Sexual Frustration: The Journey Continues
As many of you know by now, the last three years of my relationship with Jimmy have been as chaste as a nun. And so, save one lousy hook-up, my libido has been repressed to the point I want to tear my hair out. There's some strange irony in someone who has been working in the adult industry in some capacity for the last 17 years to not have sex, but that's something I'd rather not think about.
Not that I haven't had opportunity. Both of the other DJs and two dancers at The Strip Club have offered their services to help solve this problem. One dancer I had suspected has crushed on me for at least two years, but two Fridays ago decided she had a golden opportunity. She's flirted with me before, and I always flirt back, because I can. Sometimes she's fondled my breasts, and at least once has stuck her hands down my pants (just on my thighs, she's not that crass). But two weeks ago, as I'm checking the schedule to write down who's supposed to show up tonight, she touches my breasts and goes in for the kill:
Dancer #1: Cyn, can I ask you a personal question?
Me: (writing down dancer lineup) Sure.
Dancer #1: Are you into girls?
The two or three other dancers in the room laugh nevously. I sweetly brush the girl's hands away, telling her ever-so-smoothly that I must be getting back to my booth now.
The other dancer in question didn't start really crushing on me until the night of Foxy Boxing, when I did a few sets on stage, and as all the other girls did, well...got naked. Big whoop. But she's in lust. Well, I'm flattered that I still have a damn good body, even as the walls of 40 and middle age close in on me, but uh...
"She's totally in love with you," M.B. tells me the Thursday after. Oh, just ducky. Get in line and take a number. Oh sure, I can work this in my favor sometimes, when she comes into my booth, for the reason of requesting her music. Sure.
Me: Hey (Dancer), could you do me a favor? Could you dance to Puddle of Mudd next set? I really want to hear them.
Dancer #2: Sure. Anything for you, sweetie. ::looks of lust::
Meanwhile, for the visiting team, the Saturday Night DJ, henceforth known as A.J., who I worked with the night of Foxy Boxing, is doing his best to be smooth. It's not working. For all the bitching I've done about him in the past, I found him to be a pretty cool guy when I finally met him. I chat with him at the end of the night, about DJ-type things, then tell him I'm absolutely starving and really really want a sandwich at Wawa. It's been a long night doing couch dances and being on stage and I'm craving protein.
A.J. calls me on my way home, checking on me (um, I'm fine, thanks), apologizing for not asking me out to breakfast. Dude, it's after 4am and I live 90 minutes away. It would be close to 5:30 by the time I got home. I don't want breakfast, I just wanted protein. Still, he's nice and we work together (sort of), so I'm nice back. No biggies.
He messages me tonight telling me he'd like to take me out before I move. Oy.
At least he's subtle, compared to B., who just quit and moved to South Carolina. He claims to have asked me exactly once to sleep with him so I can relieve this frustration I have. Right--he asked me once. B., if you asked me once, why do you keep bringing me up that you asked me once every single time you're here? I suppose I shouldn't flirt with him--we can get heavy-handed sometimes, being we're both between relationships and cynical about starting another one. On one occasion, we even compared how many states each of us have had sex in (He won, 10-8). So yeah, I saw it coming. Maybe if he were better looking (although looks-wise, he isn't too bad), or had a nicer body, or if we didn't, um, work together (on this, B. always points out that whilst we have the same employer, we don't actually work together. Samantics.), I would consider sleeping with him. But I don't, because it feels wrong, and it would be weird afterward, no matter how much he insists it won't be.
On his last night in New Jersey, he said to me, "We no longer work together, Cyn, what's your excuse now?" Because I have one solid rule, even in my most promiscuous of days, that I never broke, and the one or two occasions I did I learned the hard way: Never sleep with platonic male friends. But I don't bother to explain this to him, because men don't like this type of logic. Instead I give some sort of smartassed, feeble excuse and leave it at that.
This weekend, I have an opportunity for a date. I've hung with the guy once, at a bowling alley-cum-rock-club. He has some sort of progressive alternative band that plays local clubs. He's asked me to go to a horror convention with him. I don't know. I'm not into horror conventions. He has a receding hairline, and I don't much like the idea of him naked. But we can still go as friends, right?
