February 16, 2008
My Michelle That Wasn’t


cydytame161.jpgCrushes weren’t unusual when I was stripping. Surrounded by so much female flesh gyrating and writhing, airfucking for cash during those everlasting, carnival-lit nights, crushes on girls flitted like butterflies. I had them; others had them on me. Sometimes the stripclub crush resulted in mercurial sex or longer-lasting relationships; more often, they came to nothing. Just those warm fuzzy feelings shooting warming the dark, the natural progeny of faking sex, hot bodies, casual conversation, and the us-against-them, foxhole mentality of strippers awash in a world of customers.

There was one crush I had that felt different from the fast-burn lusts I had for other girls. This crush remains, even now a decade plus later, to sit apart from my erotic memories of other girls. This crush felt special.

Her name was Michelle, or, at least, her strip name was Michelle. I don’t remember her real name. We strippers, like spies, like con artists, like Indians, like gangsters, have multiple names that denote and differentiate our selves. We need to keep the real self and the fantasy strip self separated; we need multiple identities in an attempt to stay sane in what is a surreal environment. Her strip name was Michelle; if I knew her real name, I don’t remember it.

Michelle fell squarely into one of my two types of women for whom I feel instant attraction: that of the flat-chested brunette with an ass the sun rose and set upon. She had long, straight brown hair that flowed in a natural and unimpeded fall down her back. Her body was tight and flat, flat, flat everywhere, everywhere but her ass, where it swelled in two large and mysterious rounds that I wished to prise apart and explore for weeks.

Michelle, I believe, returned my crush. We were unusually shy and sparkly in our conversations. We seemed to skitter when we talked, to pull closer and push away like two magnets; we were attracted by each other, but we were also repelled by the idea of becoming a couple in a place where we both worked.

At least, that’s my read on it all these years later.

Strip clubs are a natural place for very high drama. The whole environment is theatrical, for one. For another, lots of people are drunk or on drugs, if not all the time, then some of it. And then you can’t discount the fact that many of the women who opt to strip are not necessarily the most even-keeled boats in the harbor. I’d seen many stripper couples go the way of operatic shouting matches, accessorized by extension-pulling fights and flying platform shoes. I am sure Michelle had too. It’s hard to date anyone when you’re stripping; I think it’s yet harder when you’re dating another stripper.

And yet, I would always find that Michelle and I would somehow end up taking our breaks together. We would somehow find ourselves sitting hip-to-hip on some couch, smoking the same cigarette, our eyes going all sparky at each other, our voices drowning out the dance hits of the 80’s. I would always find too that my gaze drifted toward Michelle when she was on stage, the way she circled the pole, one hand high, another low, her butt jutted out in full glorious prominence, her red g-string separating the two globes like the prohibitive slash in a no-smoking sign.

When I was dancing too, on stage or between a customer’s legs, I would get that feeling that someone was watching-of course someone was watching, but someone in this case that I cared  about-and I’d look up and catch Michelle looking. I would then blush in a red-hot flush from clit to tips, and smile, only now for real.

At the time I was dancing with Michelle, I was living with my friend Alexis who urged me in no uncertain terms to go for her. “You two can’t stop staring at each other,” Alexis said, “she’s nice. She’s cute. Make it happen.”

I did my best.

Michelle, unlike me, had a car. I usually took a cab home with Alexis after work, but one night I somehow finagled a ride with Michelle. I felt like live mice were using my belly as their Habitrail, I was so nervous as I climbed into her Toyota. Thoughts of all of the unspeakable ways I’d spread her open in my mind flashed like tiny blue movies in my brain. Memories of all of the times I’d stared at her on stage, her head thrown back in faux ecstasy, her tiny brown nipples reaching like budding plants toward the polychromous lights, her big stripper shoes at awkward angles that seemed to anchor her to ground flooded my brain.

I tried to make conversation. It seemed so much harder in the confines of her car. The air itself felt jittery. We arrived, too soon, at my apartment, and Michelle parked the car, but kept the engine running. We talked and we talked and our nerves were palpable.

Kiss her, I thought. You’ve done this before. Just kiss her. Just reach over. Just…just…just…her mouth is right there…I thought. And I tried to summon the courage. I tried and I tried and the moment came, and then, like a crash of the perfect wave under a waiting surfer, the moment passed.

I left the car. I went into the apartment. “Well?” asked Alexis.

Nothing, I responded, I couldn’t do it.

“Pussy,” she pronounced. She was right.

After that, Michelle and I drifted out of the twinkly land of crushiness. The thrill, the magic moment, the sparkly fantasy passed, and we were left, just two regular humans who wanted to but never made contact. Unrequited and crushed.


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