Richard Gere

Last night was fucking weird. I was at a lesbian dance party hosted at a regular nightclub down town, and as the night neared the end, more and more men were coming in. I think it was just because they didn’t know any better, saw a place with all these ladies and thought they hit the jackpot.

I was having a really good time, but the time came when it was time to go, and I went up by the DJ booth to say good night to a friend and this guy was there, and he looked at me like he knew me.

“I know you!” He says to me with a big smile on his face.

He looked vaguely familiar, but when it comes to dudes at lesbian events, I don’t even want the fags there. Men have so much, let us ladies have our few events.

I pushed him away, and said, “I don’t know you.” Then I realised who it was. He laughed and took the hand I had on his chest and wrapped his hands around it. Normally those eyes are hidden behind glasses and he’s wearing a t-shirt and sweats as it is the morning after a night like these. It’s the boy from the 17^th floor. It’s my Richard Gere.

“You know me!” He exclaims, “I know you.”

Richard Gere was one of my clients that I met in the earlier days. He is one of the few clients who found out my real name, the only client that I’d ever given my phone number to, and the client that I’d learned the most from. I had agreed to go on a date with this guy. To which he bailed on. I even took that lesson to my new job. If there is money on the table, do not pass go.

The girl that I was hitting on all night was standing right there. I couldn’t decide whether it would be to my advantage if he called me Alison, or Realme. He knew me as both. If he called me Alison, it would, in her eyes, solidify the story that I didn’t know him, but it would also be really weird for me. I didn’t hang around that long.

“Listen,” I said to him, taking the time to look him square in the eyes. “I don’t know you. I’m here with my girlfriend.” ie, fuck off. I turned and walked out.