I so can't wait to move to West Palm Beach...I hope there's hot rockstar boys there. I really do.
Not that I haven't had opportunity. Both of the other DJs and two dancers at The Strip Club have offered their services to help solve this problem. One dancer I had suspected has crushed on me for at least two years, but two Fridays ago decided she had a golden opportunity. She's flirted with me before, and I always flirt back, because I can. Sometimes she's fondled my breasts, and at least once has stuck her hands down my pants (just on my thighs, she's not that crass). But two weeks ago, as I'm checking the schedule to write down who's supposed to show up tonight, she touches my breasts and goes in for the kill:
Dancer #1: Cyn, can I ask you a personal question?
Me: (writing down dancer lineup) Sure.
Dancer #1: Are you into girls?
The two or three other dancers in the room laugh nevously. I sweetly brush the girl's hands away, telling her ever-so-smoothly that I must be getting back to my booth now.
The other dancer in question didn't start really crushing on me until the night of Foxy Boxing, when I did a few sets on stage, and as all the other girls did, well...got naked. Big whoop. But she's in lust. Well, I'm flattered that I still have a damn good body, even as the walls of 40 and middle age close in on me, but uh...
"She's totally in love with you," M.B. tells me the Thursday after. Oh, just ducky. Get in line and take a number. Oh sure, I can work this in my favor sometimes, when she comes into my booth, for the reason of requesting her music. Sure.
Me: Hey (Dancer), could you do me a favor? Could you dance to Puddle of Mudd next set? I really want to hear them.
Dancer #2: Sure. Anything for you, sweetie. ::looks of lust::
Meanwhile, for the visiting team, the Saturday Night DJ, henceforth known as A.J., who I worked with the night of Foxy Boxing, is doing his best to be smooth. It's not working. For all the bitching I've done about him in the past, I found him to be a pretty cool guy when I finally met him. I chat with him at the end of the night, about DJ-type things, then tell him I'm absolutely starving and really really want a sandwich at Wawa. It's been a long night doing couch dances and being on stage and I'm craving protein.
A.J. calls me on my way home, checking on me (um, I'm fine, thanks), apologizing for not asking me out to breakfast. Dude, it's after 4am and I live 90 minutes away. It would be close to 5:30 by the time I got home. I don't want breakfast, I just wanted protein. Still, he's nice and we work together (sort of), so I'm nice back. No biggies.
He messages me tonight telling me he'd like to take me out before I move. Oy.
At least he's subtle, compared to B., who just quit and moved to South Carolina. He claims to have asked me exactly once to sleep with him so I can relieve this frustration I have. Right--he asked me once. B., if you asked me once, why do you keep bringing me up that you asked me once every single time you're here? I suppose I shouldn't flirt with him--we can get heavy-handed sometimes, being we're both between relationships and cynical about starting another one. On one occasion, we even compared how many states each of us have had sex in (He won, 10-8). So yeah, I saw it coming. Maybe if he were better looking (although looks-wise, he isn't too bad), or had a nicer body, or if we didn't, um, work together (on this, B. always points out that whilst we have the same employer, we don't actually work together. Samantics.), I would consider sleeping with him. But I don't, because it feels wrong, and it would be weird afterward, no matter how much he insists it won't be.
On his last night in New Jersey, he said to me, "We no longer work together, Cyn, what's your excuse now?" Because I have one solid rule, even in my most promiscuous of days, that I never broke, and the one or two occasions I did I learned the hard way: Never sleep with platonic male friends. But I don't bother to explain this to him, because men don't like this type of logic. Instead I give some sort of smartassed, feeble excuse and leave it at that.
This weekend, I have an opportunity for a date. I've hung with the guy once, at a bowling alley-cum-rock-club. He has some sort of progressive alternative band that plays local clubs. He's asked me to go to a horror convention with him. I don't know. I'm not into horror conventions. He has a receding hairline, and I don't much like the idea of him naked. But we can still go as friends, right?
I so can't wait to move to West Palm Beach...I hope there's hot rockstar boys there. I really do.