I roll my eyes back as far as they will go and make to walk away. The guys let me through, and they jeer at me as I pass. I can wear the ninety per cent rejection rate, but the macho BS that comes with it is beyond tedious.
Hoping to have better luck elsewhere, I approach a few loners. I get lucky with one, a sales rep in his forties, recently divorced and missing his kids. He comes out with his sad story in a single sentence response to my invitation to dance.
“I’m sorry you’re missing your kids. That sucks. Come for a dance, I’ll take your mind off things.”
He reaches in his pocket, asks how much, and off we go.
I get even luckier when one of my regulars walks into the club and books me for a VIP. He is Steve. Or at least, he calls himself Steve. Why would he lie? Why wouldn’t he?
S
