I worked as a "lingerie model."Throughout the Portland area, there are several shops in which guys (and gals and anyone who wants to stop by) are given a private striptease show, similar to a private dance, but more...well, private. There is a "glass tobacco pipe" euphemism that refers to our shops as "lingerie modeling,"in case a committed husband is out shop ping for lingerie to give to his loving wife, but needs a second opinion and/or model to make sure it fits. And, of course, a hundred-plus-per-hour service offered at three in the morning is just the place to have a model demonstrate how well your wife’s new gift will fit...right?
Here’s what really happens at the shop, which is totally legal and equally obvious—guys come in, watch the show, bust a nut onto a towel if needed and then leave. Some ask for specifics (dirty talk, fantasy shows, etc.) while others just watch, enjoy and bail. It’s typically a pretty boring-in-a-good-way gig. But, even with explicitly understood terms and conditions regarding what one will receive in a "not quite-a-brothel- but-better-than-a-strip club" environment, some folks never cease to surprise me.
During one particularly slow evening, a short, older, stringy haired, tweaker-looking gentlemen walked in and asked if we had any "strippers available."Typically, this would not be any thing out of the norm—but, in this particular case, the guy in question didn’t appear to have either the money or the inter est in obtaining a show. If anything, he was the definition of "rando who just walks in off the streets and back out again without buying anything." So, being the slightly judgmental- but-still-optimistic person I am, I informed the sketchy looking old dude (he had to be pushing 90 years old) that shows start at a hundred bucks and move up from there, with various other options (kinks, out fits, etc.) being available at increasing ly more expensive increments.
"Okay," the old tweaker dude said, be fore leaving to "go get money" (yeah, right) and letting me get back to my in-between-customer nap time. I didn’t expect him to return, so I start ed to doze off.
However, shortly after the man I will refer to as "Gollum" left the shop to go get money, he, well...came back with money—like, a lot of money. I have no idea where (or how) he obtained such a large amount of cash in such a short time, but there it was, a giant wad of dirty, cash-money, pre COVID currency.
Walking up to the front entrance lob by, Gollum held out a baseball-sized ball of cash and asked me how much it was to get started, to which I replied "a hundred bucks just to get the show going." Gollum peeled a single, hundred-dollar bill off the top of his money knot and I immediately felt bad for profiling the guy (that, or thankful that I was oblivious as to the source of his newly obtained cash flow). Figuring, "Who am I to judge?", I took Gollum to a room and we started the show.
Normally, I would begin a dance with a striptease while the customer relaxed on his side of the room. However, this would usually be accompanied by the customer removing some or all of his clothing, to "enjoy the show" (rub one out) on one of the several towels provided by the shop Gollum, on the other hand, was just sitting there, fully clothed, looking around the room as if I was the last thing on his mind. But, hey, money is money so I just kept the show going, removing clothing and dancing around as if it was for any other customer. Some guys don’t like to whip it out and I’m not going to complain about a dude who just wants to sit there, fully clothed.
I did, however, remind Gollum that it was okay to relax, get comfortable and do what he needed to do, in order to fully enjoy the show. With this, Gollum unzipped his pants by maybe an inch or two worth of zipper and then just sat back as if his Al Bundy posture was all he needed to enjoy his time at the "jack shack." Whatever he’s into, that’s his thing. If he wanted to get the same experience he could at a strip club, then that’s fine with me. So, I began to dance.
After a song or two, I turned around from shaking my ass, to face Gollum. And, well, that’s when he whipped it out—it was the longest, skinniest, dirtiest, whitest, most frail one I’d ever seen and my customer was now offer ing to stuff it in my mouth...of course, I’m not talking about a dick, but a real- life, actual, honest-to god crack pipe. You read that right—homeboy just up and whipped out his crack, lit it up and then looked at me as if nothing was wrong. I’m used to seeing dicks, just not glass ones.
"Umm, you can’t do that in here," I told my crack-smoking customer.
"Oh, I thought you said I could have my pants down," he replied as if he wasn’t literally smoking crack in my workplace.
"No, not that. I mean the crack. You can’t just smoke that in here."
Apologetically, Gollum immediately did what any morally upstanding human would do and apologized...for not offering me some first.
"My bad, did you want to hit it before I do?" he asked, while leaning forward toward me, zipper half-undone (with no sign of an erection), crack pipe in one hand and lighter in the other. This is the one part of my job that I’ve always had a problem with—explaining to customers the whole "Yes, you are allowed to touch yourself in our private establishment, but no, you can’t smoke crack while doing so" logic. Yeah, I know...it’s pretty authoritarian and fascist of the owner, but the towels we provide can’t clean up a crack fire. It’s also extremely illegal to smoke crack in any Portland-area establishment, regardless of said establishment’s rules regarding nudity or adult entertainment. Adult theater, strip club, XXX video store, Taco Bell bathroom, lingerie modeling shop or otherwise even if nudity is common, it is still against Oregon law to fire up a crack rock indoors (especially now, with all the COVID laws and such, but this was back in simpler times).
