It’s 3AM and the Lollipop is empty, except for a few regulars. Everyone’s feeling good and it’s like this morning never happened. Piper’s sitting up on the bar, chain smoking Newports and laughing about something Chief’s saying; Myron’s in the back with a new dancer who believes him when he says he can make her a star, and me and Max are huddled across the bar trading insults. It’s what passes for flirting between us and I’m so into this game, I didn’t notice the Big Man come in; I don’t even know he’s in the bar until I hear the tap tap tapping of his diamond pinkie ring on the bar.
“Amaretto sour”, he says and smiles directly at me.
Everything stops, frozen. Then the floor falls away. White noise floods in, fills my ears. I’m deaf. I can’t hear the jukebox, the conversations. People are moving again, their lips move but I don’t hear anything.
This morning, as he was leaving, he told me that he loved me, that he’d never really hurt me, that he’d be there, watching over me for the rest of my life. That’s what I hear. Over and over. “I ain’t going anyplace, baby. I’ll be watching you, for the rest of your life.”
Everyone is far away. I am trapped in the wrong end of a telescope. Trapped in the silence. In the white noise. In the rest of my life. I’m trapped.
I don’t know where I am.
It’s not real.
He’s not really here.
He wouldn’t.
I can’t.
“I told you I can’t stay away from you, you’re my girl. ” He reaches out, stroking my face with the back of his hand. I step back, staring. I still cannot find my voice. “How ’bout that drink, now?” The Big Man smiles as he pulls out a cigarette, tamps it lightly on the bar. “Gimme a light, girl.”
I smell singed hair. I smell burnt flesh.
I grab a bottle of vodka and just walk away. I don’t say anything, don’t make eye contact, not with anyone, but I see him in the mirrors. There are mirrors everywhere, on every wall. I cannot not see him. He’s spun around, arms stretched out on either side of him, resting on the bar, leaning back. He owns everything.
For this minute, at least, he owns every piece of me.
My vodka keeps me safe, it is my vaccine, it is my shield, it is my bullet proof vest. My vodka is my body guard, my sword, my rosary.
“You’re mine now, girl,” he says from his spot at the bar. His voice reverberates off the narrow walls of the staircase, surrounding me, smothering me.
Vodka is my armor, I shall not be in want.
I reach the bottom step, crack open the bottle and crawl inside.
It guides me downstairs to the basement, it restores my soul.
Curled up on the cold cement floor next to the lockers, I try to listen to the muffled voices and footsteps from upstairs. The vodka helps stop the shaking, the little epileptic like spasms.
and I shall dwell in the house of the Vodka.
forever.
Half the bottle is gone by the time Piper sits down on the floor next to me and takes a swig. Big Maxie stands in the shadows on the wooden staircase watching both of us.
He loves us. I know he does, in his own way. We’re his A-Team, his moneymakers. He just stands in the shadows and watches.
“Is he still here, Piper?” I hand her the bottle.
“He’s gone. Maxie 86′d him for a couple of weeks.” She takes a swig and passes it back. “What happened J? Did he do this to you?”
~~~~~
You know, you don’t think this kind of thing happens to girls like you. This kind of thing happens to stupid girls, new girls, young girls, girls with no…affliation. Not you.
You have Huntsberry. You have the Ice Man. You have affiliations. He’d showed you where his baby daughter lived. You’d met his friends. Everyone had seen you out together. So when you said he could sleep on your couch instead of driving back to Jersey, you thought you were being nice.
You tell how you woke up when he was already halfway up in the loft bed. You don’t mention how you and your mom get matching robes for Christmas every year and he was wearing the red robe you got last year, the one with the hood. How seeing him in that robe made everything seem okay and not okay at the same time.
You tell how you right away figure he’s too big to fight off, too big to kill with the skinning knife you keep wedged between the mattress and the wall ever since you threw Red Wolf out. You say how you thought he would just fuck you and leave and that that was better than him beating you senseless, then fucking you and leaving. You remember thinking you need to get a bigger knife, a thicker blade.
You tell how you couldn’t breath with his weight on top of you. How you lay in bed after, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of him dressing, calling his baby daughter, getting his things together, getting ready to leave. You lay there staring at the ceiling, listening and waiting for the sound of the door closing behind him.
Then he starts yelling about the diamond pinkie ring you stole, he drags you out of bed. You know you didn’t steal anything and you thought he’d leave, but he isn’t. He isn’t leaving. He isn’t leaving without the ring he says, his girls sold good pussy to pay for that ring, he says, good pussy and your pussy ain’t shit, bitch and throws you against the wall.
You don’t remember getting dressed up. Or when he tied your wrists and ankles with the mens neckties you had hanging on the ladder to the loft, each one a romantic souvenir of some man whose name you’ve forgotten.
You tell how he shoved his fist in your ass looking for his ring, how he made you shit and piss in front of him, dragging you from room to room because your ankles were tied together so you couldn’t walk, couldn’t run away.
You tell about the cigarettes, the smell of burning flesh; the lit matches flicked at your hair, the smell of singed hair.
You tell how it went on for hour after hour. Two hours, three, four, more than that. It went on until it was over. You tell how the ring was in his cigarette case the whole time, how it was all a game, a turn out.
You tell how he untied you, kissed you gently on the lips, told you he loved you and left.
You don’t say anything about how even after he was gone and the door was closed you couldn’t move, couldn’t get up to lock the door after him and even if you could, what was the point, really? You don’t say if you cried or not, cause what’s the point, really?
You simply polish off the last of that bottle of vodka and say “That’s what I get for trusting someone.”
“That’s what you get for hanging around with niggers” Maxie mumbles as he turns, walks up the stairs and leaves the two of you on the floor.
It was the last time any one of us mentioned it.
This entry was written by , posted on February 14, 2010 at 11:50 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1981, dirty boys, Lollipop Lounge, partners in crime, pimps, rape, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I hit the wall for the third time.
