How can I ever tell you how wonderful it is for me, what a relief to know that at the end of each long and tiring day I can come home to…
Well, I don’t suppose I can ever really explain it in words. You would almost have to be me to fully understand what I mean and how I feel. But what the heck, I’ll give it a try.
You see, I work as a cocktail waitress at an exclusive and very private club, a men’s fraternal organization in a big midwestern city. This is one of those truly old-fashioned places, a throwback to, I don’t know, the late 1800’s maybe. The exterior of their building is all brick and stone and narrow curtained windows. The interior is nothing but dark paneling, heavy bookcases, and musty portraits of long-dead men with beards. And oh my, you should see all the antlers hanging everywhere, lots of antlers. Anyway, I think you get the picture.
Of course, no women are allowed inside. There are no female members. Never have been, and never will be. According to gossip among the staff, they’ve been sued numerous times for gender discrimination. Race discrimination too, probably, because I’ve certainly never seen anyone of color in there.
But, not surprisingly, the club has never lost a suit. How could they, when all the top judges and all the best lawyers and all the leading legislators — not to mention the mayor and the governor and the state attorney general — are all members?
Now, I said no women are allowed inside, but that’s not strictly true. Late at night, after hours, there are maids who come in and clean. And then there are the two of us, Heather and me, the cocktail waitresses: I work the day shift; Heather works the night shift. But that’s it as far as women are concerned, just us and the maids. The kitchen staff is entirely male, all three dining room waiters are men, and there are also a few butlers and that sort of thing, males of course.
I suppose some people would tell me I should feel privileged to move among the wealthy and the powerful, to be able to show my shapely legs, my cleavage, and my made-up face to all the influential men sitting in their overstuffed chairs, smoking their awful cigars, reading whatever they read, their eyes following me everywhere, hands always ready for a grab.
That’s the part I hate the most. I could put up with the nasty tobacco smell in my clothes and in my hair, with all the lewd remarks and crude invitations I receive — I could deal with all that if they would only keep their hands off me. But they don’t. Day after day, week after week, I am pawed, groped, squeezed, pinched… and I have to take it with a smile frozen on my face.
When I first started there, almost two years ago, I tried to complain about that. I was told in no uncertain terms, however, that if I wanted to keep my job, with its unusually high pay and excellent benefits, I would just have to accept the hands-on part of the deal. And so I do.
Luckily, there are limits. They can’t take my clothes off (what little clothing my costume consists of) and they can’t actually have sex with me or anything like that. There’s no kissing involved, or not too much anyhow — sometimes a drunken member will lose his head and give me a wet smooch, though thankfully that’s rare.
The point is, here I am, a 31-year-old lesbian being grabbed and fondled and otherwise molested by a bunch of creepy old men. Very rich and powerful old men. It’s a strange situation.
They don’t know I’m a lesbian, or at least I don’t think they do. I’ve certainly never told anyone there. As far as everyone knows, I’m an attractive young woman (very young, compared to most of the members) with long legs and high-heels, a short skirt and a tight-fitting low-cut top. I serve the drinks. I strut around and display my body. I let them see me, and, as much as I have to, I let them touch me. I even flirt a little bit. And I do it because the pay is just so good. Really good.
So, what does that make me? A prostitute? No, of course it doesn’t. It’s not as if I have sex with anyone for money. I simply give them the idea that I might have sex with them someday if they are very, very lucky. I give them something to think about when they go home to their wives.
In return, I am able to put aside enough in savings to make sure Ashley will go to the best college, receive a fine education, become someone special, and never have to work the sort of a job her mom works.
Ashley is my daughter. She is the reason I do all this, that I put up with everything. And in fact, I’m very happy to do so.
I know I must come off like I’m complaining, but really I’m not. It’s all worth it to me. I allow the ugly men with their bad breath to put their hands on me. I smile and laugh, I call them the pet names they like, I bend over low so they can ogle my boobs or look up my skirt. And honestly, I’m satisfied with my job. It has its drawbacks, certainly, but so does every job. I really don’t mind, because I’m doing it for her.
Best of all is knowing what awaits me when I finally arrive home at the end of each long and tiring day. Knowing that Ashley will be there, with her cute little smile, her silly jokes, her funny stories about school, her warm hugs and soft kisses.
We have dinner together, something I bring home from the club (the kitchen staff dotes on me and they feed us very well, bless their hearts). And then at last, the thing I look forward to the most, that special time in the evening when it’s just Ashley and me, my wonderful, beautiful, affectionate 12-year-old daughter.
How can I ever tell you how happy that girl makes me? How much pleasure she brings me? How can I ever put it into words?
Well, perhaps I can’t. This might be one of those times when a picture really does say it all.
So, here we are, my darling daughter Ashley and me…
