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.
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Posted July 16, 2009 at 9:00 am, filed under the diary and tagged 1975, dirty boys, dirty money, pimps, Robbies Mardi Gras, Times Square. Bookmark this post. Follow any comments @ RSS feed for this post.