The sounds in my head aren’t quite human, they’re pre-verbal, a jazz opera of pain and fear and a survival instinct I didn’t know I had. It clatters and crashes; it bubbles up and breaks free from the antediluvian soup at the base of my brain and bounces around my head. I stay on the floor, just for a fraction of a second, to catch my breath, to get my bearings, to make sense of it all before the next blow comes. And the jazz congeals into coherence: Make it stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. StoWhack - a fist connects with the side of my head, sending me crashing into the oak table I’d found on the street and rolled home. Things shatter / fly apart. Things are broken / beyond repair. I scurry blindly on all fours /cowering /trapped /desperate for a way out. A few pathetic gurglings are the only things that find a way to escape. He feeds on my terror, growing larger with every mouthful he takes. Make it stop. Stop. Stop. Please, someone make it stop.
“Yeah, what?” Maxie says, “you’re late… Ya gonna bother to come in?”
“Yeah…yeah, Max - I’m comin’. I had a little accident, is all.” The odor of the Big Man covers my face, burning my eyes. Staring into my muddied reflection, into my own eyes, testing my black eye and swollen nose with one finger, my nail polish almost matches the dried blood on my cheek. My blood. My blood is Vamp Red. “I’ll be a little late, but I’m comin’, Max.”
“You’re already a little late. Get your fat ass in here.” Click. Disconnect. The phone slams down on Maxie’s end; on my end, the receiver slips from my fingers.
Still staring at my reflection, I gingerly press my fingertips against the burns on my chest. And just like that, that smell is back; the sulfur of match-heads, the slightly sweet hint of tobacco, burnt hair and flesh. I begin to shiver, then convulse. Choking sounds gurgle up as I twitch/twitch/twitch, my eyes never leaving their cloudy reflection, my other self, my shadow sister, the sounds turn to laughter, loud and raucous.
I’m going crazy is what.
I’m losing my mind is what, but
I’m comin’ in to work.
No worries.
Gotta get ready.
Gotta get ready.
Stepping around overturned the chairs and tables, over knick-knacks and clothes, sidestepping shards from broken mirrors and glassware, I make my way to the tiny bathroom and step into the old claw foot tub. Hot water pounds down, streaming down my body, burning my open wounds.
Slowly, I remove the costume he chose.
The black chiffon peignoir, the push-up bra and G string all drip down to the bottom of the tub, clogging up the drain. I plop down beside them, mesmerized by the way the chiffon keeps finding its way down the drain each time I pull it out. The drain trying to swallow the whole thing. I pull, it swallows, I pull, it swallows. I give up that game when I notice my feet. Come-fuck-me pumps my father used to call them. Stiletto heels. Black patent leather straps. Bound so tight they cut into my ankles and little trickles of my blood float in the water. Seeping through the chiffon, oozing across the patent leather straps. Slowly I release first one foot and then the other.
Oh, God, make it all go away,
make it not true, not true.
I Gotta get ready.
The first two tears roll slowly down my face. My feet throb painfully as the blood starts flowing back into them. I slump over, sobbing. I can’t stop myself.
Get it all out now, bitch.
I didn’t cry in front of him, wouldn’t let him think he’d beaten me, broken me. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he could hurt me. And now I can’t hold back. My tears, my blood, my shit, my clothes and his semen all mix into an after-rape soup in the tub.
Pull yourself together.
Get ready. You’re late.
Man up
and move the fuck on.
I stand up, take a deep breath, thrust my face into the stream of scalding water, letting it wash everything away, soap up and began to get ready to go to work.
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This entry was written by , posted on February 5, 2010 at 12:37 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1981, pimps, rape. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
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“J? I know it’s early, but…”
9 AM. I’d only just crawled into the loft bed when the phone rang; I was still playing solitaire, obsessively. I play three games, every night. I have to win, or lose, three in a row before I’m allowed to sleep. I was so wired even if I could get the cards to work right…but Laurie? She was never up this early, or this late, depending on which side of life you’re looking at it from.
“What’s wrong Lo?”
“Your friend. The guy…from last night? His car wouldn’t start, he said. He just wanted to use the phone. I thought, I thought you were still with him, out in the car… but you’re home. And, and he’s here…and… waiting for the tow truck, I guess, and I know it’s…I thought you could come back and…
“Lo? Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“Scared?
“No. Maybe..yes.”
“Sit tight, I’m on my way. Say whatever you think you need to say to make him happy. He’s crazy Lo, you understand? Crazy. But, he’s just fucking with your head. He’ll leave with me, so, really, no worries, okay? He’s watching you talk on the phone with me, isn’t he?”
“Uh huh.”
Every time we go out, me and the Big Man, we stop at the diner on Eighth Ave, across from Piper’s building and around the corner from Possible 20. P20 is supposed to be a jazz joint, but it’s really just one more pimp bar. Piper’s building is crawling with pimps, too. My neighborhood has junkies, hers has got a pimp infestation. A pimpfestation. Anyway, the Big Man gets me broiled lobster with melted butter and a baked potato. To go.
Piper doesn’t want him in her apartment, P20 closes at 4am and he won’t let me eat in the car.
My girls worked hard to pay for this car, he says. You can’t be disrespecting them with that fish stank, spilling butter on my leather. Lots of good ass got sold to pay for that white leather and not a dollar’a that come from you.
So, I wait till we get to 366 or Harry Brooklyn’s or some other afterhours where I sit in a dark corner and eat lobster with my hands while he sits at the poker table.
We never just stay at the diner and eat like regular people.
366 is around the corner from Laurie’s apartment. I thought, just once, it would be nice to not eat in the dark. And she always has wine. We did line after line of the Big Man’s coke, washing it down with wine stolen from the Italian restaurant where she worked.
I meant to be generous, to pay her back for taking care of me. That’s what I meant to do. But once again, I’d brought crazy into Lola’s house. She had no business getting involved with Havasha. Lola was strictly a good girl. She was strictly Long Island Jewish. She didn’t know what to do with a crazy man, what to do when they turned on you. H fractured her cheekbone. You’d think she’d of learned after that, that my boys were out of her league. She should not be allowing them any one of them into her house if they weren’t with me.
Havasha’s crazy couldn’t hold a candle to the Big Man’s.
I was at her door before she could hang up the phone.
The door is unlocked. He’s sitting in a chair across from her; quietly crushing cigarettes into the bare skin of his chest and watching her reaction. One after another. He lights one, takes a few puffs, staring at her, then grinds it into the festering sore in the center of his chest.
