Cansada
Remember that time at the school dance? The sad kid who no one liked in the corner? Not the really sad kid, who smelled like shit, dribbled, was in the remedial class and wore sneakers from the goodwill store. I mean the sad kid who washed, and had money, and who you knew - really knew - wanted to be accepted, popular, normal, liked. And never could, because he was sad. Fucking sad.
But your friends dared you, and you went over and sat with him, and then you kind of, like, kissed him anyway, because he was like, there, and it was just funny, plus it didn't matter, because you were cooler. And he gave you five dollars for it.
And then years later the sad kid is the asshole earning six figures and you're the fucking stripper grinding his stunted penis and all you can think is, 'When is it 4am?' and 'Why would anyone do this for free?'
"You remember the time you lost it?" I ask, nursing my vodka-soda with lime, reclining against the bar and eyeing the Knicks game on the flat-screen.
"Oh yeah. I was 17. I waited until my third dance and I was still fully clothed. My friends stood at the bar and yelled 'Helen, you gotta get naked! It's a fuckin' strip club!' Everyone told me I'd be a pro at the end of the week. That night I cried, 'cause I'd lost my innocence. And then, by the end of the week, I was a fuckin' pro."
I can't judge anyone anymore, my lips bruised from where someone's forced themselves against me, inner thighs purpled and sad. I just wanna go home.
"I just wanna go home," sighs Helen, and she's 35, and she has a 15 year old kid, and has been dancing for 18 years, and home is where she lives, like normal people, and she looks at me and I know what she means. I'm in the private room and I leave every five minutes, but it's not enough to make it better. And when I call there's no one picking up, so it makes it doubly alone.
"Last night I got so fucked I kept calling my vagina Al Pacino."
"Why?" I ask.
"Like, 'Say hello to my little friend'. Scarface. It looked like Al Pacino. People kept askin' me, 'You drunk?', I was like, 'No, I just look like that 'cause I need to burp.'"
When you call, no one picks up, which makes you wonder why you're bothering, and reaffirms the suspicion that maybe the extra 500 for some tongue action wouldn't go amiss. If only you could switch off.
"You know Helen only makes money 'cause she goes in the private room with a girl whho gives head?" says the House Mom, who even though she's been here for so long, doesn't know the half of it. "Helen don't do that shit. She's a good girl. Knows what goes on. Clever. She lets the other girl do that."
It's a nice myth but Helen likes me, so I know what goes on. "My son's comin'. In two weeks. I haven't seen him for a month," she says, and gurgles happily, and walks off, breasts erect like two bizarre antennae, the rest of her sagging into age 35. The new girl strolls past, whip thin, long, striped hair in thin, braided worms surrounding an angular face. A butt-fuck, give-it-to-me-in-every-orifice, cum-on-my face. I wonder what my face looks like, I wonder idly, and brace myself for a return to the room, the end of the night.
Later, when you call, no one picks up, and it's time to leave, and you should be happy, you earned money.
But you're just not.
But your friends dared you, and you went over and sat with him, and then you kind of, like, kissed him anyway, because he was like, there, and it was just funny, plus it didn't matter, because you were cooler. And he gave you five dollars for it.
And then years later the sad kid is the asshole earning six figures and you're the fucking stripper grinding his stunted penis and all you can think is, 'When is it 4am?' and 'Why would anyone do this for free?'
"You remember the time you lost it?" I ask, nursing my vodka-soda with lime, reclining against the bar and eyeing the Knicks game on the flat-screen.
"Oh yeah. I was 17. I waited until my third dance and I was still fully clothed. My friends stood at the bar and yelled 'Helen, you gotta get naked! It's a fuckin' strip club!' Everyone told me I'd be a pro at the end of the week. That night I cried, 'cause I'd lost my innocence. And then, by the end of the week, I was a fuckin' pro."
I can't judge anyone anymore, my lips bruised from where someone's forced themselves against me, inner thighs purpled and sad. I just wanna go home.
"I just wanna go home," sighs Helen, and she's 35, and she has a 15 year old kid, and has been dancing for 18 years, and home is where she lives, like normal people, and she looks at me and I know what she means. I'm in the private room and I leave every five minutes, but it's not enough to make it better. And when I call there's no one picking up, so it makes it doubly alone.
"Last night I got so fucked I kept calling my vagina Al Pacino."
"Why?" I ask.
"Like, 'Say hello to my little friend'. Scarface. It looked like Al Pacino. People kept askin' me, 'You drunk?', I was like, 'No, I just look like that 'cause I need to burp.'"
When you call, no one picks up, which makes you wonder why you're bothering, and reaffirms the suspicion that maybe the extra 500 for some tongue action wouldn't go amiss. If only you could switch off.
"You know Helen only makes money 'cause she goes in the private room with a girl whho gives head?" says the House Mom, who even though she's been here for so long, doesn't know the half of it. "Helen don't do that shit. She's a good girl. Knows what goes on. Clever. She lets the other girl do that."
It's a nice myth but Helen likes me, so I know what goes on. "My son's comin'. In two weeks. I haven't seen him for a month," she says, and gurgles happily, and walks off, breasts erect like two bizarre antennae, the rest of her sagging into age 35. The new girl strolls past, whip thin, long, striped hair in thin, braided worms surrounding an angular face. A butt-fuck, give-it-to-me-in-every-orifice, cum-on-my face. I wonder what my face looks like, I wonder idly, and brace myself for a return to the room, the end of the night.
Later, when you call, no one picks up, and it's time to leave, and you should be happy, you earned money.
But you're just not.
MIMI IN NY | 3:30 AM |
