Last night I danced for a guy with the reddest beard I have ever seen. He had bad teeth, a sleeve of some sort of maybe-tribal designs, and called me “ma’am.”
At first I thought he was just some hipster boy. And, as all strippers know, hipster boys don’t have any money, and if they do, they would rather spend it on beard-wax and mdma than on a stripper.
So I avoided him.
This boy, though, was really intent on getting my attention, and asked me to dance for him.
It turns out he was there that night to hustle the pool table. I love meeting other hustlers. There is some sort of simpatico between us that makes me want to shake their hand. He slips his pool cue back in its personal carrying case and, rather than shake my hand, proceeds to spend all his winnings on me.
“What do you do for fun?” I ask, just as I ask them all.
“Uhhh…. you probably don’t wanna know, ma’am. I got a lotta guns. I like to ride bulls. I’m a hick!”
And he was the sweetest hick ever. I may or may not have taken his number so that I, too, can go bull riding before my time in New Mexico is up.
Am I the only one who gets confused?