His name was Michael and Sammy and JJ. He had other names, I couldn’t know them all, didn’t know if any were real. He was a big man, about six five and somewhere between 280 and 300 lbs. Maybe not. Maybe he’s just grown in my memories.
But he was big and I shoulda seen it coming.
Just another pimp doing just another pimp job. In the antiseptic halls of my intellect I know he didn’t have the right. But deep inside, in the darkness that hides my heart and soul, I know they were right.
I got what I deserved.
This entry was written by , posted on February 2, 2010 at 12:38 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1981, Chelsea, dirty boys, drinking, drugs, Lollipop Lounge, partners in crime, pimps, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
JJ doesn’t come around the Lollipop, like he didn’t come around the Butterfly. He sticks to the big joints - the Mardi Gras, the Metropole - where you don’t notice so much who’s where doing what because there’s so many people that everyone blends into the crowd; or the afterhours like upstairs at 366 8th Avenue where it’s dark enough for a nigga to not be noticed no matter what he’s doing.
Other pimps look to be noticed, but JJ’s all on the soft side with his grey flannel and his whispers, all on the downlow. Even so, even though I don’t see him except when I’m hanging out at the Mardi Gras or the afterhours, everybody knows about him and me.
They know I got my name from him, that we’re connected. They know even though he’s not pimping me, they know they don’t have a chance to either, cause he’s got my back, he hipped me to what was the what when I first showed up and he’s still looking over my shoulder, keeping a big brother, cock of the walk eye out for me.
That thing in the motel?
…with Lockey
and
Lightfoot?
…and the broken window?
That was nothing.
That was just
a mistake.
That wasn’t supposed
to happen.
I’ve got the Ice Man, too. So, the guinea wiseguys like Junior and Joey Two Shoes, they know they can only go so far. The Ice Man’s looking out for me.
I’m covered. I’m a year past my expiration date, yeah sure, but that just means I’m untouchable now. I’m cool like that.
This entry was written by , posted on January 28, 2010 at 2:57 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1981, Butterfly, Lollipop, pimps, Robbies Mardi Gras, wiseguys. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
The hungry was making me dizzy. So was the not being able to breathe. Yesterdays comfortable pants had somehow disappeared between the Porkpie and here. I peeled off the tight corduroy jeans and lay down. Just for a second. Just to get my head together.
I woke up drenched in sunlight and alone. Lightfoot hadn’t come back, but Jane Pauley was yakking it up. Good Morning America. I’m not part of that America. This is not part of that America.
Rolling over, I grabbed the phone, with no idea who one calls when one finds oneself stranded in a cheap roadside motel in New Jersey. Answer me that Jane Pauley, answer me that. Who do you call when this happens to you? It doesn’t, does it? This kind of thing doesn’t happen to Jane Pauley. I dialed “0″ to ask for an outside line. My folks didn’t need to know I’d fucked up, again, the very next day. Red Wolf was gone. I’d call Lightfoot, yell a little. Sorry, the voice says, no outside calls.
Shit. I remembered a payphone downstairs in the parking lot but, the door is locked, from the outside. Shit. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit.
I stood in front of the big window in a T-shirt and panties watching New Jersey Transit buses pick up suits, on their way to work in New York. Every five minutes or so, another bus. I pull a pair of black spandex pants out of my dance bag. They’re not mine but they’re comfortable. That kind of thing happened all the time. My things disappeared, someone else’s show up in their place. What happened during the blinks, after a while, the not knowing just became part of who I was. I wiggle into them, bang on the wall and pace the room. After a few minutes, a skinny guy shows up at the door, a little bit fidgety, kinda dodgy. I’ve never seen him before, this nervous little Negro sweatball in cheap polyester pants the color of camel shit, high waisted, like that might make him look taller.
“You Lockey?” He nods.
“You’re supposed to stay and wait for Doug.” Lockey says, shifting from side to side.
“I waited.” I pick up the phone. “How come I can’t call out?”
“I’dunno.” He flinches, like he thinks I might throw the phone. I hadn’t thought of it, but I might, I just might.
“The door was locked…”
“Didn’t want no one to bother ya.”
“…from the outside.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. In case you, like, walk in your sleep or sumpin’.” Lockey’s shuffling like he’s got dog shit on the bottoms of his shoes. He’s the posterchild for “someone get me the fuck out of here”, like I’ve got some contagious disease. He’s scared of me, but he’s probably more scared of Lightfoot.
“I’m hungry,” and I need a drink, I think to myself, and a way outta here. “Can you get me something from the diner across the street?”
Lockey lights up, relieved. This is something he can do, an easy out, no more questions he doesn’t have the answers to. I heard him lock my door from the outside. Motherfucker. He’s got the key, of course he does. I watched him go down the stairs. I’m locked in, I say into the phone, to the stranger on the other end. Yes ma’am, Mr. Doug has the key. You have to wait for him, the phone says back to me.
I put the phone down, stuff my new corduroy jeans into my dance bag and sling it over my shoulder.
I try to be stupid only a little bit of the time.
I watch Lockey crossing the parking lot, the highway, dodging cars, headed towards the diner. I turn to see what’s up the highway. Lockey opens the diner door and goes in.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, turn my head & heave the chair through the big plate glass window over the desk. I’m half way down the stairs before heads start popping up to see who made the big noise. I’m just stepping onto a bus as Lockey comes running out of the diner after me. From my window seat I watch him as we pull away; first throw down the food he had bought for me, eggs, toast, homefries, coffee–damn it, I was hungry–then run back across the highway yelling at the old man who ran out of the office - the disembodied voice on the phone. Both of them flapping their arms, hopping and squawking at each other, two crazed chickens in the parking lot. Spittle flying as they yelled at each other and pointed from the room upstairs to the retreating bus.
I settle back in the upholstered seats, breathe in the cool conditioned air, close my eyes and feel the adrenaline still pulsing through my muscles. I just want to go home and sleep. And I could really use a drink.
This entry was written by , posted on September 17, 2009 at 10:25 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, blink, New Jersey, pimps. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Skin tight. Not exactly eating pants and all I was thinking about was food.
