“Yeah, I dunno, if I was dating a guy who was really into hair, I would totally grow my bush out, no problem. I would choose a hairy fetish guy over a..…freckle fetish guy,” which reminded me as I said it that I had just encountered my first freckle fetish customer at the strip club this week.
I’ve had customers remark on my freckles and moles in the past. One time a customer came in, sat at my rack for a few songs without saying anything, and then left. He was gone for a really long time. A long enough time to drive somewhere, score some drugs, do them, and go back to the strip club. When he rolled back in, he had been gone so long that I forgot he existed. He sat down at my rack and interrupted to ask me something important.
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. That mole [on the back of my thigh] was on the other side before.”
“Are you serious? I don’t think it could have moved,” I laughed.
“Nononononono! It was on the other side before. I’m sure of it! It was right there!” he was really passionate about this, and he didn’t see how this assertion was comical at all.
“Um yeah, that’s not possible,” I said, still laughing.
“How’d you do that!? What did you do!? It was on the other side!”
“I didn’t do anything. You must have imagined it, because there’s no way my mole moved in the past few hours.”
The conversation continued this way for a while, until he got too bummed. He wasn’t mad at me, but he seemed upset that his drugged out mind was maybe playing tricks on him. He took his hat off, got up, and wandered into the bathroom, mumbling to himself with an unconvinced scowl.
One time a “talent scout” from Vivid came into the strip club and handed me his business card. I was trying to be polite and thought asking him about Vivid made sense, since he seemed like he wanted to talk about it. He interpreted my small talk as genuine interest in pursuing a career in porn and took the opportunity to crush my dreams. He said that I had “too many freckles” and looked “too old” (I was 23) to be considered for everything they were looking for. I had sort of forgotten about my freckles until he mentioned it, and I never thought of them as this big problem. Why did he even give me his stupid card? What a dick.
Anyway, the freckle fetish guy did a typical thing that strip club customers do. He tried to pay me a compliment that he thought would be really romantic, but it just came across as gross and creepy. You know, like when a customer tells you that your beauty inspired him to write a song about you, he means well. He wants you to understand that your beauty is so magnificent that it caused beautiful music to be created. Instead though, you end up creeped out and dreading the day he thinks to bring an acoustic guitar into the club so you can hear this song firsthand.
“I could just count your freckles all day. I want to count every last freckle on your body,” is what he said, in the nicest way possible.
Of course I understand that this is the freckle fetish man’s equivalent to, ‘I could never get tired of looking at you’ or whatever. But it got me thinking. I had a vision of laying on my stomach, naked, impatient and bored as he counted.
“Two hundred and thirty-three, two hundred and thirty-four, two hundred and thirty-five…”
How would he keep track of which freckles he had counted? Would he use a colored pen to mark the ones he already got? Would he be really sad when he got to the end and there were no more freckles left to count? Would he be done with me then? Would he leave me for a ginger? If he didn’t, then would I feel insecure every time we were around a redhead? “You were looking at her freckles, weren’t you?!”