I arrived in Minnesota

I arrived in Minnesota toward the end of summer. I really didn’t know what to expect but it wasn’t much. Whenever I get to a new town I check out a website where lonely over-invested men spend their lives reviewing strip clubs and dancers. I find the local place with the most complaints about stuck-up girls and expensive drinks and go from there. Since few of your online critics would be satisfied with anything less than a $15 handjob from a perfect ten I’m usually happiest working wherever they’re most miserable.

In this case the club they really hated was part of a large corporate chain specializing in cozy environments for Republicans in khakis. Just something about a roaring fire, I guess. White-collar clubs like this can be a little boring but the money is generally good. It’s not like a dive where you might talk to a professional rat killer followed by a guy who draws you a diagram of where to hide cocaine in a horse trailer. The customers all have jobs so dull they don’t even want to take the time to explain them to you but you pretend to be impressed anyway.

Guys like these are always asking annoying five-year plan questions like, “So what else do you do?” This getting-to-know-you routine is trotted out to disarm a girl on the inevitable slog to the private dance. I'm supposed to get all distracted talking about how I’m going to become a nurse or start a fashion line for dogs. Not me. I’m always thinking about how to bring it all back around and close the sale. That's how I came up with the yoga teacher lie. As an occupation it’s mysterious sexy and non-threatening, I also know enough about it for it to seem almost plausible. “I’m becoming a yoga teacher and learning all kinds of amazing new ways to bend over and I’d love to show them off to you in the back.” They’ll even sell themselves to you—‘Ooooh, you must be so flexible.’” “Yeah,” I say. “Let me show you.” I’m actually not all that flexible but once we get in the back that kind of stuff doesn’t really matter.

Canned sales pitch aside I’ve always been something of a weirdo magnet. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when the Fabio lookalike dance counter brought me over to a nondescript little fellow in khakis saying he’d asked for me. “He’s a little weird but he has money.” Music to my ears. Since I had a reputation as a good tipper the male staff would often ‘help me out’ in hopes of getting an extra twenty or two at the end of the night. This can be kind of a double-edged sword since maybe ninety-five percent of these guys are the kind of complete and utter morons that will bring you over to a guy just because he says he's from Chicago–as though every guy from Chicago is some kind of grotesquely wealthy stripper fiend. I always liked Fabio, though. He steered me wrong only once, when he sent me over to a mean old man in lime green sneakers who dismissed me with a sneer and told me to get lost. “Well fuck him anyway,” Fabio said. “He’s just an old pervert.”

I could tell something was up

I could tell something was up with the little guy right from the start. He was scrunched up in the chair with his eyes fixed on Fabio instead of me. He introduced himself as Tommy and thanked me for coming over.

“No problem,” I said.

Tommy seemed unhappy with this response.

“Well, isn’t a girl like you too busy for little old me?”

I cottoned on to what was happening pretty quickly. Male submissives are maybe the most frustrating sexual subset on Earth. They truly expect you to be a mind reader with the entire script of their incredibly complicated obsessed-over fantasy at your fingertips. Of course once you figure out how to scratch the itch it’s like hitting a jackpot on a slot machine. The money just gushes out. An unstoppable river of sweet, sweet coin.

Now that I kind of knew what I was dealing with I changed tack. I told Little Tommy I needed at least a hundred dollars if he wanted to keep talking to me. I like to do this right away with special cases to gauge their seriousness. Fetishists can be a lot more work than they’re worth. But he slipped me the money and immediately launched into his tale of woe.

His wife had caught him in her underwear and in two months flat he’d ended up a sex slave to her and her new beefcake boyfriend. They’d go to hotels and stick him in the closet while they had sex, he'd suck the guy’s dick–all the usual cuckold rigamarole. He was doing pretty much all my berating for me. I'd just jump in here and there to parrot stuff back.

“My sad little dick.”

“Yeah your dick is so sad.”

“I really can’t blame her for leaving me. My sad little dick. Not like that guy’s dick,” he said, gesturing toward Fabio. “He’s so handsome–you know, he even looks a little like my wife’s boyfriend.”

“Oh I know," I said. "You can just tell he has a big dick! Not a limp little spaghetti dick like yours!"

We eventually retired to the back for private dances because he wanted to show me the weird nightie he was wearing under his Dockers. When he was ready to get down to business he removed a carefully folded sheet of paper from his wallet, plain printer paper that looked like it had been crumpled up and smoothed out over and over again.

As he slowly unfurled it he told me his wife and her lover had run off with all of his money, leaving only this one photo behind. I looked down to see an admittedly beautiful man with oiled chest hair and a toothy grin relaxing on a beach. Tommy traced the outline of the guy’s admittedly huge dick with his finger, mouth slightly agape. He’d paid me a lot so I really hammed it up.

“No wonder she left you! You’re pathetic compared to him! I bet you miss sucking his dick, you slut!” When Fabio came by to mark the time I told Tommy the staff and I would have a good laugh about his sad little dick as soon as he was gone. When the hour was up he dropped the act for just a second to say I had done a tremendous job and that he really appreciated it.

He wanted me to keep sitting with him while he made plans for our future together in Las Vegas, where I would take many lovers and he would pay for everything. But when I suggested he could start by paying for some time in VIP he declined. Maybe the guy in the photo really did run off with his credit cards. Later I slipped Fabio a tip and we did share a laugh about little Tommy. I felt bad for a second then remembered that ridicule was what he was he was dreaming of and paying for.

Molly Scott prefers to remain a mystery.