He Started Singing “Like a G6”

What did we do to get the old men singing Old School songs?

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J came to me courtesy of my friend, LA.

You remember her, right? No? I told you about her in my story about my first job? She was the one who set me up for that, too.

At the time, she was dancing to put herself through the local Cal State, and she didn’t want anything to do with dating the guys who came to watch her and the other college girls dance for green.

The old men who came to watch, I should say. Almost all the clients at her club were old enough to be the daddies or uncles of the dancers. So, I understand the creep.

But LA grew out of her reluctance to be ogled, and fondled, and fucked by daddies – encouraged by me, I have to admit. I told her that the money was just too good to pass up. Way better than dancing for ones.

Not long after she started escorting, LA had this client, J. He was the founder of a teen fashion company that specialized in super high cut girls’ bikinis and shorts, and super tight Ts and shorts for boys.

J had a two-date rule: no more than two dates with the same girl to any of his industry events. He’d “used up” his two dates with LA, and asked her for a referral. Who better than me?

He didn’t flinch at my $1,000 rate, and he didn’t tell me what we were doing for our date. Just told me to dress boho chic and bring a sweater.

J was a fashion guy, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I saw him. Funky patterned blazery-shacket over a white linen shirt, silk scarf tied in a Pariesien knot at his neck, French cap pushed back on his head with silky gray strands flowing out, black leather pants snug on his tight ass (not just tight for his age!), leather flip flops on his dogs.

Boho chic.

Me too! I took his advice and wore my hippy cotton top with all the cute cutouts in all the right places. I rolled it up to show off my tight abs (and not just for my age!), but had to pin it in place since I couldn’t tuck it into the bottom of a bra I wasn’t wearing. Big, flowy linen pants that snugged around my ass and billowed out and down. My very fucking cute strappy sandals with the jeweled starburst at the toe cinch.

His first words: “Hot damn, Misty. Nice look. I’m J.”

Just the way I like it.

He had a driver who took us to his friend’s business. That doesn’t quite describe it right. His friend had “retired” out of the fashion company where they worked together in their 30s and bought a compound of abandoned industrial buildings a couple of miles away from a big, famous shopping mall in SoCal.

He turned it into a hipster collage of mom & pop boutiques, restaurants, and bars. Popular as an antidote to the see-’em-everywhere franchise joints that fill up every corner around here.

This night, there was a long farm table set up in a courtyard, and his friend was holding court over a community dinner as servers brought course after course, and poured wine after wine, showing off the cuisine and comforts of his tenants.

We were munching our way through some kind of vegan alt-cheeseburger when the girl sitting next to me leaned over and asked where we’d gotten them. Her group down the table had been passed over and now the next course was out, and damn, they wanted to try the alt-burgers.

I held mine up to her, and she leaned in, put a warm hand on my forearm, and took a sloppy bite all the while keeping her hazel eyes locked on mine. No eyeliner, no mascara, no fluttery fake lashes, just a touch of rouge – or, was she blushing? A pickled onion stretched between the burger and her lips, and she bit hard to get her share. Definitely not blushing.

“That was nice,” she said, “but I think we all want our own, too.” She stopped one of the servers who kind of blew her off, saying all the burgers were served and we were on to the next course, and wasn’t it all enough food, anyway? Server girl wasn’t wrong, there was a lot of untouched kale salad and prolapsed spring rolls and mung bean gazpacho untouched on platters all around us.

“We want to try the alt-burgers, babe,” she said, but the server girl shrugged her off and moved on.

Then the wine guy came by again, this time pouring a red from Greece that he said complimented the flavors of the alt-cheeseburger, and that made my neighbor groan. Wine guy stopped, clearly confused, and asked her what’s wrong with that?

“We didn’t get the alt-burgers, and we really want to try them. Can’t you get us some?” She managed a perfect, admirable balance of pouty and flirty and needy. I admired it, and so did wine guy.

“You want more burgers?” he asked. “No, babe, not more. We want some. We haven’t had any of the burgers. She skipped us and won’t bring us any,” and she waved a bangled hand over at the server girl, who cleary didn’t give a fuck. “Well, I had one bite,” and now she leaned in to me again, “but that just made me want more. And so does everyone over here.”

“Well, I’m not the burger guy. I’m not any of the food guy. Just wine guy.” He seemed like he was about to blow her off, too. “But, let me see what I can do.” He disappeared backstage, and then blow-us-off-server-girl emerged, shaking her head and glaring our way.

A few minutes later, the chef-owner of the vegan joint appeared, with a big platter of alt-burgers. He was beaming, like he was happy to be out of the kitchen and didn’t want to do anything other than deliver these alt-burgers to my neighbor girl and her friends. He put the platter down, and she stood up and gave him a happy side-hug, and all her friends oohed-and-ahhed over the burgers.

Wine guy swung by again, and now neighbor girl stood up again and this time delivered a full-frontal embrace and cooed something sweet in his ear. He leaned into it, whispered back to her, and they laughed. When she sat back down, I could see she was flush, the warmth glowing on her.

This whole time, my date J had been curioiusly quiet and passive. I started to notice that every time wine guy came back by, J looked away. “Oooh, J, I think I might know a little secret.”

“What do you think you know, Misty?”

“Misty! Your name is Misty?” It was neighbor girl, eavesdropping. “That’s not your real name, is it babe?”

“That’s me, Misty,” I said for the seven-millionth time of my life. “What’s your name?”

“Katya. Don’t call me cat. Or Kitty.” She was practically purring. “What’s your man’s secret, Miss Misty?”

“I think J here has a history. With wine guy.”

“Jesus, Misty.” J tossed his napkin on his plate. He had hardly eaten anything after Katya and friends had finally gotten their burgers.

“Or, maybe with the chef of the vegan joint.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ohhh, or both?”

J pushed back his chair and sauntered away. I saw him find his friend, the host, and they had a laugh. Then J went around that end of the table shaking hands, rubbing shoulders, working it. I watched him all the way around, and he didn’t look back. I was watching when I felt her warm hand on my forearm again, and I looked over to her.

“Look, Misty, wine guy is headed over to where J is mingling. This should be good.”

We could see wine guy mouth some words. It looked like “I thought that was you,” and then they slapped each other on the back, said a couple more things to each other, and then both turned and looked right at me. Wine guy was smiling, all big dick energy. J was clearly watching for my reaction.

“Get your ass over there, girl,” Katya said. “Something’s about to happen. Could even be something good. Either way, you want to be in the middle of it.”

I grabbed her hand and pulled her up to her feet. “You’re coming, too.”

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