Smack My Bitch Up
"Hold this for me baby,"
He reaches into his Versace suit pocket, retrieves a tiny ziploc, flings it at me across the table. It lands with a little plunk! into my vodka-soda. Ketel One, lime, crackling ice. Song. Something about a boyfriend who looked like a girlfriend. Beat too fast. Naked butt cheeks palpate up and down, up and down, up and down, up-and-fucking-down like watching a visible angina attack, and I just sit there, usual position, slouched in a chair, feet on the table, dress hoiked up to my thighs, talking shit, demanding drinks. The secret to being a good stripper, is being an extraordinarily bad stripper. Don't tell anyone I told you this. I patented it.
"What the fuck am I meant to do with this?" I ask.
He stands, smiles, sways, pale, gaunt face, mouth curled into a hint of amusement. Grabs the Cristal, takes a swig, wanders off to the bathroom. "Do what the fuck you want baby. Just save some for me."
The English Upper classes should never refer to a woman as 'baby'. It gives the impression of toffs clamouring to suck at your breasts like baby-seals (ar-ar-ar), missing Mummy, begging for a little spanky-wanky. 'Baby' is not sexy in Received Pronunciation. 'Baby' demands northern vowels, pimps or assholes from L.A. I shrug, fish the packet out of my drink, dry it delicately on a napkin, slip it into my g-string. Xena the waitress laughs, winks. She probably sold him fucking baby powder for 75 bucks, the witch. Song. Love Generation. God-fuckin'-damn. Is that DJ retarded? We really wanna sit here and watch these fuckin' bitches grind away on a double-beat? No wonder the strip club business fucking sucks in New York. Get rid of the fucking double-beats goddammit. Shit, I should run one of these fucking places myself. And first of all, I'd get rid of the fat bitches with bad breath and cellulite. Actually, maybe not. They're good for the stinky guys. And hey. They make me look hot, what can I say?
"Hey. Hey, girl. Hey girl!"
Turn, blink, drink in hand. Guy on next table beckons to me urgently.
"Hey girl. My friend wants a dance from you."
I blink again. "Well he can just fuck off. I'm having a fucking drink. Tell him I'm busy."
Guy looks pissed. Can't blame him. Oh well.
Versace suit guy lurches back over from the bathroom. Wipes his nose, white crystals, bottle in hand. Laughs.
"My darling, would you care to accompany me to the Champagne Room?"
I look at my drink. I look at him.
"I'm not taking my dress off tonight. I can't be arsed."
There's a snort behind me. Sophie laughing. "Mimi, you make-a da money by doin' fuck-all sweetie."
I'm flying tonight. "You don't give-a da crap do you?" No, not really. And I still make money, it just comes, like rain, sure as your monthly-fuckin'-menstrual cycle. I don't even try anymore. Not like I used to. By god I'm fucking flying. Song. Double-fucking-beat. I'm not tipping out that fucking DJ tonight, little shit.
don't worry 'bout a thing
"Veuve Cliquot?"
He announces it like there's a choice. There's no fucking choice in this shithole club. There's carbonated rat's piss or Veuve Cliquot. But the thought is sweet, so we nod to the waitress, and we're already curled up on a soft sagging couch screened from gasps and grunts by the paper thin partition, and to be perfectly fucking honest with you, I have no idea how I got there.
"Are those sluts sucking my friend off?" he asks, Mr Versace, pupils receding away-away, far down the I-95. I peek round the corner.
"Yeah."
"Get me some of that coke baby."
Fuck, I'm flying. Reach into my g-string for the packet, the elusive zip-loc. Comes out, open - empty.
"Hey dude. Versace dude."
I have to shake him to get him to listen, he's away with the fucking fairies, high as a freakin' kite (song - double beat) what you bin doin', what you bin doin' - haven't seen you 'round
"Mr Versace. Listen up. I ingested your coke vaginally. D'you mind?"
"Baby - I think I'm in love with you."
