Rubbin’ One Out

Published 4 years ago

Do you remember Cara? From this angle, how could you forget?

“I’m quitting,” she announced as she took our order. Rolling her eyes in the direction of new manager and former Hooter girl Pam, she snipped, “I won’t miss these fuckers at all!”

I was shocked that Cara was leaving.  She had made sport of how easy the tip money could be coaxed out of male customers’ wallets, and in more serious moments she had alluded to how much better the waitressing life was to her past as a stripper.  But I was even more shocked when she sat down for a few moments to tell us her plans for the future.

“It’s like I’ve told you before–I’ve got these money makers.”  I recall that comment, but I also remember how she had felt degraded by men tossing money at her.  “So you’re going back to it?”  “No.  I’m too old for that shit,” she stared at the floor.  “You remember the modeling I’ve been doing?  It’s a new opportunity with that.”

“What new opportunity?” my wife couldn’t hide the worry in her voice.

“It’s like massage–helping clients relax.  Good paying clients.  Very good paying clients, actually.”  My wife let loose, “Jesus, Cara!  You’re smarter than this.”  I was confused.  Modeling that helps clients relax?  “It’s not like you think,” Cara argued. “I just model lingerie for a little while, we have a few drinks, I let him catch a glimpse or two, we have another drink while I rub his shoulders, and… you know…”  “You rub one out for him!” my wife finished her sentence.   Now I understood.  “That’s prostitution, Cara. It’s sex for money!”  Cara bit her lower lip.

Just then Pam yelled across the room, “Cara!  Pick-up!  You’re falling behind!’  Cara rolled her eyes again.  “It’s definitely going to be better than this shit.”  As she stood to leave, the Mrs. grabbed her wrist, “We’re not done talking about this.”  Cara sighed, “Okay.  I’ll be back.”  It was going to be a late night.

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