"Yeah, I can’t have you smoking that in here. But, you can still enjoy the show," I told the visibly disappointed Gollum, who replied with an apologetic, disappointed nod.
Gollum had maybe ten to twelve songs left for his hour, but I went ahead and danced for about two more before asking him if he enjoyed the show. After all, I was the last thing he was looking at—his eyes were darting around the room like flies looking for an open window that didn’t exist, high as hell on (or, possibly, coming down from) whatever substance was in his crack pipe (I know, I’m judging here...it could have been completely legal and healthy CBD powder extract or something, but I’m gonna go out on a limb that intersects with 82nd Avenue and assume it wasn’t).
"Oh, is the show over?" he asked, digging through his pockets and rocking, while his eyes scanned the room. There was no way in hell that he had any sense of time or place, so a few skipped songs likely didn’t register on his time-and-space radar. For a second, I thought he was going to steal something or try to rob me. But, that giant wad of cash he brought with him suggested that any theft or robbery Gollum had planned on engaging in had already taken place.
"Yeah, we’re done unless you want some more time," I told my still- clothed but no-longer-high-enough customer.
"No, that’s fine. Here’s a tip. I’ll see you later," Gollum told me as he stood up and bolted for the door. "Huh," I thought. "That was easy money and the only thing I had to remind him not to do was smoke crack." In this industry, girls see and hear all sorts of shit, up to and including requests for sex (not allowed), violent or heavily inappropriate fantasies and role play (which I choose not to do) and propositions to "hang out after work" (which I also choose not to do). Hell, I’ve even had customers subtly offer me lines of coke, which I definitely choose not to do (and is also not allowed), but cocaine is something that can be consumed from on top of a key, while hiding in the corner. It’s more discreet, because coke doesn’t give off a strong odor, unless you’re fucking smoking it inside a lingerie shop. Customers occasionally even try to snort "legal medications," but that’s never been any of my business—correction, the time I walked in on a customer using my vibrator to grind down Xanax pills, that was my business and yes, I made him pay for the vibrator. But, no one ever drilled a hole in one of my dildos and filled it with crack rock.
Back to Gollum, I thought he had all but disappeared into the darkness of the Portland streets, until my next show, which was with a "normal" customer (the kind who just shows up, enjoys the dance, does his business and leaves). This guy, who I will call "Norm," was relaxing in his chair, quietly, while I was dancing with my ass facing toward him. Suddenly, I noticed a bag of white, powdery substance that I guessed belonged to Gollum, laying right in front of me on the floor. I swept the bag up with my hand as I was dancing, then tossed it into the trashcan, hoping Norm wouldn’t notice. "Hey, what was that!?" Norm asked.
"Huh? Oh, nothing just a piece of trash." "No, what was that??? Was that a condom?!" Norm demanded to know, as he was clearly concerned for his own health and/or safety.
"That was not a condom. We don’t do that kind of show here," I told Norm, forgetting to mention the other types of shows that are not allowed, such as crack-smoking shows. "It was probably something a customer dropped." "Let me see," Norm demanded. "Fine," I told him. "You can dig through the trash and you’ll find a white baggie with something in it that isn’t mine. Feel free to take it if you want." "Oh, uh...never mind."
"Okay then, let’s get back to our dance," I said, while continuing to twerk while my customer did whatever it was he wanted, by himself, that didn’t involve smoking crack or looking for floor condoms.
After the show with Norm, Gollum re turned to the shop in a panic. "Hey, uh, I think I left something here," he said while looking around.
I had to spell it out. "No, you didn’t. And, if you did, I would have thrown it away. Because, whatever it was, it was probably illegal and perhaps something that belonged in that pipe you whipped out—the one that doesn’t belong in our establishment."
Gollum looked let down, similar to how he felt when I politely declined his of fer to share crack with a lingerie model, inside of a poorly ventilated (and very clean) establishment. "Okay, thanks anyways," he said, while turning around in a slump and leaving once again.
However, Norm hadn’t left. He just stood there, staring at me and wondering what just happened, in terms of my random interaction with a crackhead asking for his stuff back.
I took Norm’s money, thanked him for his time and said, "I told you it wasn’t a condom."
So, welcome to the shop. Yes, you can whip it out, but no, no one is going to touch it and you can’t stick it in my mouth. The same goes for crack pipes.