He reaches into his Versace suit pocket, retrieves a tiny ziploc, flings it at me across the table. It lands with a little plunk! into my vodka-soda. Ketel One, lime, crackling ice. Song. Something about a boyfriend who looked like a girlfriend. Beat too fast. Naked butt cheeks palpate up and down, up and down, up and down, up-and-fucking-down like watching a visible angina attack, and I just sit there, usual position, slouched in a chair, feet on the table, dress hoiked up to my thighs, talking shit, demanding drinks. The secret to being a good stripper, is being an extraordinarily bad stripper. Don't tell anyone I told you this. I patented it.
"What the fuck am I meant to do with this?" I ask.
He stands, smiles, sways, pale, gaunt face, mouth curled into a hint of amusement. Grabs the Cristal, takes a swig, wanders off to the bathroom. "Do what the fuck you want baby. Just save some for me."
The English Upper classes should never refer to a woman as 'baby'. It gives the impression of toffs clamouring to suck at your breasts like baby-seals (ar-ar-ar), missing Mummy, begging for a little spanky-wanky. 'Baby' is not sexy in Received Pronunciation. 'Baby' demands northern vowels, pimps or assholes from L.A. I shrug, fish the packet out of my drink, dry it delicately on a napkin, slip it into my g-string. Xena the waitress laughs, winks. She probably sold him fucking baby powder for 75 bucks, the witch. Song. Love Generation. God-fuckin'-damn. Is that DJ retarded? We really wanna sit here and watch these fuckin' bitches grind away on a double-beat? No wonder the strip club business fucking sucks in New York. Get rid of the fucking double-beats goddammit. Shit, I should run one of these fucking places myself. And first of all, I'd get rid of the fat bitches with bad breath and cellulite. Actually, maybe not. They're good for the stinky guys. And hey. They make me look hot, what can I say?
"Hey. Hey, girl. Hey girl!"
Turn, blink, drink in hand. Guy on next table beckons to me urgently.
"Hey girl. My friend wants a dance from you."
I blink again. "Well he can just fuck off. I'm having a fucking drink. Tell him I'm busy."
Guy looks pissed. Can't blame him. Oh well.
Versace suit guy lurches back over from the bathroom. Wipes his nose, white crystals, bottle in hand. Laughs.
"My darling, would you care to accompany me to the Champagne Room?"
I look at my drink. I look at him.
"I'm not taking my dress off tonight. I can't be arsed."
There's a snort behind me. Sophie laughing. "Mimi, you make-a da money by doin' fuck-all sweetie."
I'm flying tonight. "You don't give-a da crap do you?" No, not really. And I still make money, it just comes, like rain, sure as your monthly-fuckin'-menstrual cycle. I don't even try anymore. Not like I used to. By god I'm fucking flying. Song. Double-fucking-beat. I'm not tipping out that fucking DJ tonight, little shit.
don't worry 'bout a thing
"Veuve Cliquot?"
He announces it like there's a choice. There's no fucking choice in this shithole club. There's carbonated rat's piss or Veuve Cliquot. But the thought is sweet, so we nod to the waitress, and we're already curled up on a soft sagging couch screened from gasps and grunts by the paper thin partition, and to be perfectly fucking honest with you, I have no idea how I got there.
"Are those sluts sucking my friend off?" he asks, Mr Versace, pupils receding away-away, far down the I-95. I peek round the corner.
"Yeah."
"Get me some of that coke baby."
Fuck, I'm flying. Reach into my g-string for the packet, the elusive zip-loc. Comes out, open - empty.
"Hey dude. Versace dude."
I have to shake him to get him to listen, he's away with the fucking fairies, high as a freakin' kite (song - double beat) what you bin doin', what you bin doin' - haven't seen you 'round
"Mr Versace. Listen up. I ingested your coke vaginally. D'you mind?"
"Baby - I think I'm in love with you."
MIMI IN NY | 10:28 AM |
