His Name Was Chocolate

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While I was sitting with another man, a beautiful dark African guy came up to me and asked if I would take him for a dance. I told him that I was booked but would come and find him afterward.

‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

‘Chocolate.’ His voice was sexy and low, rumbling back at me with a thick, deep African accent. The corners of his mouth unfurled, and his lips parted ever so slightly to reveal a slinky smile.

‘OH MY GOD!!!! That’s my DOG’S name!’ I exclaimed. Loudly. With far more excitement that it was worth. Double dropping dexamphetamines has consequences.

‘What?’

‘That’s my dog’s name!’ I repeated. Only slightly decreasing the force of my statement. Again, consequences. Tsk tsk.

He was not impressed. He mumbled something under his breath about ‘Chocolate….mmmumna mmumna….dog.Ugh! Mmumna…blah blah.’

It became clear all of a sudden that several things had been lost on me during the course of this extremely brief interaction. The imaginable sexual prowess of such a man with that dark Chocolate flavouring had failed to be imagined by me. The disco fantasy of a hot black man rolling by the name of Chocolaaaaaate… like a loud whisper between songs on a dance floor that lights up with coloured checkers from below, had been lost on me. The legendary proportions of his African easter bunny and how it might spill forth into my own small Asian fusion treasure box of special secret XOXO sauce dumprings, had been lost on me.

My heart rate had not increased, all a flutter, due to the prince before me, but rather due to the duo of white pills before him. Any chance of a hand in hand digression onto a dance floor, followed by sweet salty chocolate disco dumpring dirty time shriveled up and died in that moment. The impact had fizzled. The Chocolate sex soldier had partially melted in his foil wrapper and now stood less than at attention. Downtrodden. Chest no longer puffed. Chin no longer skyward. Left in the box. Staring at his half melted cunt conquest combat boots.

‘Just call me Choc.’ He said.

Then he turned and walked away. Hands in pockets, shuffling his chocolates about through his jeans. Just to make sure they were still positioned where they were meant to be.

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Dreams Come True!

Last night I was on the club Catwalk. Front centre pole, otherwise referred to as “Cellulite City”. It makes girls who have no cellulite, look like they do, and girls who do have cellulite, look like they need to fast. Forever. I’m in the latter category. But whatevs. I work my angles and find the shadows to keep me safe. Can’t remember if I was working my angles last night though. I’d had 3 tequilas, a hideous glass of cheap Australian sparkling and 2 vodkas in the 1.5 hours I spent with my regular customer. Effectively rendered myself entirely ineffective. SMASHED. He came and went so I was left to populate cellulite city with my thighs and ass alone. We did ok, not quite a metropolis. The music was good. Better than usual and I vaguely remember moving really slowly. Mostly so that I wouldn’t fall over or hit my forehead on the pole. I have a bad track record with stationary objects.

I looked up and saw a little Indian man coming toward the stage, his shiny bald head catching the light as he emerged out of the darkness. I beamed a big, happy, drunk smile at him. He beamed a happy little smile back.

“Hello, how are you going?” I said.

“I’m good. How are you?” He replied.

“I’m great! What’s your name?” I said.

“Blah Blah. What’s your name?” He replied.

Standard mind blowing opening conversation.

“Billie. Would you like a dance?” I asked.

He held out a little wad of $5 and $10 notes and gave them a little waggle up and down. Not in an offensive carrot dangling way, just in a wad of money waggling way.

“No, no. I don’t want you to dance. I want you to lie down.”

I’ve never been asked to do this on stage before so I made an effort. I lay down on the stage with my back arched and my legs elongated toward the ceiling, my ankles crossed lightly, making beautiful iridescent shapes with my body by catching the light just so.

“Open your dress.” He instructed.

It’s not a dress. It’s a playsuit but I didn’t think it was the appropriate time to correct him on the specifics of my garment.  I let it slide and pulled aside the two pieces of black fabric that drape over my breasts so they were exposed and peaking toward the ceiling. He stood there smiling at me from the shadows and then extended his arms, reaching his hands forward into the light. His wad of cash was sitting atop of his left palm, and with his right hand, he began to flick each note over the top of me. Slowly and deliberately at first, then with the reckless abandon of a small Indian man who is living his African American hip hop hunny DREAM, while also making a dream come true for an extremely drunk  stripper who had only moments ago been schlepping her way up and down and around a pole in cellulite city. Maybe the lights aren’t as bad as I thought…. No. They really are.

Fast forward 25 minutes to the smoking room where I was dressed and ready to go home. Lipstick wiped off. Fag in hand, slurring my way through a rubbish conversation with one of the other girls. A dancer walked in and asked to have a drag of my cigarette because her customer had just tried to stick his finger up her butt hole. Turned out it was my little Indian friend with the shiny head, ticking yet another one of his dreams off the list.

Black Dress 2_2