This is the worst story to date. I'm warning you.
I danced for Dave all night, from the very beginning of my shift to the very end.
Dave is one of those stuck-up business types - 44, good suit, parted hair, glasses. He has a nice voice and talks like Frasier Crane.
"Come home and dance for me some more," he said to me.
"Sorry, I don't go home with customers," I lied.
"I just want you to dance, nothing more," he insisted.
"No, thank you," I insisted.
"I'll give you a thousand dollars."
I went home with Dave.
Once we got to his house, he offered me an ecstasy pill. Knowing it was a bad idea, I took it.
We talked all night. He told me about his divorce, his children, his job.
He cut up some lines of cocaine. I hate cocaine. I took a few bumps. By this point I knew that I had gone deep into bad decisions, and by this point I had hated myself, I hated myself so much, so by this point, I just wanted to be fucked up.
"I've got a guy coming over to bring me some Cialis," he told me.
Yeah, this was definitely a bad idea, I thought.
"Are you ready to dance for me?" he asked.
Now, completely fucked up, I danced for him. I remember hating every moment of it.
Dave put some porn on his big-screen TV.
And some guy indeed dropped off a paper bag of Cialis.
He took out his stupid penis and started stroking it. I went and sat at the other side of the room.
"You're not into that?" he asked, pointing at the TV. There was a woman bent over and two girls fingering and eating her out.
"No, not at all," I said.
"Do you want some Cialis?" he asked.
"Okay," I took the Cialis.
I can't write anymore. I can't bring myself to replay the end of the story in my head again - his bed, the sounds, the sweat, his voice - it makes me want to vomit. It makes me want to kill myself. How has it come to this? When will I love myself again?
The check bounced.