation breeds desperation, I suppose.

3) Michael Jackson died. I get it. Talented, legendary figure is gone. But, does this really mean we expect dancers to moonwalk across the stage in stilettos during a stage set? I'm not quite sure what to do on those multiple occasions the DJ spins Billie Jean, Don't Stop Till You Get Enough, or a remixed Smooth Criminal while I'm trying to seduce the portly old guy on the corner of the bar. Crotch grab? It's "bad." "Remember the time" they used to play good ole Sean Paul, Pitbull, and classic rock at strip clubs?

4) I keep running into these conservative, or mainstream liberal, type nationalist guys at work. Maybe they are running on July 4th patriot juice, but I can't keep still and focus on money when these guys go on about America being the greatest nation, how fucked up the Arab world is, how hard work = success. Perhaps it's only in the midst of those conversations I actually find myself wishing an MJ tune would come on... beat it!

Taxing Ride

The great thing about working day shift in the summer is, it's daylight when you leave! Today I marched out of the club at 8 and straight into a beautiful pre-sunset NYC summer's eve, leaving behind the Summer's Eve vaginal freshness product buffet in the club dressing room. It was nice enough, and early enough, that I figured I'd walk the block to the subway rather than drop my hard-earned cash on an unnecessary cab ride.

But in that one-block walk a very persistent "gypsy" cab driver (what's the non-offensive term for a gypsy cab, by the way?) kept honking and asking me where I wanted to go, he'd give me a good deal.

I thought it over. Here's the thing (we started off friends*) - a big part of me was like, fuck it, take the cab. I had a very, very lucrative Friday at work and the $20s in my bag were burning a hole in it. Also, I had some shitty stuff happen: 1) My regular, generous customer got really sweaty and wet in the lapdance and pushed his dripping, glistening face into my freshly flatironed tresses, turning them into a pile of frizz (and nauseating/disgusting me at the same time!... I know guys tend to think a little sweat on their dancing girl is a turn on -- just FYI, the reverse is NOT true). What could I tell him? He pays my rent! Then, this other customer who is hell-bent on getting me to call him and meet him outside as a date got all teary eyed in lapdance (2nd customer who has cried on me; I think I'm cursed) when I told him I don't go out with customers (or guys I'm not attracted to (I didn't tell him that part.)). And every time I was doing a stage set he would tip me but without looking at me, and instead burying his face in his hands and hanging his head. THEN, the bouncer was telling a bunch of girls that he was pissed at me because I was "doing so well and not tipping him" - (this bouncer is an asshole who has stolen money from girls, the club, and customers on numerous occasions) so I had to abandon my pride and slip him some cash (which he got without having a drop of sweaty guy's perspiration in his fresh coif! imagine!) so that he wouldn't cause any further drama for me.**

Long story not as short as it could have been, I thought I owed it to myself to be spared a subway ride home, so I haggled with the driver for a minute and hopped in. "How are you, M? Same place I dropped you last time?"*** Shit, he KNOWS me? Conversation as follows:

Him: So, you're still working here? Didn't switch over to the other place?
Me: No, still working here.
Him: Is it busy?
Me: I don't think it's busy, but business is fine in general. What about for you, driving-wise?
Him: Slow, slow. But you don't work night time?
Me: No, I do it occasionally, but I hate getting home at 5 a.m. and a lot of times the guys are too drunk and rowdy for me.
Him: So what kind of guys come during the day?
Me: You know, guys who are on their lunch break, or are married, generally a tamer crowd.
Him: You like this job?
Me: Yeah, I like it.
Him: A Pakistani? Indian? Whatever you are? You like this job?
Me: Yes, I like it.
Him: (pulls over the car and stops) You like this job?
Me: Listen, people scrub floors or tell dirty lies in court or pick plaque out from between people's teeth and don't get asked the questions you're asking me now.
Him: Do you go in the private rooms there?
Me: Yes.
Him: And you still like the job?
Me: Yes. I think I know what you're asking, and no, I don't have sex in the private rooms. Just regular lapdances.
Him: Just dances? You don't do everything?
Me: No, not everything. Can you start driving again?
Him: So, I see. How old were you when you were naturalized?
Me: 3.
Him: You parents know what you do?
Me: No.
Him: You know these other two girls I picked up from your club before. Brandy and Licorice, you know, they came out with a customer and had me drop them off at a hotel. Do you do that?
Me: No.
Him: Yeah, one time Brandy even paid me to keep the car waiting for her outside when she was done. But some of the girls are just like you, they go straight home afterward.
Me: Yeah.
Him: So I saw you on the R train last week, kissing somebody.
Me: Oh... (I'm not sure if he really even saw this, or if it even happened, but he caught me off guard so I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt. He might have just been "testing" me...) What time was it?
Him: 3 a.m. You're married?
Me: No. I'm not a big marriage person.
Him: What are you doing tonight?
Me: Hanging out with friends. You can just let me off right here.



