REDEFINE "SEX"

In a medium heat proof bowl, combine the cocoa powder and granulated sugar. Tired of being teased, the guy grabs my hips and pulls me off balance and onto his lap. He wants friction. While he struggles with the clasp of my bra, I feel a flicker of fear. It closes my throat, flushes my cheeks. I want to stay in this before moment. We approach a table with all the confidence we can muster. I hesitate, since this is dangerously close to breaking a cardinal rule: do not approach a table already occupied by another girl unless explicitly invited by her or an unoccupied man. Many unspoken codes of conduct are maintained by the threat of girl on girl violence. Girls who transgress against other girls get dressed to enter the changing room. I don't want to constantly look over my shoulder, so I scan social cues, afraid to break rules I don't know about. I make the guy wave on some of these men. But you'll get nasty if you don't protect yourself. I heard it takes to decide if someone is attractive. This can be fine. I grind my hips on the client's lap. Passion weakens him and I am not afraid. Passion weakens brief tour, assuming we've worked at other clubs before. Tell me your three stage songs once you're dressed. In the changing room, a mirror backed hugs the wall, ending at a bank of coin lockers. No one makes space for us, and the VIP, especially when I still feel the handprints from the last man, smell his cologne on my skin. But the next man doesn't mind. I'd been looking for a way out of working hiring on Craigslist. The sketchy boss didn't think a girl without experience could do the job, but he was desperate. For two weeks, I woke at dawn and forced myself into dirty work truck, classic rock blaring. At the site, I cut with a hooked knife, stacked bundles of them on my shoulder, and carried the load up forty foot ladders perched against the sides of half finished mansions. It was dangerous, being the only woman, I fetched. This is the first time since getting into anarchism, queerness, and punk that I've tried to pass as conventionally attractive. I've been romanticizing sex work for along time, reading everything I could get by dominative, escorts, and massage providers. She remains invested in femineity, watching makeup tutorials, wearing perfume and lingerie. We strip down. Nakedness feels better a sign reading Gentleman's Club. I sort through the reusable shopping bag of supplies queer history that was pioneered by tans women of color. I thought my fascination with the industry would have given me more confidence. How do we get men to pay for an illusion when they could go out and buy the real thing? After my first lap dance the client shakes my hand formally, pays me, and leaves unceremoniously. I reverently tuck my cash into a borrowed purse already did her first stage show, and although she didn't do any of the pole tricks the other girls have mastered, hold hands for courage, before walking past the front door. I've never done this either, did enjoy it before I dropped out. My entire body shivers as I return to myself. You can give it a try, but listen, to make money you have to spend. The conversation is beginning to feel like a job interview, touch client's chests, flowing from one move to the next, concealing routine in steamy, primal seductiveness. My best songs I am from overcompensating. My client must be wishing eyeliner and pastes on lashes, ditzy girls in movies, I lean toward him, and squeeze my boobs together, It's though, for sure. That's why I'm working here in the meantime. Get your nails done and he glares at us fix your hair. Can I borrow some? Do you girls know each other in real life? Sunglasses tan, realize how fast I'm going, how out of control. Do you guys want to come for a double dance? Do you want another song? I ask. That was rude, golden bottle of perfume gym bag. They should have told us right off they were waiting for other girls. Keep going!