I took a baby sip of the vodka, unzipped and took a grown up sip. I peed, trying for a little bit of extra room. I hate peeing when I’m drinking. I paid for the booze, I want to hang on to it, to keep it inside doing its dirtywork as long as possible. It’s mine, mine, mine, mine–even when someone else is paying. But, sometimes, like it or not, I have to pee.
Doug was on the pay phone when I came out. I pirouetted once or twice through the crowd for audience reaction–pimps are notorious appreciators of a good pirouette–landing in front of him just as he hung up.
“Now? Dinner…?”
“We gonna get Donna Rose first, she’s coming with us, you don’t mind, right little girl?”
I stomped an imaginary foot. “Ack! Stop that.“ Smiling, he threw his arm around my waist, lifted me off the ground and spun me around planting a soft kiss on my cheek. “I don’t give a shit who comes, I’m starved. I’m ready to pass out.”
I did mind, though. Donna Rose was a dancer and from the first day we hadn’t spoken outside of what was absolutely necessary. She acted like she was better than me, that’s why I didn’t like her. I had no idea why she didn’t like me. When the Caddy pulled away from Guys for the second time that day, I was in the back seat, alone. Donna Rose rode shotgun next to Lightfoot. I’d been replaced by the pretty girl. I was not liking her just a little bit more than before.
When I was little the pretty one was my mom. I was never pretty enough. I was never going to be. That shit makes me go just a teensy bit blind, like a blackout without the fun of the booze or a long slow motion blink. It feels like a split second, but I close my eyes in one place and when I open them again, everything’s changed and I have no idea what happened between then and now.
I blinked while we were still in the Porkpie. Then again when I found myself in the back seat. When I finished, we were somewhere in Jersey, some highway, some anonymous roadside motel. Lightfoot had the car door open and was helping me out of the backseat. I hadn’t been paying attention. I was busy being hungry, angry, tired. Busy feeling sorry for myself. In other words, I blinked. I’d lost entire days that way.
“Look, it’s getting late. I’ma get you a room, little one. You sleep here, safe and sound. We’ll have all day tomorrow. Then I take you home’n make sure your old man ain’t hanging around. Make sure no one can bother you.”
“So, wait. What? What happened to dinner? I gotta eat.” It was dark for the second time since I ate last. Thirty-six hours since I’d put something other than vodka and Newports in my stomach. I hate menthols. “Take me home, Doug. Take me back to the city, anyplace. I’ll find my own way. I’m so fucking tired.”
Radio Rover 2007
“You’ll go upstairs. Donna lives a few minutes from here.”
She sat in the front seat, still wearing her sunglasses even though it’d gotten dark. Smoking. Not looking at me, like I’d never even existed.
Doug kept talking and moving me along. “I’ll drop her off and be right back for you. We’ll get a big dinner. Steak, lobster, anything at all my girl wants. We can bring it back to the room if you want.”
We were halfway up the stairs before I even noticed. Blink. I was so tired. He unlocked the door. Double bed, color TV, fake oil painting, stiff white towels and a single glass wrapped in wax paper, coarse carpet and that whiff of mildew. Not the Bates Motel, but not the Waldorf either. The picture window overlooked the parking lot, the highway and a diner across the street. All I saw was Donna looking up as she flicked her cigarette out the window of the Caddy.
“If you need anything, Lockey - you remember Lockey? He’s right next door, just knock on the wall.” Lightfoot tossed my dance bag down on the bed–I’d forgotten I had that with me–and flipped the TV on.
Come and knock on our door / We’ve been waiting for you
Where the kisses are hers and hers and his / Three’s company too.
Irony is usually lost on me.
“Twenty minutes. Thirty tops. Relax, freshen up and I’ll be back before you know it.” Doug bent down and kissed me on the lips.
I stood in the middle of room watching as he closed the door behind him. Watched through the window as he got back in the Caddy. Watched as they pulled out of the parking lot.
I had no idea who Lockey was. I had no idea where I was.
This entry was written by , posted on September 14, 2009 at 9:18 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, blink, Guys & Dolls, lonliness, New Jersey, pimps. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I had that nice sleepy feeling you get after really good sex with someone you barely know. Except I knew him and we hadn’t had sex. Lightfoot was on the phone making deals from his king sized bed, arranging things that needed arranging. I lay cuddled into one arm smoking cigarettes, drinking cold beer, picking imaginary lint off his spotless cowboy shirt and trying not to think about the night before. Or about being broke. About being bruised. And unemployed. Again.
But, Lightfoot had things that needed taking care of. We headed back into the city for a some drinks and some business. The Porkpie looks like any sleazy Times Square bar, with windows so dirty you can’t see in from the outside, lights so low you can barely see in from the inside. But the Pie operated as the unofficial pimp union hall. They hung out, traded secrets, perfected their game, bragged and showed off new stock. It was the place to size up the competition, make alliances, trade stock, kill time. Just a short dark bar with a worn green felt pool table and a bank of black pay phones, the Porkpie was the place to go if you were looking for a new pimp. Or had a bone to pick with an old one. Every man there had girls on the street.
Every woman there was a whore.
Except me.
Baby pimps hung around the thin edges, worn copies of Iceberg Slim’s bible sticking out of their back pockets, soft, from handling. Kids with nothing more than attitude, the dream, an ill-fitting three piece suit, some hair relaxer and a stupid girlfriend, trying to learn by observation and eavesdropping, hanging around hoping to sweep up crumbs, bits of wisdom and experience from the Sweet Daddys and Gorilla pimps. They’d all seen Superfly a dozen times or more. The Porkpie offered a sort of apprenticeship program.
A few vodkas in, the swag man shows up rolling a 7th Avenue clothing rack piled with dresses, g-strings, gold chains, rings and frilly things that had fallen of the back of a truck somewhere. Doug hands me another vodka & a pair of rust corduroy jeans that match his shirt. We’re going to look like one of those ridiculous couples that coordinate their outfits. But we’re not a couple, really. I was married, I had a husband I wasn’t really available up until yesterday. He’s trying to cheer me up. The vodka cheers me up. Always.