*Excuse the pop music interjection. My life would suck without you.
**In my efforts to not make my job sound like shit, I should mention that not only did I make good money, I also got a visit from my favorite friendstomer who temporarily erased a chunk of my woes and made me laugh.
***Conversation translated from its original Hindi/Punjabi mix.

Cyrano de Berg-her-rack

It has dawned on me: about 50% of my regular customers who seem to be infatuated with me are actually infatuated with male, hetero friends of mine.

Example 1: One of my customers was absolutely tickled when I explained to him the difference between a movie having been filmed in IMAX versus just being projected onto an IMAX screen. When I said the words "aspect ratio" to him, it was like dirty talk! He got mad excited. But the only reason I really knew that is because a film buff pal of mine nerded out on me and told me all this stuff just a few days before.

Example 2: When I started talking about Pau Gasol's moves on the court (I've already forgotten the information at this point...sports? big snooze!), another customer was like "wow, a girl like you sure does know a lot about basketball!" He was completely floored. I was just glad I was listening the night before while some guys hooted and hollered at a TV screen.

Example 3: I talked to a graphic designer about using Wacom Tabs for design and illustration; he ate that shit up. The only reason I know? You guessed it -- dudes who design.

My conclusion is that a lot of these guys dig a woman's body, but when it comes down to it enjoy the company of whatever it is many straight men are socialized to be. (Showing again the falseness of our ridiculously rigid gender constructs!) Wouldn't it be cool to, like, have an earpiece and transmitter so that my hetero male pals could feed me info to converse about with these customers?

It'd be like the movie Roxanne, except instead of a large nose holding the boy back, it'd be a (large?) dick! "Talk to him about the Manny Ramirez scandal!" "Ask him if he's ever heard of X-Men Noir!" "Tell him your new widescreen TV is 1080p!"

In my Hollywood ending, the customers realize that we all exist on a sexual continuum and genders and sexualities are fluid. (Roll end credits)

A Rock in a Hard Place

I am a huge Chris Rock fan, with his race commentary and hilarious critiques of U.S. foreign policy. But why are his gender politics so whack? (skip to the 3 minute mark)

As a student, non-abused, day shift stripper, I gotta say - he's way off the mark! Then again, if you're reading this post, you probably already knew that...

In-kind is unkind

Lately I have had a slew of formerly generous customers show up without cash, but with some sort of gift. Thompson Thompson showed up with a huge box of cookies that he must have picked up at Costco or BJ's or Sams. I wasn't there that day, but Sheila kept them for me until my next shift, and gasped/doubled over laughing when I chucked them across the room into a garbage can filled with tampons and sweaty baby wipes. (I wish I knew basketball lingo; I'm sure I could be more descriptive...) I'm sorry, after that asshole's ever-shrinking wallet and ever-grabbier hands (see previous post), he makes me want to toss my cookies in more ways than one.

Then came Sumit, who has gone from taking me to the champagne room to buying me a few rounds of drinks and tipping me $20 to, most recently, swinging by after work to give me a DVD. I must admit, I was touched; I know he just stopped by to give me the DVD. But I shouldn't let the fact that we're friends take precedence over the fact that this is my workplace, yes? Couldn't he have tucked a $5 bill into the DVD cover?

So my recent frustration with gifts instead of cash had me briefly wondering if I was turning into a materialistic, money-minded automaton: the stereotypical stripper. But, really!? Perhaps this is just a reflection how impactful those 'stripper stereotypes' are; I think teachers, lawyers, and graphic designers would complain if they were given cookies instead of paychecks. I have every right to as well! So, Sumit and Thompson, pay up!! (Actually, Thompson, you're getting to the point where your money won't help you with me; I'm officially disgusted!)

