She called me!  I was the happiest little lesbian stripper in the world.  I couldn’t believe she called me!  Of course she waited for the obligatory three-day rule, but I didn’t care.  Things in Tampa were definitely looking up and I was so thrilled that I had made the move from dreary Orlando.  I had a pretty good job, good friends and now a date with a hot chick.  I was on a roll.  Our first conversation was very, very nice.  She had a sexy voice.  I had a sexy voice.  We had sexy voices.  We were perfect.

Our first date went great.  At dinner, conversation flowed easily, which is always the toughest thing when getting to know someone new.  Questions can be so boring and redundant.  I can’t stand first dates…awkward silences, trying not to burp or get anything on your shirt…it’s horrible.  But this one, this one had potential.  I mean, it could have been used as a template for so many other first daters.  It was bliss.  Until that dreaded question: the one most dancers cringe away from, the very question that kept me out of the dating scene for so long.

What do you do for a living?

I took a deep breath.  How to follow-up Theresa’s beautiful presentation of herself?  She was Puerto Rican and American Indian (I know, right?  Damn.  Oh well.)  A tall, slender real estate agent.  That’s admirable.  I now have a special place in my heart for real estate agents.  I’d buy anything from Theresa, any day.  If we had continued dating, I’d probably be the proud owner of a swamp somewhere in the backwoods of Florida.  Somehow, that doesn’t seem so bad now.  I had a choice as I sat there, chewing my bite of food until it was liquid, praying for a reprieve of some kind.  I mean, where was the server when a girl needed an interruption?  Finally, I swallowed, still not sure whether I should lie or tell the truth to this gorgeous creature seated across from me.

I’d like to clarify the word lie, in my world, in this situation.  Kind of like a white lie (see previous entries) but not.  Rather than call it a lie, let’s say an omission.  I could say that I do make-up (I did!), I was a professional dancer (I was!) or I was living off of savings for the time being (I had around $300 in savings – don’t judge me, I just moved)  I decided on…drumroll, please…

The truth!  I know, it was quite a risk but I figured she might as well know why I couldn’t see her after 8:30 pm most weekends, why I slept until 11:00 am, sometimes noon, and why I could never quite get the smell of smoke out of my skin or hair.  Ugh, that was so disgusting.  One year later, the Clean Air Act in Tampa finally passed, right after I signed my new lease in Atlanta, hmph!  Anyway, I waited patiently for her reaction.  I could feel my chocha cringing…after all, this affected her just as much as it affected the rest of me.  Theresa smiled and her next words scared the ever-living daylights out of me.  Instead of, ‘check please’ it was ‘I dated a dancer once.’  I let out an immense sigh of relief.  ‘She was a little crazy.’ Damn, so close.

Well, at least she tried and shared my sentiment that, yeah, a lot of dancers are crazy…I can say now, though, that women in general are certifiably nuts, especially in Atlanta.  I think it’s the dirty air.  The rest of our date went exceptionally well.  Dinner was followed by a trip to the local gay all-night coffee joint. (super cool)  I ordered hot chocolate.  I don’t remember what she ordered, but she looked really hot sipping it.  As we talked even more in a swanky upstairs lounge, an adorable gay man walked by and paused, only to comment ‘you two are a hot couple.  Just beautiful.’  We laughed because we knew it.  And there were fireworks, I mean it was kismet that we saw each other in that bar.

She took me home, gave me a respectful but long-lasting hug and we parted ways.  I was so elated I called everyone I knew.  And left a message because they were all strippers and they were all working.  Damn, I really wanted to gloat and squeal for someone.  Then my phone rang.  It was Theresa!  I crossed my fingers, (askmetomarryyouaskmetomarryyouaskmetomarryyouaskmetomarryyou).  She told me what a great time she had and she knew it was a faux pas to call so soon but she couldn’t help it and would I like to see her again this weekend?  Inside, ‘Hell yeah!’  Outwardly, ‘I had a great time too.  I would love to see you again.’  Whew, I didn’t blow it.

After hanging up, I said a prayer.  Heyyy, most strippers pray, it’s not that uncommon.  Of course, it’s mostly during a VIP/Champagne Room: ‘I pray for God this man don’t get nothin’ on me.  I will whip his ass!’ or ‘Please God let his credit card go through.  I really need to pay my rent…and get those new boots.’  But that night, at that moment, this stripper had a bona fide prayer that had nothing to do with a strip club:

‘Dear God, please don’t let me f*ck this up.  Love, $%^&**’

After what happen over the next week, I decided that God hadn’t been home, either…and didn’t bother to check His messages.