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"Try," she says.
I owe her that. Only I don't know how. The falseness is part of it. Not all of it. The awkward social dynamic too. "I don't mind a little pretense. A game or a role-play. That can be fu, if we both know what we're getting. I don't mind a party where we all hint at sex. But this is too much of both."
"You don't like attending clubs with friends and coworkers?"
I nod.
"Would you like it on your own? Or with a lover?"
Lover. It's an old-timey word. It doesn't fit any of my relationships. I don't love anyone. I fuck, I care, I try, but I never love. "That would be better, but it's still not for me."
"Why?"
I say the rest without thinking. "I don't mind watching the dance itself, especially with a skilled performer, who enjoys her work." My eyes go to the stage, to the woman next to the blonde. A brunette in red, spinning around the pole with athletic prowess.
Not exactly my idea of sexy, but I can still enjoy a topless woman with acrobatic skills.
"It's everything else," I continue. "The crowd work, the fake smile, the attempt at extracting money."
She nods.
"Men come to clubs to look at naked women. Women work here to make money. It's a fair trade. Everyone knows what they're getting. But I don't like feeling hustled."
"You want an equal trade?" she asks.
"Something like that." It's not just that I don't want to pay for sex. It's not just ego. It's more. Something else lacking from an exchange of sex for money.
"And you don't see it as equal, if you have to pay for a woman's attention?"
"Is it equal?" I ask.
"That's a tough question." She looks to the stage, watching the woman in red launch into a series of upside-down poses. "Women spend a lot of time faking interest in men. They're not usually paid for it."
That's not an angle I've considered. "Do you do that?"
She shoots me areallylook. It's good-humored. It fades quickly to curiosity.
But I still feel it.
I know less than I think. I'm more oblivious than I realize.
"All women do," she says. "It's not a choice. If I go to a bar, and a guy offers to buy me a drink, I have to say yes or laugh it off. I can't ignore him or roll my eyes or leave. Not if I want to go on with the rest of my night without interruption. And at work—I had a supervisor at my internship. He was annoying and had terrible B.O. He didn't notice when men didn't smile at him, but he noticed when I frowned. I had to laugh at his jokes and ignore his lack of hygiene if I wanted a good letter of recommendation."
"That's fucked."
"It's every day."
Cassie talks about stuff like that. Maddie did too. I thought I listened. I thought I got it. But I missed a lot. Too much.
She continues, "It happens everywhere. Men talk at women. They expect us to listen and laugh and understand without any objection, without any real concern toward our inner life. I don't think it's even conscious necessarily. It just… is."
Do I do that?
"So I guess I see it that way," she says. "I see the appeal of paying someone to entertain you, pretend you're the most interesting person on the planet, so you can stop trying for once. And, yeah, maybe it's an exchange, but does that mean it's fake? You work hard for your clients. Does that mean you hate them?"
"Some of them," I say.
"So you like some?"
