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.
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.
Possum drew me a map showing how to get to the two strip clubs he knows of: a big one, and a little one.
* * * 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.
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.
While I’m stacking his mail neatly I check out his name. The counter is dirty, covered in stains and puddles of dried-up food and glue and who knows what else.
Scrubbing while bending over a counter in six-inch heels, back arched so that your ass sticks up pretty, is hard work.
When I arrive at the house of the first viable person to respond to my Craigslist ad, I knock on the door and take a step back. I like his work jeans and dirty white t-shirt, though. I step in, a little flirty, but all-business to begin with. Call me in like an hour.” “,” Possum replies in his drawl.