Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Strip Clubs and Myths

I started dreaming scales and claws, purple-spotted lizards, itching over glossy postcards.

Washington or Phoenix, but I've forgotten, forgotten which it is,

Each scale puffs up and grows, grieving sea gold and running blue, a big bashed loon, blushing embarrassment. It pinks itself to a wonderland, heralding the majesty of a feathery peacock that stares at its fingertips as it spirals down.

and Crash! Silly creature falls into a toy house, squandering the kitchen for a sushi bar or carrot stick,

And now she’s taken a bite and it’s growing, twisting into a pole all talled up- and the lizard crawls down it.

Except its sliding too smoothly, slicking the pole’s surface with skin and suddenly it’s thighs and stomachs and the room’s dark and full, little bits of plastic cluttering cunts.

Menacing fall- she’s but a hazy image but she slides down the colossal pole with confidence. Unbearable weight supported by tiny arms, balancing breast gigantic, falling into the furrowed frown of a pale young Spaniard- and that’s where the story begins, I suppose,

I remember how he told me the story: the maxed out credit card at the sleazy salon. Four of them, I think, oh Jay and Mark and some other snap, just dicking it out with nothing better to do. Spent too much at a strip club, once, had to go back to barter the charge.

He laughed through the story, breezing cheers of air, but I’m looking at it now- I swear I am- and it’s so much darker.

There’s brawls in the background, but only crudish bits of yelling, matched by frustrated creatures, circling a stage in relaxation. They all seem to lay back, rolled back sleeves digging into the bar, stomachs breathing open with crackling. Perpetually waiting for a lap dance, I suppose, even with no chance in sight, really.

The spotlights hit the floor, shooting three silver bullets with leather breasts, basking in conquest. The Jaysabirds’ surrender themselves, begging to those the barren dolls, waiting for their feet to touch the ground and grinning for their collapse.

Addison's a seat and a half away, face blank and eyebrows ascending in darkness. He’s staring at the foot of the stage, quietly detached. Occasionally, he’ll look up, daring- I can see his eyes gloss over- and he shudders a cold glace back to the table.

Mark looks over and thinks, Hey…you allright? But then he shrugs a sympathetic glace- nothing he can do.

Reds bomb the steely stage, and the strippers take off their bras, tearing apart the Velcro. Devastated and shocked, the crown roars, winding down to the yips of little puppies.

Addison taps Jay and asks, “Going out for a smoke?”

“Naw, no, not now,” says Jay, waving his hand towards the corner.

I bet Ad wants to use the back door, avoiding the bouncers- gaining entrance once was trouble enough, remember? So he ducks down, across the bar, tipsily crashing into the table of a business parting and yay,

“Watch it” (they snarl)

It’s a chilly November, but cool kids never wear coats, so Ad ignores that, too, and leans into calm arrogance by the doorway. He bends his knees to sit down, but just then the door opens, just a crack, revealing some sandy messed fauxhawk.

“Motherfucker, get in here,” he laughs, jostling Ad's shoulder, “The next bit’s bout to start,”

“In a second, Addison mutters,

“Come on,” says the Sandy, persistent, “Not s’posed to be out here anyways”.

Sandy bangs open the door for drama, more-than-inviting Ad in. “Cheer up, man”, he slurs, tossing an arm round his man's shoulders.

Which heave, effort, and manage a dry laugh.

Sandy guides Addison back towards the front, next to a beer that’s a minute gone. Replacements come around, gin and tonics spiked with orange juice, wetting rings on paper napkins, leaving their mark.

Mark tosses Ad some nose drops, then passed to another rowdy, converse to cap.

Jay pulls cash out of his back pocket. A twenty- he throws onto the stage- screeching; “Hey, baby! Get on my friend right here!”

Hands flash- one shoves him onto a chair, another offers a glass. Considering it a fair trade, he downs the glass and tries to fade in spotlights.

Cold and firm, hands grip his thighs, and he falls onto the silver sheen in the background. Skin rubs against dark jean to a mechanic rhythm, and the red glow lights up Marks’ triumphant face.

Then noise; mutterings, pitch high and breathish, betraying surprise and whispered in a voice too soft for anyone else to hear.

Interested by this abnormity, he pulls himself back to the body atop him.

“Whah’dya say?”

The stripper giggled. “You’re…hot”, she says, a bit louder, “I said you’re hot”.

I know, thinks Ad, tired, bored, but pleased all the same- a fall to familiar territory.

“Well, I’m sure you get a lot of hot guys down here”.

The stripper dismissed the scornful tone, choosing instead to aim lower instead. Nuzzling into his neck, she unlocked the buttoned jeans and slid down four fingers.

“You don’t wear boxers,” she said, apparently delighted with this revelation.

“No” (his terse response, bare, bearings, barreling interest) She begins to slide off him.

“Meet me backstage, second door”


He left his card at the table. Mark charged it with each drink in a four feet radius. But only accidentally. They came back the next day to explain.

And that’s what happened, I swear.

I know it: I would know it, I always have.

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