Okay, this is not to knock gift-giving in strip clubs. Some of my best customers have given me comic books*, DVDs, perfume, and Victoria's Secret giftcards. And not in lieu of money, but in addition to it.



*Imagine gifting a stripper Art Spiegelman's "Maus." What would Marcel Mauss say?

Can I give you a laughdance? / Lapoiera

Laughdance:
Crazy Johnny came in the other day, and my coworker Sheila and I had the same routine we always have with him. He took her for a lapdance, then brought me back to join them for a 2-on-1 menage-a-crazy with him, and then kept her back there for another song or two after I left. He is so fucking hilarious (and not in a "you're so funny I want to date you" kind of way, but in a "how are you able to function in the real world" sort of way) that I can't help but laugh (I mean, hysterically! side-splitting laughter!) throughout every second of every lapdance I give this guy. First of all, he gets us both on his lap and grabs the back of my head, forces it between her legs, between her tits, and does the same to her with my body. Then he tries to get us to finger each other. All the while, he nods along with a maniacal look in his eyes, his mouth almost watering. (Picture the craziest of the three main hyenas from the Lion King.) Sheila is so used to his antics that she just screams "Johnny! I love you! I love you!" and fakes orgasm. At which point he looks at me like we're both in on some little secret, and gives me a nod, a wink, and whispers "she likes it!" At some point, when he gets too aggressive, Sheila says "We can't do that here, we'll get fired! Let's meet in a hotel room on Sunday night and we can all finger each other and fuck each other then." Then he asks me, very seriously, if I'm free on Sunday (hyena mode fades temporarily). Yet, the laughter has taken over my body and I can only manage to nod between gasps for air. Please note: She makes the Sunday promise every other week he comes into the club, and still, we manage to put on the same routine for him.

If laughter is the best medicine, then I will live to be a hundred and have Crazy Johnny's hyena antics to thank for my longevity.

Lapoiera:
They say capoiera is part dance, part fight, created by Afro-Brazilians hundreds of years ago. It combines elements of martial arts, dance, and sport. I swear, a lapdance customer of mine had me feeling like I was learning this beautiful art form! He had thrown a couple hundred at me, so I was putting up with his bullshit more than other customers and trying to be nice. But, man, was he grabby! It was like, he's slowly extend his arms toward my breast, and I'd lean back, or start shaking my ass in his face. Then he'd try to bite my ass, and so I'd drop to my knees and rub my fingers down his chest. Then he'd try to slide his hands between my legs, and I'd start dancing further away from him. I swear, it was part dance, part self-defense, part me attempting to look graceful, part fight! I think I'm going to call it Lapoeira, and start teaching classes to rich white people at upscale studios on the Upper West side. (starts writing craigslist ad)

Bobby Jin-dull

This guy came into the club on Monday and took 30 minutes of my life I can never get back. At first, I was kind of excited, because nerdy, self-conscious South Asian men are my forte. I was on him like curry on rice. This dancer came by and (I think this was very awkward) was like "Are you in love with our beautiful Pakistani girl yet? All the Indian guys love her." The thing is, I don't think he loved me, or anything remotely close. And the feeling was way mutual. He started yammering and went on uninterrupted for the longest time, and sounded arrogant and boring and irritating as hell. Here's pretty close to a direct transcript of the conversation. Imagine it being spoken in an extremely nasal, Jindal-esque manner. (Note: At first I was nodding along and acting interested, but but the end I was droopy eyed and yawning and glancing around awkwardly. It didn't seem to stop his monologue, though...)