“It’s almost eight, Doug. I’m hungry. Didn’t I hear something about buying me dinner earlier?”
“Relax, little girl.” He ran his hand over my ass.
“I thought we were gonna drop the little girl thing.” He smiled at me.
God, he looks good.
“What’s the rush? If you still had a job, you just be closing up now.”
“Yeah. But I don’t have a job, or any money and if I did still have a job I woulda ordered something to eat during my shift.”
He slipped his hand down my ass, to the space between my legs and gave me a gentle push. “Go try those on for me, then I’ll feed you.”
“Doug…”
“Go on, little girl, I want the boys here to see how good my girl can look. They gonna eat their hearts out.”
I was sore and cranky from the beating I took from Red Wolf. Was that only yesterday? There was a nice strawberry bruise on my right cheek. I wasn’t sure a pair of pants was going to make me look good. Really, I needed food. Sleep. More Vodka.
I went into the bathroom to change.
I took the glass of vodka with me.
Nothing really ever changes.
This entry was written by , posted on September 10, 2009 at 7:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty money, pimps, Times Square, whores. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
It was still early when I finally got to Guys & Dolls, but I was still late. Once they understood I couldn’t go home with them, my parents tried to drive me to work, but sometimes I know better. I dragged them in for the crazy but they didn’t need to see all of the crazy, they didn’t need to see this place, not even the outside. It could in no way make them feel better about my life.
When I got there Rocco and Lightfoot were the only ones at the bar. Lightfoot came almost every night and every night he was there, we talked. I liked having someone to talk to. Wolf didn’t really talk to me, unless you counted when he spoke Spanish, which I didn’t count since I didn’t understand Spanish. Or when he was telling me how he could kill me, which was not technically a conversation. The dancers were busy with the suckers, the suckers were busy with the dancers and the floor managers are all hustle, hustle, sell, sell. I’m still not a good hustler, I’d rather drink and shoot the shit. I shoot the shit here, with Lightfoot.
Michael Douglas Lightfoot has a business card that says he owns a recording studio. Every pimp has some sort of business card and none of them say “PIMP”. Hookers are interior decorators and models, pimps like the recording industry cachet. It sounds legit if you don’t know better and explains the money, the drugs, the flash, and the lifestyle. I know better, I just don’t always know better.
I don’t know if he fired me for hanging out with Doug (does everyone hate pimps?), for missing half my shift, or because he finally had an excuse. Either way, when I got to work, Rocco let me know that Lightfoot was the only thing waiting for me. Sitting at the bar, handsome as ever in his cowboy hat and alligator boots.
“Asshole.” I stared at Rocco. “You fuckers really get a kick outta firing me don’tcha?”
He swung the door to the street open.
“Okay. Just let me work tonight. I’m busted, Rock, broke. My old man flushed it all down the toilet last night.”
Rocco shook his head, and hand on hip, he leaned against the open door. “Tough life.” He wasn’t smiling. “Go. Take the pimp with you.”
Lightfoot’s Caddy was parked outside, I filled him in as we walked, leaving out anything about my parents. I don’t talk about them to anyone. It’s the only way I can think to keep them safe. I climbed in, taking the lit Newport Doug passed to me. I hate menthols. They all smoke menthols dammit, but I wasn’t in any position to be choosey.
Michael Douglas Lightfoot, wearing his big white Stetson hat and pointy toed alligator boots instead of the usual feathers and rainbow pimp wear. It didn’t make him look anymore like the Indian he claimed to be, or any less like a pimp. He was black to the bone, but it accentuated those Sidney Poitier good looks and he knew it.
“Next move, little girl? Want me to take you home?” He murmured softly as he slipped his key into the ignition.
“Yeah, okay. No. I don’t know. I don’t wanna go home. I don’t wanna be alone. I’m still freaked out. There’s like all these bad vibes bouncing around my house, in my head, like I’m going crazy, Doug. Can’t I just stay with you for a while?”
I flicked my cigarette out the window and looked up at him, giving him my best please take care of me I need someone to take care of me eyes. He was my handsome spade cowboy. I liked that. He had a big white Cadillac convertible to match his big white cowboy hat. He knew the original JJ, JJ Huntsberry, my JJ. I liked that too. It all felt safe.
“Okay, little girl,” he slipped his arm around me and pulled me close. I snuggled into his Ivory soap smell. “You don’t worry now. Lightfoot’ll take care of you tonight.”
“Little girl,” I pouted, fiddling around with the radio till I found an R&B station, more for him than for me, “I really hate that ‘little girl’ thing. You’re not my father.” I tried to sit up, to move back to my side. I felt him smile as he held me tighter, so I snuggled in closer, exhaled and watched the city speed past.
“No, baby girl, not your father,” he whispered into my ear, “but I’m your Daddy. Remember that, girl. Never forget who’s looking out for you.”
Good guys wear white hats. Everybody knows that.
It was all going to be okay. I’d find another job. Lightfoot would take care of everything.
This entry was written by , posted on September 7, 2009 at 10:27 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty boys, family, Guys & Dolls, pimps, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
Guys & Dolls isn’t at all like the old Mardi Gras, except for the naked girls, the champagne hustle and the wise-guy wannabe manager.
The Mardi Gras had Times Square written all over it. It was three stages of glitter, mirrors, lights & glamour. It was Ringling Bros & Barnum and Bailey - a three ring circus complete with costumes, stars and trained animal acts.
Guys & Dolls is more like the Beatty Cole circus. One small tent, a lot of in-breeding and just the one fly in the buttermilk. There’s only Lightfoot.
Like the old school Chinese restaurants, G&D has a small front bar, but all the action is in the back. I work the front bar. Behind me there’s an oversized round dining table type stage surrounded by chairs. Dinner. Family style.
When the girls do floor work (and now, watching it daily & having it occasionally, I know what Ralphie had wanted of me…) you’re close enough to know who shaves & who needs to. A thick red carpet covers the floor, the stairs, & the stage and despite the non-stop pounding dance music, it gives the club a soft menstrual quietness. In a style known as Early Guido, everything is flecked with gold–the flocked wallpaper, the marbling through mirrors, the banister of the spiral staircase…
The stairs get you to the “VIP lounge”. Well, the stairs & an $80 bottle.
