five or six girls sitting with him, all laughing, all beautiful. It seemed almost cartoonish, these long-legged, Jessica Rabbit–looking women surrounding this fat, gray-haired Jewish man. They had the desperateness of wanting cash written across their faces, but they all seemed to be familiar with and even to enjoy Maury’s company. The Hustler Club in New York City is somewhat different from the average titty bar across Middle America; it’s a “gentleman’s lounge,” a whole other breed of stripclubs. The ceilings are high, there are three stages, and the seats are clean, free of holes and stains. There’s a cigar lounge upstairs on the roof, which is lit by tea lights and looks out over the Hudson River. The women are dressed in long gowns instead of bikinis, and one-dollar bills are not crumpled up and thrown onstage. Money is made not on the stage, but in private dances, and mostly in the Champagne Room.
“Hi, Maury. I’ve heard so many good things about you from all of the girls. I’m Akira.” That was the stage name I used back then.
We had some small talk before he eventually signaled the host back over, telling him he wanted to take me to the Champagne Room. At the words “Champagne Room,” the energy of the group shifted. Every girl sitting with us sat up a little taller, paid attention a little closer.
“I’m gonna go with Akira tonight,” he said as each face fell.
Maury paid the host with cash. Four hundred dollars for the club, the “hourly room fee,” and an additional six hundred dollars for me.
Once we were alone in the room, I didn’t know what to expect. Some guys, I had to hint at a blowjob to get in here. Of course, once we got into the room, I would spend the next hour putting off the promised oral sex, instead just giving a lapdance that lasted too long for both of us. With some guys, I turned into their therapist; they’d complain to me about their wives, girlfriends, mistresses, and I just became a helping ear. Some guys just wanted company while they snorted coke for an hour, cutting their lines with their corporate credit cards.
This wasn’t the case with Maury. I undressed, danced a little bit for him, and then we talked about random things while chain smoking, me naked, him fully clothed. I did come to find out he was an Orthodox Jew, unhappily married with two kids, and he owned a successful business in the city. For the most part, though, our conversation was that of two friends, just shooting the shit. Maury didn’t drink; I didn’t, either. I was on Oxys, but at the time he didn’t know that.
We ended up exchanging numbers that night before we left the Champagne Room and went home separately, both feeling we had made a new friend.
From that point on, any night Maury was at Hustler, which we jokingly referred to as “H,” I was there, too. I lived two blocks away from the club, and he would text me as soon as he arrived. I’d throw on some makeup, pop an Oxy, and head over to the club in my pajamas. Some nights I would head up to the locker room to change into my stripperwear; some nights I didn’t even bother. He always, always took me to the Champagne Room.
More often than not, Maury would hire another girl to come into the room with us. There was a roster of ten or so girls that he liked. Sometimes, if it was a girl I was attracted to, he’d watch us fuck. The hottest girl was Jacqueline. She was a Puerto Rican Barbie doll. She got too drunk sometimes, but Maury didn’t mind. It was part of her charm. Many nights, Maury would take me out from the club, paying me my hourly Champagne Room fee, to go eat, hang out at his office, or even go to another stripclub. We’d pick up my two best girlfriends, Dee and Gianna, on the way to wherever we were going. Seven a.m. would roll around, and he would drop us off at our homes and head straight to work, or home for a nap. I never knew what he told his wife. Maury was truly my friend; only, he paid
“Hi, Maury. I’ve heard so many good things about you from all of the girls. I’m Akira.” That was the stage name I used back then.
We had some small talk before he eventually signaled the host back over, telling him he wanted to take me to the Champagne Room. At the words “Champagne Room,” the energy of the group shifted. Every girl sitting with us sat up a little taller, paid attention a little closer.
“I’m gonna go with Akira tonight,” he said as each face fell.
Maury paid the host with cash. Four hundred dollars for the club, the “hourly room fee,” and an additional six hundred dollars for me.
Once we were alone in the room, I didn’t know what to expect. Some guys, I had to hint at a blowjob to get in here. Of course, once we got into the room, I would spend the next hour putting off the promised oral sex, instead just giving a lapdance that lasted too long for both of us. With some guys, I turned into their therapist; they’d complain to me about their wives, girlfriends, mistresses, and I just became a helping ear. Some guys just wanted company while they snorted coke for an hour, cutting their lines with their corporate credit cards.
This wasn’t the case with Maury. I undressed, danced a little bit for him, and then we talked about random things while chain smoking, me naked, him fully clothed. I did come to find out he was an Orthodox Jew, unhappily married with two kids, and he owned a successful business in the city. For the most part, though, our conversation was that of two friends, just shooting the shit. Maury didn’t drink; I didn’t, either. I was on Oxys, but at the time he didn’t know that.
We ended up exchanging numbers that night before we left the Champagne Room and went home separately, both feeling we had made a new friend.
From that point on, any night Maury was at Hustler, which we jokingly referred to as “H,” I was there, too. I lived two blocks away from the club, and he would text me as soon as he arrived. I’d throw on some makeup, pop an Oxy, and head over to the club in my pajamas. Some nights I would head up to the locker room to change into my stripperwear; some nights I didn’t even bother. He always, always took me to the Champagne Room.
More often than not, Maury would hire another girl to come into the room with us. There was a roster of ten or so girls that he liked. Sometimes, if it was a girl I was attracted to, he’d watch us fuck. The hottest girl was Jacqueline. She was a Puerto Rican Barbie doll. She got too drunk sometimes, but Maury didn’t mind. It was part of her charm. Many nights, Maury would take me out from the club, paying me my hourly Champagne Room fee, to go eat, hang out at his office, or even go to another stripclub. We’d pick up my two best girlfriends, Dee and Gianna, on the way to wherever we were going. Seven a.m. would roll around, and he would drop us off at our homes and head straight to work, or home for a nap. I never knew what he told his wife. Maury was truly my friend; only, he paid
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