The Stalker

By this stage of the game, I was a pretty popular dancer, and had certainly made my mark on the many regulars who visited the club.  The men who visited ranged in all different ages, shapes and sizes, from the very fat and unattractive businessmen, to young, virile sexy young men who came with Bachelor parties and bucks nights.  Even though we had a no fraternizing with the clients rule, I often gave in, and would call a sexy fellow for a night of fun.  Most were one night stands, a few turned into friendships and a couple were even short term relationships.

One of our rights however, as a dancer, was that if a specific man made us uneasy, or uncomfortable, we had the right to refuse to dance for him.  This didn’t happen very often, it was only a vary rare occasion when I man was too creepy, or sleazy or just plain rude.  Most men who visited were polite and respectful.

On one of our busiest nights, a Saturday, I was having a great evening when at about 12am, I had a new customer.  He was extremely gorgeous, with blond shoulder length hair, a killer body, and well dressed in jeans and dress shirt.  When I danced for him he smelt divine, and admittedly I enjoyed my job that night.  He introduced himself as Frederick, and explained he was French, and had been living in Australia for many years.  From what I could see he was smart, well spoken and good looking.  He also appeared to have money, as he spent several hundred dollars on me that night.  Between table shifts, he would pay me handsomely for personal dances.  He stayed for several hours, before explaining that he had meetings the following morning and had to go.  He asked me when I  worked, and I explained that I was here most evenings.  He then slipped me a piece of paper with his phone number written on it. I winked flirtatiously and headed out the back room to get organized for my final shift.

It wasn’t uncommon for men to tell you this sort of thing.  They disclosed info about their lives, their wives, their work.  You often knew what they did for a job, how many kids they had, and what their day was like.  Many were single and just plain lonely.  The night I met Frederick, it was no different to any other night.  You would often have a man take a liking to you, and would come back to see you week after week.  But eventually, the novelty would wear off, and you would never see them again.

Needless to say,  I wasn’t shocked or surprised that I saw Frederick the following Saturday night, and the one after that.  His behaviour gradually began to change however.  He went from being friendly and easy going, to asking alot of questions.  Where did I live?  Could he have my phone number?  Did I have a boyfriend?  He also started making ridiculous statements of fantasy and being almost delirious with lust.  He told me he loved me.  That I was the most beautiful woman he had ever met.  That he knew that we were meant to be together forever.  That he had a big beautiful house for us to live in, and he wanted me to meet his parents in France.  Once again, it wasn’t unusual for a customer to become somewhat infatuated, but most of the time, they were pretty short lived.  This thing with Frederick had gone on for weeks.  Finally, things came to a head, and one night I got really tough.  He was coming across as just plain pathetic.  “Listen Frederick, I am a damn stripper!!!  I am not this wondrous fantasy fairy you are making me out to be!  I am a normal every day girl, doing a job that pays well, that’s ALL.  You are a rich, good-looking guy, there would be loads of women out there who would die to be with you!!”  I then went on to tell him he was creeping me out, and that if he didn’t stop coming in, I would be speaking to my supervisor.

The following DAY, he was there, as forlorn and as desperate as ever.  He brought a massive bunch of red roses, and a little red velvet box. “You are my heart my darling, I want to be with you until death.  Will you marry me??!”.  By this time, I was shaking, with both rage, and fear.  Are you joking?  I pulled on my clothes, and told him that his time was up, I was going to get my supervisor.  I called over security to remove him, and they dragged him, tears streaming down his face down the steep dark stairs.  A part of me felt sorry for him.

When I got down to the dressing room I cried and cried.  How could a person be so delusional?  Why did he make me out to be something I wasn’t?  He was a nice man, why couldn’t he take no for an answer?  After a private meeting with my Boss, I packed my stuff and headed home early.  She demanded that I have a week off, so that if he came back he would get the message for good.  I was happy for the break.

When I got home I called Dagwood, and he came over.  I cried in his big fury arms, and told him everything.  He seemed genuinely worried and asked if I had given him any of my private info, such as where I lived and such.  I told him no.  He didn’t even know my real name.  He then asked how much I knew about him.  When he had given me his phone number, a mobile phone, he had just scribbled down ‘Frederick’ and the number. I pulled the scrunched up piece of paper out of my handbag.   Dagwood dialled it on his mobile phone.   “Ty, it’s disconnected.”  I froze.  My skin crawled.  Shit.  I I had NOTHING on this guy!

I went back to work the following week, and the staff explained that Frederick had only come back once.  The girls promptly told him that I had gone for a holiday, and they weren’t sure when I was returning.  Nobody had seen him since.  I threw myself back into work with gusto, trying to get the whole scary scenario out of my mind.

On my nights off, I was obviously a night owl, and when I wasn’t out with Dagwood, I was either on the phone, or watching pay TV.  One of my favourite things to do, was to walk down to the all night servo at the end of the street, and buy myself a couple of strawberry freddos and a drink called ‘Oasis’ in a lemon and kiwi fruit flavour.  Funnily enough, I had absolutely no fear of being alone, and would walk down there regularly on my nights off, and would spend half an hour talking to the attendant.  This night was no different.

I set off at a brisk walk.  It wasn’t far, probably only 100m.  After buying my goodies and having a chat as usual, we noticed a black sedan pull into the servo, but we couldn’t see into it, as it had tinted windows.  My heart was pounding, but eventually he/she sped off with no consequence.  After another 15 mins or so, I said I would get going.

After only about 3 minutes of walking, the car zoomed around the corner. It was obviously waiting for me.  I walked faster.  It slowed down to a crawl, and the passenger side door opened.  A man with a face mask looked me in the eye.  “Make this easy on yourself Tyra, get in the fucking car”.  I dropped my plastic bag and I ran.  I ran as if my life depended on it.  I ran like an olympic sprinter.  I ran like it was all I could do to try and stay alive.  He kept driving beside me.  He pulled over at one point, and I thought he was going to jump out, but the car just went around the block.  I kept running.  Finally when I arrived home, my roommate bolted into the loungeroom. I was crying hysterically, explaining what happened.  I got myself together and we walked to the front windows.  Fuck.  Believe it or not, he was still there!!  His car was parked on the opposite side of the road, and he was sitting very still like a statue as if he was invisible.  My flatmate bolted out the back to let his dogs out.  We both bolted out the front, to try and get a glimpse of his number plates, but as the dogs approached he sped off in a  cloud of burnt rubber. Once again Dagwood was called, and I spent the night curled up in his arms.  Dagwood did some investigating, and found out that my phone was acutally tapped.  For sometime after this, I would catch a ride with Dagwood to work on his bike, as I was petrified I was being followed.  Frederick had a lifetime ban at the club, and all staff members were informed that he was not to be let in, to either club, under any circumstances.

About 4 weeks after the stalking car incident, I recieved an evelope in the mailbox.  My full name was written on the front, though it was obviously hand delivered, as it had no stamp.  It was a plain, white evelope, and on a plain piece of white paper inside were written 2 words, in the same writing that had scrawled down a phone number all those weeks prior.

“I’m sorry”.