The lounge is just a large room divided by thick velvet curtains and even more mirrors. Each section has a small couch (velour), a potted fern (fake) & a platform (small) meant to be a private stage. There’s an odd garage dampness and the odor of mildew & Jovan Musk.
There’s another scent, it’s subtle. The johns don’t notice it, but I do. Sweat layered over the Kiwi paste wax the Port Authority shine boys use. It’s the smell of the floor managers. I can smell Rocco’s spotters between the curtains & behind the two way mirrors. They make sure nothing really happens in the lounge, that nothing more than the champagne cork gets popped. Occasionally, a girl manages a quick handjob, if the money’s right, but mostly it’s all smoke & mirrors on premises until the time runs out - off premises, that’s another story.
But here, a guy goes upstairs with girl & a hard on, he returns fifteen minutes later with the same erection and he tries again. Sometimes with the same girl, sometimes with someone new. They act like it’s some kind of lottery or slot machine and they’re hoping to hit three cherries. Suckers buy lottery tickets and play the numbers. Suckers buy bottles of champagne, they live in an yin yang of hope & denial.
Leave ‘em wanting more, sell up or move on…
Wolf hates my job, but, really, I’m having a pretty good time. I make money off bottles bought for me (Okay, I don’t get a LOT of bottles– there are other much more naked, pretty girls around, girls like Toni Rose. Toni is a cross between My Little Pony and Twiggy, with her big eyes, long legs, little boy haircut and phenomenal tits. Another chick dances with a boa constrictor, putting its whole head in her mouth. I can’t compete with that kind of action. But it does happen.) & what’s in my cash register, tips, salary & whatever extra I can “find”. I kinda enjoy the endless stream of porno especially when the porn star’s in the house. Then it’s like being at a pep rally with all the hooting and cheering and go, go, go, ’til he gets to the money shot. It feel like home movies.
It feels like family.
I’m getting better at “finding” money. Generally anyone here who’s not a dancer, manager or pimp is money. Boyfriends, you never can tell. Some are on to the game, some are in a cash flow based “relationship”. Those guys are someone’s personal bank account. They’re also off limits.
General sitting at the bar dopey, lonely suckers are a free for all. Anyone can take a stab at what’s in their pockets : hustling drinks, taking tips, getting bottles or just reach out and take what you want. When a guy is drinking booze, watching titty, booty & poontang & trying to figure out how to get his hands on any of it, he’s pretty focused. If his mind’s on someone else’s panties, getting into his pockets is usually pretty easy. If he does notice, I slide over to his crotch as if that was where I was headed anyway, smile sweetly and what I hope is seductively.
I’m just giving him permission to believe what he already wants to believe.
Don’t look at me like that. It’s not just me, the dancers at my bar are doing the same thing. If I catch them, we split it in exchange for me not ratting them out management. Management would take it all. You know that they would.
Everything about this is chilly except Red Wolf’s attitude.
I could quit if he’d get a job. I tell him that.
I wouldn‘t quit though.
I don’t tell him that.
This entry was written by , posted on August 19, 2009 at 10:55 pm, filed under the diary and tagged 1979, dirty boys, dirty money, Guys & Dolls, pimps. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I didn’t grow up in a house that said nigger. I knew people who did, of course. I grew up in Levittown where you can’t buy a house unless you promise never to sell to a non-white family. Seriously. Even so, in my a house we didn’t say things like kike, or spic or nigger.
“Jus’ give the niggers their drinks, take their money and walk. Ya spendin’ way too much time talkin’ to ‘em. I didn’t hire ya to talk to niggers.” Ralphie’s jowls vibrate as he yells at me, again.
The bosses were worried about their own pockets. Pimps don’t drop for the champagne hustle, they’ll sit on the same fancy drink for a whole shift. They don’t put money in the cash registers if they can help it. But I work for tips. The pimps were waving a lot of green at me, most days I go home with six times my shift pay in tips—that’s more in one day than I’d had in a week working a straight job. I wasn’t about to bite the hands that fed me, no matter what color.
“Well, Ralph, who you want I should talk to? I got no other customers. Switch me up. Put me on nights.”
“Then I got niggers at night. You know I ain’t putting you on nights. My ass is awready on a line causa you.” The Mardi Gras had a lot to lose. Days the risk wasn’t too bad, but there was like two, three, four times as much money at night. Putting a seventeen year old on a night shift was asking for trouble from the Vice Squad, from Public Morals, from the State Liquor Authority . I could lose their liquor license for them. No license, no money. I’d heard the speech every time I asked. Probably for the best.My family lie had me working the lunch shift at some restaurant. No one’d believe I was good enough to be offered a dinner crowd.
“Ralph, no one’s gonna tip me just for opening a bottle of beer and walking away. Who’my gonna talk to, huh? You?”
“I don’t pay you to talk to niggers.” He runs a thick hand through his hair, greying, slicked back and greasy, then across his mustache, also going grey. And now it’s greasy too.
“Well, who’re you paying to talk to ‘em, cause really, I’m perfect for it. C’mon Ralph. You barely fucking pay me at all. Fifteen bucks? C’mon. I get almost a hundred from them. I’m here to make money. Like everyone else. Do the math, Ralph. Do the fuck-ing math, seriously, what would you do?”
Ralphie stands, adjusting his pants and belt around his paunch, he stares down at me.
“Ya got a real smart mouth, kid. That don’t make ya real smart though. Ya like spendin’ so much time with these jungle bunny muthafuckas, spend ev’ry goddamn day ‘n night wit ‘em then. Getcha crap. Get outta here. Take ya nigger pimp witchoo.”
“So, no night shift?” I rush out the door, mouth still running. He’s this close to pulling his belt off and walloping me, I can see it in his eyes. I don’t know when to shut up,but I know when to duck.
JJ was a pimp, but he treated me with respect, unlike Ralph. He never cursed. He showed me how to survive in Times Square, how not to get eaten alive. I’d heard ugly stories, girls who were so far in they couldn’t find a way out. That wasn’t gonna happen to me.