"Yeah, I'm pretty much the whitest Indian you'll ever meet. My good friend, he's Italian, he calls me a coconut. Yeah, I'm a coconut. I mean, like, I was born in India. I don't know where you're from, but I'm from Calcutta. So, yeah, I speak Bengali, and my Hindi is pretty weak. But I mean, I moved here when I was two years old, so I'm pretty much American. But I'm also like the whitest guy you'll ever meet. I mean, I just don't understand why all these Indians have so much cultural pride. I mean, it's cool if that's what you wanna do, but it's just not my thing. Like, my older brother, he married a Bengali girl, and she's a doctor too. So it was like my parents' dream come true. I mean, it wasn't even an arranged marriage. It was like, they met on their own, even though our moms are close friends. It's like that movie the Namesake. But yeah, so they got married, and actually they're having a kid next month. I mean, I'm really happy for them, but I don't think I'll marry an Indian girl. It's gonna have to be a white girl. Yeah, I grew up in a small town in Pennsylvania. And I don't mean Philadelphia, or like some cool part of the state, I mean, there were like 10 Indians in the whole town, and four of those were my family. So, yeah. I mean, most of my friends where white and stuff, and that's why I'm like a white guy too. Even like, Bollywood, I don't understand why Indians care so much about their movies. I mean, I watch Hollywood films, and I can't understand what the big deal is about going to see an Indian movie. Really. So, yeah. I mean, I kind of broached the subject of marrying a white girl with my mom, and I think it's been a little easier since my cousin married a white girl. He married a white girl, get this, they dated ten years before they got engaged. And they're having a kid too. But I think he broke the ice for me. I mean, like my cousin's mom, and his wife's mom, are like best friends. I mean, they talk on the phone and stuff. Before they got married, I doubt anyone in my family talked to white people on the phone. So yeah. But their wedding, they had a traditional Bengali one and a Greek Orthodox one as well. The girl, my cousin's wife, is Greek Orthodox. And her family actually didn't approve of her marrying my cousin. Her dad didn't even come to the wedding. I mean, my family didn't approve either but at least they showed up at the wedding. And eventually really started liking the girl. But her dad, no way, he didn't want anything to do with it. But I mean, I feel like watching how happily married they are, and stuff, he kind of made it a little easier for me to marry a white girl. I'm not dating anyone or anything right now, but I know once I do I can tell my family about it. I don't know, I mean, cultural pride is fine and everything, but I don't understand why they're so into traditional dance and stuff. And movies, and following politics in India or whatever. I mean, we live here now. So yeah I'm a real coconut. You and me, you know, we're not like the rest of Indians. Or, you're Pakistani? But I mean, we're not traditional like that. I mean, we feel at home in this country. So, yeah. I mean eventually races are all going to disappear, but I feel like Indians, you know, we're slowing that down by just staying within our own community. But like the town in Pennsylvania I grew up in, it was all white. Even the Dunkin Donuts was owned by a white family, probably the only one in the US. So yeah, I mean, I did come to New York a lot, and we moved here when I was young. But my real young years were in that town. But once I came to New York there were all these Indians. It was a new thing for me. I mean, when I go to these family gatherings, it's so annoying. All the men go into one room and the women into another. And the women, all they talk about is who's dating who, and which celebrity got divorced, and fashion and recipes. But then the men try to talk about politics but they don't have a clue. They just talk about Barack Obama and stuff. It's pretty crazy. But yeah. So yeah, I'm a real coconut."
"Excuse me, do you want a lapdance?"
"Yeah, but let's talk a bit more first."
"I gotta go." (puff of smoke in a shape of my silhouette lingers)

Monikers galore!

Over the course of the year, my coworker and I have amassed quite a long list of nicknames for some regular customers. I just realized this the other day as she showed me the contacts list in her stripper phone. (She has a prepaid phone and stores regular customers' numbers in it -- but not under their real names! She'd be likely to forget them if that was the case. She uses the phone on slow days to call these guys and tell them to come visit.)

