The Jerry Springer show
I was a good girl growing up. I had morals and values. I wore shorts under a skirt so boys couldn’t look up and see my goods when I walked up the stairs. In junior high I read books and made jewelry while other girls my age were practicing their skills in hand jobs and fellatio. Yet despite my virginal ways, from as far back as I can remember, there has always been something that attracted me to the perverse.
When I was about twelve years old, my sister and I discovered the Jerry Springer show. We would watch the nice family shows then stumble upon a good trashy talk show to top off the night. My mom would let us watch the talk shows about makeovers and family feuds. Somehow the other stuff slipped under her radar.
One weekend, we watched the late night TV and in between each show they advertised the brand new Springer episode that shocked and excited our curiosity.
A woman walked out onto the platform with what looked like a dog on a leash, except it was a man. He was dressed in a mask, collar, and black leather body suit that showed some of his ass. He did not walk or speak. He just crawled at her feet. He was her “slave”. I had never heard of anything like this before but my young mind was instantly intrigued.
They advertised this brand new episode all weekend. My sister and I were so excited. We couldn’t wait to come home from church and turn on the TV.
We were unhappily surprised when Daddy came home and took us to church instead of good old Mom. She stayed home with our baby sister. We crossed our fingers and hoped he had just taken a break from work and would head back as soon as church was over. But he just brought us home and sat down at the kitchen table. We knew we weren’t going to get to watch our show. My mom had even discreetly warned us not to even try. I figured I would take a gamble anyway. “Daddy… Can we watch the Jerry show?” I asked.
“You want to watch that low life stuff? No way”.
“But there’s a show about a woman who keeps her husband on a leash”
My father’s green eyes changed somehow. A look of shock and anger filled his face. “Are you out of your mind? You’re not watching that garbage”.
I tried but had not succeeded. My sister and I spent that Sunday coloring Easter Bunnies in our coloring books, feeling as though we were missing out on a once in a lifetime opportunity. When would this opportunity arise again?
Sometimes when I am extremely bored, I think about downloading or mail ordering the episode from the Jerry Springer archives….but then again I suppose I’ve seen enough.
There is this one guy who comes to see me from time to time. He’s a pretty nice guy. A little on the quiet side but easygoing and respectful. He spends money when he comes in. Usually. The thing is, though, he doesn’t like to give me any notice when he comes in. He wants to show up at the end of the night and have my attention for the rest of the evening. If I have nothing going on this is fine. But he never shows up on one of those nights when I sit around at an empty bar, hoping customers will show up. He comes in on the busiest nights and always at the very busiest hour.
I’m actually beginning to predict when he will come in before it happens. I’ll think of him as I’m scrambling around the club, trying to be in three places at one time. I have a feeling he’s going to show up tonight. And of course he does. I’m not psychic. I just have stripper’s intuition.
Does he come in at ten o’clock? Oh no. He comes in at the very end of the night and wants me to drop what I’m doing and go to him. “Can I dance with you tonight?” he’ll text me.
“I’m a bit busy but it depends. What time will you get here?”
“Two minutes” he’ll say.
And it happens to be just as I’ve started a private room.
“You should give me a little more notice next time” I tell him. But instead, he just promises bigger rewards.
One night when he did his, he saw me sitting with someone and instead of waiting patiently for me, texted, “I have $4,000 to spend on you.”
“You’d better go!” My friend said to me.
I looked at the time. We had an hour and fifteen minutes left. “I really don’t think he’s going to spend four thousand dollars in less than an hour and a half. My guess is, I can make two hundred, two fifty, max.”
“Just go because he might.”
I waited, though. I knew that if I catered to him, he would do this to me all the time. But I didn’t wait too long. I ran over to him and immediately took his hand and led him to the back room.
He was quiet and mild mannered as usual. I asked him lots of questions about his life while I grinded in his lap. This is how it always goes when we are in each other’s company. He’s usually quiet and I talk his ear off.
When our private room was over, we asked to do another. By the time that was over, the DJ was playing the last song of the night. We hugged like old friends before parting ways. As I made my way to the dressing room I mentally counted the money that I’d made from that last encounter. Sixty…one-twenty…one-eighty…two-forty. Two hundred and forty bucks. My guess had been right on. Psychic? Nope. Definitely just stripper’s intuition.
I was making my way around the bar on a Saturday night when I encountered two gentlemen with British accents. They were both somewhere around their mid-forties and wore business suits. They told me they were visiting the U.S. for work.
“How do you like our accents?” I asked the first gentleman.
“I like them. I do” the man said with a British inflexion.
“Who is it that actually has the accent? Is it you guys or us?” I asked.
“It’s you guys.” he answered.
“Really? Because I thought it was you guys. Do people in the UK imitate American accents? Can YOU imitate my accent?” I asked, intrigued.
“Yes, people do but I can’t because I’m terrible at accents. Can you imitate mine?”
“Well, no, because I seem to have the same problem that you do. I’m not good at doing accents.”
“Fair enough, then” he said, before introducing me to his partner.
His partner was a slightly stockier man with soft, dark curly hair. After the introductions, I put my arm around him and started making small talk. I began rubbing the back of his head absentmindedly as we talked. He asked me question after question about how the clubs in this area worked and we went back and forth sharing stories for a few minutes. The he asked me a strange question.
“Do you have a dog at home?”
“No, I don’t” I answered, confused. “Why?”
“Do you want a dog, then?”
“I’m not sure. Why do you ask?”
“Because the way you rub my head, I would love to be your dog!”
I could hardly contain my laughter. I laughed and gave the man a pat on the shoulder. I had to walk away to avoid spitting club soda out of my nose from giggling so much. That would have been funny with or without the accent but the accent made it so much more hilarious!