Ava Adore

Shift: 10.11.10, 6pm-2am.

Possessive.

That’s the word that comes to mind after last night.

Blood, too, but I’ll get to that later.
We’ll start with ‘possessive.’ We’ll start with Keith.

It was slow, because it was a holiday kids are off from school, so after I sat with a great gent for a half hour, Ch. and I sat barside and bullshitted for another half hour. At one point I happen to look up, surprised, to see Keith standing there. Right next to me. Mouse quiet, ninja style.

He remembered me from the last time he came in; he said he’d come to see me. Alright, that’s cool, I’m down with that, I didn’t remember much but most people who come to see a specific dancer have brought money for that dancer, and the more we talked the more I remembered a few things.

He’s like a twisted Father Figure, he believes the best of me and that this isn’t the way, but since he knows how I feel about it he’s taken it upon himself to Protect Me from Other Men there. Ch. got appropriated into the umbrella for the evening, or so he told me he didn’t ‘like when the other guys hit on her.’

It was weird, but whatever, we all know clients have quirks and it seemed harmless enough as he tossed me heavy stage tips and talked about getting a private. We got the private and a switch was flipped. His dance style can only be described as possessive.

Sometimes I was barely dancing because he wanted to press his hands so hard against my back, my sides. It was uncomfortable and I kept hoping for the private to end. I actually ended it early because the dj called me to stage, not realizing I was in private.

I ran to stage and got ahold of myself, chiding myself for being so silly; he had done nothing bad, really. He wasn’t groping or dirty or trying to take advantage. He had done nothing ‘wrong,’ so why did he rub me the wrong way so badly?

So I ‘got over it’ and went back over to him, the combined effect of few customers and his heavy tip, and I got one more dance out of him, or technically he paid for two lapdances—regardless, they didn’t quite happen.

We went back to the lapdance room and he invited me to dinner. When I declined, he got really forceful, said he’d talk to my manager and get me a night off. I said I didn’t need dinner, nor do I answer solely to my manager—and my manager doesn’t make my dinner plans.

I vehemently denied his request for dinner another four times, during which he became more and more insistent, saying he’d just pick me up and take me one night, right from the club, and return me. Something in how he said it just creeped me the fuck out.

I stopped the dances, took his money, and bid him a good night in a very cordial fashion. He didn’t tip me and I didn’t ask, but he did spend the rest of the night stalking me and asking if I was mad at him.

It was the only time I’ve ever felt the need to leave out the back door to prevent someone from a) knowing when I’m leaving and b) knowing which car I got into. I watched my back driving the whole way home. So that’s my Monday night story.

In other news, around 1am I puked up black. Turns out I have internal bleeding. It’s not an emergency, thankfully, say my doctors anyway (‘You’d be dead already if it was serious’—That’s oddly reassuring) and I’m scheduled for an endoscopy in the morning.

Then I get to strip post-heavy sedation! Fuck yeah! I don’t know why I’m somewhat excited about this. I think it will be really funny. At least to me. Oh, and I bought a new outfit from Candy, which looks like Limewire but it’s pink with shorts rather than a skirt.

Douchebag Count: 0…?
$hift Grades: B