“What’s happenin’ Little J?” he whispered. The music pounded me, louder than usual. JJ’s voice was like a hot knife through butter. He was the heat. He was the butter too.
Anger danced in my head, shattered my thoughts, sent them flying and crashing into the walls as I gathered my stuff from behind the bar. I bumped into Ralphie as he was closing out my register.
“I’m fired,” tossing my head at Ralphie, “for talkin’ to NNNIIIGGGERS,” loud enough for everyone to hear over the throbbing disco beat.
“Get da fuck outta here.” Ralphie shoved me roughly down the bar.
“Hey,” I turned, “my shift pay, Ralphie?” holding my hand out, smiling sweetly.
“You don’t work a full shift, you don’t get paid, that’s my math.” He smiled back at me and puffed his chest out.
“Fuck you Ralphie, I don’t need your stinkin fifteen dollars.”
We walked out of the darkness into the glaring afternoon sun on Broadway, both wearing our work clothes. JJ, quiet in his three piece bankers grey pin stripe suit and me, with smart mouth & my big ass bobbing along, in a leotard shiny and red as a fire truck, legs bare, a pair of heels and a very bad attitude. Times Square roared around us.
It was a long day. I was too tired to roar back.
dirtygirl wonders: Do you know when to shut up? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on July 23, 2009 at 8:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty money, JJ Huntsberry, Levittown, pimps, Robbies Mardi Gras. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
If you’re in the house, you’re on the bar, on stage or working the floor. On stage you’re untouchable, but on the floor you have to be pleasant, seductive. Tell him how handsome he is, how desirable, run your fingers down his arm, tell him what a piece of shit he is, say what ever it is he needs to hear, how you’ll leave your man for him if only if…as long as there is a glass of champagne in front of you. No drink and it’s just a smile tossed over your shoulder, an eyeful of your ass walking away. He can take that into the bathroom and jerk off. Or he can buy you a drink.
The drink is champagne even when it’s not. A $20 nip buys a short five minutes at the bar. More time means more money. The girls are friendly, time is fluid, the champagne endless.
Every champagne glass comes with a chaser, an empty frosted “spit” glass to dribble the champagne into after each sip.
Dancers spit, they don’t swallow.
Drunk girls are accidents waiting to happen. They wake up next to men they never meant to fuck. For free. Drunk girls get sent home, they’re not earners. And cheap champagne is the worst hangover ever. Trust me, I’m a drunk girl.
Most days though, I “restock” the bottles, taking the ones with good labels, that don’t look too battered, filling them with ginger ale from the soda gun and twisting the caps back on.
Twist tops. Classy.
I put one or two spit glasses aside, unwashed, for assholes. I leave some spit in there.
I do my best to work the champagne hustle, but everyday brings new displays of feathered hats, sherbert colored polyester pimp suits and matching patent leather and alligator shoes - orange, lime green or grape. Pimps don’t buy titty bar champagne. They buy Golden Cadillacs and Grasshoppers. Cocktails to match their outfits and coat their stomachs. Cocktails that need to be shaken. They come to see me shake, to see the new girl JJ Hunstberry is grooming. JJ is top dog, if someone can grab me away from him, I’d be a feather in their cap. No one knows he still sends me home untouched at the end of every day.
The pimp parade leaves less and less room for the middle class white guys–incredible shrinking men in white short-sleeved button downs and two dollar ties. The scotch & soda, gin & tonic boys. The ones who buy the champagne. Meal tickets are afraid of pimps.
The girls complain to management. The meal tickets complain to management. Management complains to me.
Ralphie’s got me in the office, again, in the middle of a shift. His jowls shake as he yells at me for the thirty-first time. “Jus’ give the niggas their fuckin’ drinks, take the money and walk away. Ya not here to talk to niggas.”
But no one else talks to me, I think…
I’d never gotten the hang of making friends in my old life either.
dirtygirl asks: Do we choose our friends, do they choose us or is it all just proximity and circumstance? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on July 20, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1976, dirty money, JJ Huntsberry, pimps, Robbies Mardi Gras, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I’m here for the money I say. For the first time my body is an asset. The white guys don’t notice me, but the black guys, the brothers, pimps and players, they do. They tip. They want me, want me to want them. I want their money. But outside of turning tricks, here in the go-go bars the real money, the long green is on stage.
The dancers are glamorous, so far beyond what I can even hope for. (My mother will one day say I wasn’t burdened by having to be pretty. She had always been, after all, the pretty one.) They’re the dime everything turns on. Barmaids, like me, we keep the booze moving. Booze loosens a man’s wallet and care-free is care-less.
Men come to watch, to talk, to sit with, to forget their own lives. Some come to make money, like the owners and managers who don’t seem to like any us. We’re just a means to the money and they hate that we get paid just for having tits and ass. The men who drink here hate us for having tits and ass too, hate us for making them weak with wanting. They just don’t know it, yet.
Only the punch drunk bouncers, old pugs with no where else to go, only pimps and thieves take us out in public. Everyone else wants ass, or head or bragging rights and that’s as far as it goes.
I don’t want anyone to marry me, anyway. Men don’t marry girls like me.
I have nothing to lose.
I borrow a g-string. A cheesy scratchy blue number. A small triangle of coarse material that shimmers, barely, held together, barely, with three strips of black elastic. Someone else’s cooch stain taunts me as I change in the bathroom. I cover what I can with this swatch of blue and march out into the bar, pubic hair exploding from all sides.
Center stage, teetering on heels borrowed from Lisa for luck, I dance around and everyone watches. Everyone. Suddenly, I’m that woman men want to touch, to own, to be with, my body is buzzing. My nipples are hard, my skin jumping with electricity, my mouth dry, the world spins faster and faster. I’m free. I’m powerful, there’s a big red S on my chest. I’m out of control, out of my body. My shattered reflection dances with me, two of me, three of me, dozens of me jump from mirror to mirror, jerking, spinning, twirling in a trance of pounding disco. Smiling back at myself, I’m the pretty one now.
Fuck that shit. I’m beautiful.
I matter. And I’m the only thing in the world that matters. I’m untouchable.
Ralphie throws a brick through the plate glass window of my world. “Let’s see some floor work! Pretend you’re on top”, he barks.
