I had a bizarre experience last night. Well, not so much bizarre as perfect. A man in the club. Just the kind of weirdo slash angel you hope for. I had approached him early in the night, he seemed nice, told me maybe later. I said I’d drop by to check in on him.
I was bored, so I sat next to him and jabbered on with the usual nonsense. He had a shaved dome and dark skin. He said his name was Jose and we joked about how he didn’t look Mexican. He said I could call him Cody, so I started calling him Hody. It was just one of those nights. He told me he liked me because I sat and talked to him. I guess girls were giving him the cold shoulder. He inquired about alcohol, I said we could get vodka from management if he bought a Sky Box or tipped the manager. Or both. I threw in a blurb about how and why the Sky Box was the best. He said sure, but that he would like to have his drink first. No prob. We (he) paid for our five-hundred dollar private dance, and I got him some hooch. Vodka and Redbull. I made myself one, too. We sat and talked. He was funny and easy to spend time with. A two-for-one was called, he asked if I wanted to go to the VIP. Uh, sure. I informed him that it was a separate fee, he said OK. We did our diddy, it was fun. We laughed, he obeyed my rules, he smelled like laundry, I could feel his thick cock through his pants. After the three songs, we went to the bar to pay. I got my half, and he tipped me a hundred on top of it. We went back to our table. Since he had been so generous, I took our empty drinks to the dressing room and refreshed them from my own stash. When I came back, he was gone, but there was a note written on a napkin: “Shannon, you’re the best! Thanks for being so nice. I gave the cocktail waitress more money for you, have a good night!”. Poof! My Mexican knight was gone. Like a strip club fairy tale. Or a money-toting apparition. I checked my little purse to see if I had hallucinated the whole thing. Nope. All there. I picked the drinks back up, cheers’d myself and turned back to the dressing room to celebrate. This is exactly why people shouldn’t judge covers, you never know.