-Biracial dick (a lot of the girls in the club have seen it and claims it's clearly two different colors; luckily I have been spared!)
-Vibrating ring man (the guy keeps a vibrator in his pants and turns it on during lapdances...I'm fairly sure that's not the only thing that gets turned on! All I can say is all us dancers hate it...He really wants us to grind up on it real hard! If he were to ask a petite girl if she had double A's, I'm guessing it'd be batteries he was asking for...)
-Teddy bear (I was shocked that my coworker called him this. He was my regular customer for a while until he got a little too aggressive and irritating. When she was like "How come you don't dance for teddy bear anymore?" I realized she was dead on! He does look like a teddy bear! Short, portly, ears stick out, big grin. But there is nothing soft or cuddly about him...)
-Sweater vest (see previous posts; hairy ass chest)
-Tuition guy (Ugh. The first day this guy came in, he told me he would help me pay my tuition. I think he should pay for some therapy for himself, though)
-Crazy Indian (This man from Bihar likes to shake his legs around like crazy during a lapdance! It's like a Sharper Image massage chair gone nuts)
-The Penguin (I think this is actually a rather mean nickname, but everyone in the club calls this guy the Penguin - he kind of walks in this shuffle/waddle way like Danny DeVito in the Batman movie. I'd rather call him Pees in Alley because people have seen him peeing outside the club. He is hilarious! Once he asked me during a lapdance if I minded if he did some dirty talk; I said sure. He proceeded to say "I'm gonna shower you with a hundred kisses!" If that's dirty talk, then I must be one foul-mouthed biatch!)
-Superman (This guy thinks he rules the world, but he's an idiot. He talked to me about Born Into Brothels once and how he just wishes he could save all the poor children in India from their uneducated parents. He once told me that I *have* to be a lesbian; what other girl would work in a strip club? He also buys and sells diamonds, but he must do a piss-poor job because he tried to appraise my $4 necklace once.)
-Academic Asshole (This is a white guy with a black fetish. He talks to me pretty humbly (maybe because we're both grad students?) but the other girls say he uses academic jargon as a way to degrade them and make himself feel cool. What would Franz Fanon say?)
-Lazy Eye Crybaby (I'm gonna devote a whole post to him, so some other time)
-Bearded Blow Job (This guy gets really turned off by girls who refuse to give him head in the VIP. He'll be really friendly at first, but once they say they can't do it, he'll be downright rude. Not so with me! He asked me if I would give him head, and I looked at his crotch and said there's nothing I wanted to do more, but recently club security had been really strict and fired a few girls for said act. I then went on to graphically describe what I'd do and how I'd do it, convincing him that blowing him was something I was really into. He became a semi-regular of mine! Psychology and stripping - strange bedfellows.)
-Rockefeller Racist (also deserves his own blog post)
-200 (A regular customer of mine who has had sex with over 200 prostitutes. We also call him "Tax Return Guy" because he once spent a large portion of his tax return on me.)
-Sweaty Rabbi (A Hasidic Jew who likes his nipples pulled *hard* during a lapdance)
-T-shirt guy (Not very creative. He sells t-shirts in Central Park.)
-Tibetan Fanboy (He's Tibetan. And a fan of mine. That's all.)
-Benjamin Button (See 3 posts back)
-Professor (A teacher who rolls into the club and grades exams at the bar; he has offered me and several other dancers thousands of dollars to have a child with him)
-Crazy Johnny (He's just crazy.)
-Lebanese Greek (Some days he's from Lebanon, other days's he's from Greece. He's the guy whose first name is the same as his last -- previous post. He used to talk to me at length in Arabic, but it was all Greek to me...)
-Coach Purse (This guy claims to work at Coach and has promised several of us a Coach handbag. I'm still waiting for mine, a year later.)
-Serial Killer with Glasses (This guy met me at the club a while ago and we hit it off talking about R. Crumb's drawings. He was super nice to me and I was certain he'd become my regular. Well, the next time he showed up he talked to another dancer and acted like he didn't remember me. I was surprised, but whatevs. Anyhow, later on that dancer he was talking to told me that he was asking her all these questions about me - like my real name, for instance, and where I live - and told her he's really into violent rape sex fantasies. Check, please!)
-Wet Kiss/My Boyfriend (This guy shows up every couple months, and will go up to a dancer and say "Can I get a lapdance?" Once the dancer walks him to the lapdance area, he says "Let's sit for a while before the dance." The naive dancers will sit with him for a minute before realizing he's broke and not about to buy a dance. Once you get up to leave, he tries to give you a kiss on the cheek - the wettest, most slobbery kiss ever. Somehow he got dubbed My Boyfriend recently - I think because one of the other girls, as a joke, told him that I really like him, so he kept following me around annoyingly.)
-Foot Fetish Nerd (Tall, big huge glasses, obsessed with feet. I've only danced for him once, because his favorite girl wasn't there, and he asked me to repeatedly say "WORSHIP MY FEET" and he kept calling me a goddess.)

Note: We generally don't have nicknames for people we like. A) We can remember their names without needed a mnemonic device because they are interesting and memorable enough on their own. B) We like and respect them enough that we're not trying to shit-talk them when they're not around. C) It's difficult to essentialize and condense the interesting/fun guys into a one or two word summary.

ON FIRE