I’m 17.
I’ve never been on top.
The spell is broken, I’m slammed back into my skin, just a chubby girl in someone else’s shoes doing naked push ups on stage. Everyone is watching.
Ralphie never asked me to dance again.
I never want to be in my skin again. Ever.
dirtygirl wonders: If you only had two choices, would you rather be the center of attention, or be completely invisible? Why? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on July 16, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1975, dirty boys, dirty money, pimps, Robbies Mardi Gras, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
JJ the pimp, my JJ, wants me to be a lady, to have some real class. So we go to nice places, not like Tad’s Steak House, which is what passed for nice growing up. I’m learning how to talk to maître d’s & sommeliers, to get respect & service in return. We order fine wines. Honestly though, I don’t get beyond white is chilled & red isn’t.
I go through the motions of letting a wine breath without knowing why, or caring for that matter. If I play my part well, I can be silly and get Perrier Jouet just for the flowers. I don’t know if it’s better than Cristal or Moet, but it’s better than the crap champagne we hustle at work, I know that much. I order Stolichnaya because I like the way the word feels in my mouth, but really, I’m happy to drink Georgi and when no one is looking I swallow the crap champagne at work instead of spitting it out.
JJ says there’s a fine line between sleazy and sexy and teaching me to walk that line is an uphill battle.
I’ve discovered charming, but can’t master demure. I’m better with funny or tough but he says there’s no money in funny and tough is for street girls. I mingle when we’re out, drinking enough Stolichnaya (chilled or not, I don’t care) to shut the voices up when they start to blabber, everyone knows, everyone knows you’re a fake, you’re just a kid, just a chubby kid from the asshole of Long Island. When the voices start, I don’t care if the bottle has flowers or a skull and cross bones, as long as it’s there.
JJ starts to teach me the truths about men. What they think they want, what they really want. He says check the way a man dresses, walks, speaks, even the way he sits matters. This part is easy. Daddy was a con man at heart and long before Times Square, my father was teaching me how to size a person up with a glance. Did a man’s shoes need resoling? Missing buttons? Shirts frayed at the collar or cuffs? Nails manicured or ragged? Was there a ring of pale skin where a wedding band should be? What does he drink and how quickly or slowly? I need this edge to win, to get men to part with their cash. If you’re not pretty, you have to be smarter. This is all vital if I’m going to work for JJ. I’ve seen Sharon’s life. I want what she has and I want it with JJ. I don’t need any vintage Greta Garbo underwear, but I want that sleep ’til noon cash business is nobody’s business kinda business. I want to be fancy & desirable.
I want to feel wanted.
No one at home asks about the hours and hours I’m out of the house. They think I’m working the lunch shift in a restaurant in the city. No one asks much anyway, but life is easier with a lie. The lies I tell my family makes it easier for them to sleep. The lies I tell men make it easier for them to like me.
I don’t tell anyone the truth. I’m not even all the sure what it is.
dirtygirl wonders: What exactly is classy? Is it the way you dress, the way you act, something you’re born with? Is that whole Eliza Dolittle transformation even possible? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on July 13, 2009 at 7:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1975, dirty boys, dirty money, JJ Huntsberry, partners in crime, pimps, Robbies Mardi Gras, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
I’ve arrived. Robbie’s is the largest topless bar in New York City, maybe in the world. There are fifteen cash registers making a horseshoe around three stages. Bottles & bottles of glittering gem toned liquids, sequins, feathers, balloons, mirrors, streamers. Broadway, jammed with cars, taxis, police sirens, sidewalks overflowing, the world screams outside our door and Levittown is a million lifetimes away. Times Square is neon, flash and glitter, crowds and then more neon. As long as I don’t mind working in a skimpy leotard (I don’t), smile big (I do) and charge high prices for short drinks, I have a job where I make more cash money in one day than I did in a week at an office job. No taxes. No paperwork. No bullshit.
Okay, a little bullshit.
The other girls are mostly friendly, mostly glamorous. There’s one, older, maybe even thirty, with dyed jet black hair. She’s covered in tattoos and calls herself Raven. Everybody’s got at least two names. One for here and another for real life. Raven takes me under her wing and teaches me to mix drinks. Rye & Ginger. 7 & 7. Scotch & Soda. White men’s drinks, she says. The brothers, the pimps, they go for fancy drinks involving cocktail shakers and milk, like Grasshoppers. Milk drinks are a pain. You have to clean the shaker & change the rinse sink water each time. But pimps tip better. Raven tells me to start thinking what name I’m gonna use, that I can’t use my own. You use your own name, she says, anyone can find you.
Lisa used to be a Rockette. Her tits are famous. One was on the cover of High Times, covered in chocolate syrup, her nipple the cherry on top. She brought in a copy for everyone to see. Lisa does tricks, like dancing while standing on her head. She’s teaching me how to suck a long neck Budweiser off and make it come. Guys love that trick.
The guys are okay, mostly my father’s age. Mostly white. The brothers sit with me or Raven, the other girls don’t want them around. I don’t mind, they tip, they’re friendly. There’s one in particular.
His name is Jasus. J. Huntsberry.
JJ was there from day one with his sleepy gray eyes hiding behind gold wire rimmed glasses and that velvet voice you need to lean in to hear. He is the color of dusty pecans. Dark blue suits, tailored. Leather shoes, handmade. He’s a subtle suggestion, a gentle mood. JJ’s silence screams next to the flashy moves and garish peacock colors of other pimps. When he’s here, I feel cared for, looked after. Safe from the reaches of other pimps and street daddies looking to turn out the new fish.
I need a name, I take his. And so, here, I’m “little JJ”. Together we’re black JJ & white JJ. Big JJ & Little JJ. JJ the pimp & JJ the girl.
For now, everyone steers clear and leaves us alone.
dirtygirl wants to know: What makes you feel safe in the world, okay in your own skin? Post your thoughts below. C’mon, talk dirty to me.
This entry was written by , posted on July 9, 2009 at 10:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1975, JJ Huntsberry, Levittown, pimps, Robbies Mardi Gras, Times Square. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink and follow any comments with the RSS feed for this post.
onlythejodi