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Instead I make up a prissy story about finishing my Master’s degree and taking a year to drive around the country in an R. The crazy thing I’ve discovered is that the snobbier you seem, the more they will pay you.Jim is amazingly empathetic about the nastiness of the local clubs. Or 2,000 miles and a month or two of groceries and stuff while I explore desert canyons and sky islands. I slide down between his legs and he unzips his jeans eagerly. “Stay right there, I’m going to get you a washcloth.” I run to the bathroom.
I shove it down one of my stockings as I take my pants off, because I have always believed that the safest place for my money is right against my skin.
For some people, this might have been a problem, but not for me.
I have the magical ability to walk into a strip club just about anywhere there is one and make a few hundred bucks just because I’m willing to get naked and smile at people. When I’ve been broke down on the side of the road with no money, when I’ve been a homeless teenager, when I’ve wanted to buy a house, a car, an education — sex work has always been there for me.
He opens his wallet and peels off another hundred, right away, and tells me to just dance until that runs out. “Holy shit,” he says, “I do believe I wish I had a vagina too.” Checking “topless housecleaning” off my to-try list of sex-work gigs makes me enough money to get back on the road.
“No touching,” I remind him as the song starts and I move in front of him. The next day Spot and I get in the van and drive across the country until I find a beautiful desert-sky island in northern Arizona.
Especially while flirting the whole time with a man you hope is staring at your ass and not your sweaty face.
He asks about me, how I came to be a topless housecleaner.
I insist that I’m not that kind of dancer while I consider this through to its logical conclusion. I can get into men, and right now on this guy’s lap, I’m turned on. It revealed an XXX profile link that an internet troll had left on my personal Twitter page.
A couple hundred more for a hand job, a couple hundred more for a blow job, a lot more for sex. There she was, a girl I recognized, frozen in time 15 years ago.
* * * I’d had eighty dollars left to my name when I drove into Greenville, South Carolina.
Half a tank of gas and two blueberry smoothies later, it dwindled to sixteen dollars folded together in the bottom of my pocket.
I’m staying, with my dog, Spot, in my van down by the river next to Possum, who lives in a van that’s much bigger and nicer than mine.