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I have a regular. I don’t know his name.
He just walked in, spotted me, roamed the room while sipping a cocktail, and waited for me to approach him for a champagne room at least two times a month for the last five months. The same routine. The same debauchery each visit. Last time though, I think I pissed him off.
It is Friday, and I’m wondering if he’ll come in and pick me out the crowd again.
He spends “thousands of dollars in here almost every weekend,” according to the douchebag VIP manager. One time, during a few dances in a regular sized VIP booth, the waitress brought complimentary drinks without explanation. She simply said “it's a gift.” Another time, he ran out of cash and owed me $40. Not only did the VIP staff not make a big deal of it like regular customers, but they offered to take the $40 they would charge us for the dances and let me keep the money. When he returned approximately two weeks later, the VIP pointed it out to me and said, “there’s your customer. Be sure you get your money.” They didn’t make me pay back the club’s fees.
When I inquired why he received such special treatment, he shrugged and said he had no idea. I suggested he might be “Russian mafia” as there were rumors that gangsters helped protect the club. He threw his head back and laughed, saying, “oh, that’s what you think?” and ignored the comment completely. To this day, whenever he comes back, he jokes around with me, suggesting I was right about his allegiance to the Russian Mob.
He likes to pester me. He enjoys the “I can’t, I’m a good girl” routine. He cracked me once: he kept insisting I smoke his cigarette. I’ve never smoked a cigarette in my entire life. I’m 31 years old! But he kept dragging on it, the cherry glowing in the dark room. He kept holding it in front of my face, my lips, my chest; begging me to take a puff. I did it. I loved it. It tasted amazing and I was shocked I didn’t cough uncontrollably like they depict in the movies. He loved that I caved. Sometimes he asks me why I won’t smoke with him again. I kind of regret it, knowing I gave into “peer pressure” like a self-conscious adolescent. But... I kind of enjoyed the rush of doing something taboo.
He begs to touch my pussy. He’s gotten pretty damn close a few times. Too many times, in fact. During our last champagne room experience, I diffused the situation by crawling seductively to the other side of the couch. I proceeded to keep him distracted by spreading my legs and emphasizing my flexibility. It backfired — he lunged forward toward me, like an animal. His face headed straight for my pelvic bone and in an effort to defend myself and avoid him burying his face in my snatch, I held my arms out and pushed his head away. He yelped, jumped back, and said I hurt him. He rubbed his neck and winced with pain. I explained I was sorry I hurt him but I had to protect myself. Rubbing his neck he backed away, with a irritated look on his face. I’m glad I didn’t seriously hurt him — he was just being dramatic.
I guess pain and rejection is not his thing.