I insist that I’m not that kind of dancer while I consider this through to its logical conclusion. I can get into men, and right now on this guy’s lap, I’m turned on. Their shrill vibrato is the soundtrack to Azola Nkqinqa’s last day as a boy.
A couple hundred more for a hand job, a couple hundred more for a blow job, a lot more for sex. It’s the time of year when Nkqinqa, 18, and about 50,000 other South African boys, come to one of the many remote initiation schools in order to learn how to be a man.
This school is located in the Eastern Cape province — the country’s poorest.
He asks about me, how I came to be a topless housecleaner.
A classy woman like me obviously doesn’t belong in places like those. ” He’s got his wallet out, two crisp hundreds in his hand. It is small, with a nice curve and for a second I love it and want to fuck him. While he cleans up, I pull my jeans and tank top back on over my fishnets and thong.
He follows me from kitchen to bathroom to bedroom to living room, staring while I wipe, mop, scrub and vacuum, all while trying to look like I’m not sweaty from doing this work in humid 90-degree weather. All his time goes to his race-car business, which is like a dream, but lots of hard work. “Okay.” I grab them and shove them into my stocking. Smiling, I bring my face close, admiring it like I’m about to lick it. I’m ecstatic and high from the rush of going from six dollars to 800 dollars in an hour with my hustling skills, but I know I won’t have really pulled it off until I’m in the van, driving away.
He opens his wallet and peels off another hundred, right away, and tells me to just dance until that runs out. “Holy shit,” he says, “I do believe I wish I had a vagina too.” Checking “topless housecleaning” off my to-try list of sex-work gigs makes me enough money to get back on the road.
“No touching,” I remind him as the song starts and I move in front of him. The next day Spot and I get in the van and drive across the country until I find a beautiful desert-sky island in northern Arizona.