Tim. A.K.A., the Fat Bastard.

"Hey everyone, this is Tim!" My manager yelled it out to us from across the room. We were sitting around the bar doing shots of tequila (I was drinking whiskey, fuck that tequila shit), and there was no one else in there but us six dancers, the bartender, and the bouncer.

Until Tim.

Fat and quiet, he was wearing a Dodgers jersey, a baseball hat, and shorts. he sat at the corner of the bar by himself for 20 minutes until I decided to capitalize.

"Hey, Tim. Nice to meet you."

Two Hours Later: I'm leaning against Tim, staring down at my black shoes. I rather enjoy the look of my feet, with their perfect pink-red pedicure, clad in brand new black platforms, tapping quietly back and forth against the red velvet couch. It looks like precious, careful erotica. I love that these are my feet.

He's massaging my back. I'm letting him, although my stomach is turning as his thick hands paw at my flesh. I don't know why I'm crossing this line...oh WAIT. yes I do.

"Are you sitting with Tim?" DJ had asked 30 minutes ago, during a break in our lap dances that Time had taken to go out and smoke a joint. "I'm surprised you're out yet, he usually comes in and gets 20 dances or so."

"You were with Tim?" The bartender had gone down the same road. "Definitely stay with him, he's got money."

MONEY. That is why I am letting this beast of a man paw at my flesh, my back, my feet (yes, he wanted to rub my feet). I've seen other girls let customers do this, all the fucking time - do they enjoy it? Are they as nauseated by it as I am? I see their customers' sincere, fat faces, their drooly little smiles, as if they're massaging a girlfriend, someone they know and love. Could anyone possibly enjoy this display of intimacy with someone they don't know? Cause I sure as shit can't.

It's just like getting a regular massage, only he's paying you to do it. It's a great deal.

I try to continue to focus on my feet, how perfect they are. My eyes trail up my body to my tiny pink and black striped bikini bottom. Not as perfect as my feet - the bottom is getting a little stretched out, leaving a tiny gap where someone could potentially see down it, the one day I don't wear a thong....I glance up at Tim. His hand had been strategically placed just so on my hip, just to where if he moved it around a tiny little bit it moved the bikini bottoms around as well...

"Get your hand off of there. Stop moving my bottoms around."

"What are you talking about? I'm not moving anything around."

"Yes you are. You're moving my bottom around so you can see down it. Stop doing that."

"OK." He moves his hand. He's pissed.

Shit. This might have been a good customer. Shit!

"Should we do one more dance?" I try to be coy and friendly like I have been with him all along, until my little boundary-setting debacle.

"Sure." Now he's being an asshole, acting like he's angry at me. Actually, really angry at me, as far as I can tell.

Fuck him.

"OK, let's do it."

I'd rather have set my boundaries than get more of his money. That was the right thing to do. FUCK.

I try to give him the best lap dance I can muster. It's not enough, and he leaves after two more.

Fuck it. I'd rather be able to sleep tonight and to face myself tomorrow morning than to make an extra hundred bucks and not be able to wash him off me for the rest of the week.