it's only t & a (but i like it)
She bends to pick up a dollar and her perfect, apple-hard ass is in my face. Rosy anus puckered pink in the stage-light. Amazing how clean they keep them. Dancers have, by and large, the cleanest asses in America -- or anywhere else for that matter. If God had had the good humor to place our assholes on our foreheads I imagine we would all strive for a cleaner, prettier poopshoot. Toilet paper? Forget it, Jack. Soap and water. Washrags. Elbow grease. The same determined effort women now put into plucking their eyebrows or men into trimming their mustaches. Presentation is everything, yes. Then again, maybe we would simply wear bags over our heads. Being an American, I speak for Americans only. Might be a different story in Europe.
I order another drink--I'm supposed to be photographing a band at Satyricon, but fuck it, I'm bored, and besides, I haven't had sex in five months--hand the waitress a twenty ad get my change back in singles. The dancer smiles, leans in close, breasts c-cupped in long nailed hands, nipples erect and all the more reason to keep the thermostat low. "Hey," she asks, "how do you like my new perfume? It's called Come to Me. Does it smell like come to you?" A world of bad jokes and overpriced beer. Laugh and lay a dollar down. Then another, and another--she's kin. I once served a grilled cheese sandwich to an Iowan truck driver with a keen eye and discriminating tastes. " This sandwich ain't fit ta feed a fuckin' dog!" Terrible looking sandwich, I had to agree. Offered to make him another though I didn't want to. What I wanted to do was cap the fucker. A few years flipping burgers and the like, you begin to lose interest, enthusiasm flags--everything flags, one's allegedly innate humanity being no exception. "I DON'T WANT ANOTHER FUCKING SANDWICH!"--Flared nostrils of a horse, wild gesturing of working class hands--"I'M THROUGH WITH YOU PEOPLE!" he screamed. And stormed out. No tip of course, not that I give a rat's ass. Wrong attitude, considering that I lived on tips. I still live on tips. But my attitude is much worse these days. Never have been able to stomach subservience although my occupation demands it. A bartender, waiter, dishwasher and short order cook six-years now--how does one perform all of these services at once and yet perform them all well? SIX YEARS because I am too hopelessly apathetic to look for another job. Reading the classified ads is not only tedious it is depressing. Nearly as depressing as employment itself. This dilemma might prompt me to suicide if I did not recognize the impulse as purely literary. The fetishistic shotgun musings of a third rate Hemingway. And a slothful sonofabitch to boot. Work is work said the sage from the cradle to the hammock. No truer words ever spoken, my friend. Me I like to lounge at the lip of the stage, ringside, the Rack. A fistful of cash and a fresh drink every ten minutes. Close enough to smell it. Sex, the great diversion. Death will arrive on it's own, with little or no help from me. Sanity slain over a less than perfect grilled cheese sandwich.
I lay five dollars on the rail and look out here she comes! A new one now. Ah, I've seen her before, I see her all the time. Blue-black hair, no implants (yet), patent leather knee high boots, pierced labia. Hypnotic jiggle and trance. I'm here so often I feel as if I know her. All the intimacies of her body the way a husband knows the topography of a wife. Committed to memory. Visual Braille. A wrinkle here, a blemish there. Birthmark seen only from the vantage point of legs scissored high over shoulders. That fabled flower of the ages fanned open for phantom tongue to intrude. To hell with Hollywood, give me the girl next door. And I don't mean the girl two-doors down from the Playboy Mansion, but the girl next door to me. Rooms available by the week, no deposit, no security checks. A weary yet oddly attractive cocktail waitress. A checkout girl with a gimped leg and a wandering eye. Or better still, the boss's wife. Yes, yes, the bosses wife. Neglected of course, poor thing. Once glorious figure almost, but not quite gobbled and gone to pot, the shadow of beauty still showing, her husband too blind to see it, the silly bastard, he's got Baywatch on the brain and would rather whack-off--he doesn't deserve to have a wife. I like my women less than perfect. More Mary Ann than Ginger. A rare breed believe it or not in this age of silicone implants gone mad--in the stripclubs at least. Less than perfect bodies fill the streets of course and are the rule rather than the exception. But it isn't often that you see them naked--not on Mainstreet America--and if you do it is a body courting arrest. Cares nothing for a dead president shoved down a G-string and is most likely insane, or a mildly unbalanced visionary. More socialist than capitalist. Pleasant in theory, somewhat less so in practice...I suck up another drink--criminally weak but I am sure there is a good reason for this--prop my callused elbows on the rack and smile upward with great heavenly reverence at one of the most inviting vaginas I have ever had the pleasure of gazing upon. Clean, close cropped nirvana; pretty pink lips proudly parted, clit assertive as a pencil eraser, cute as the proverbial button grandmothers tweek and ammoral presidents push. At once both comical and erotic--like all things sexual. The eroticism ensures the propagation of the race. The comedy keeps us human, perhaps. Very little humor being enjoyed within the animal kingdom. Two dogs fucking never laugh. No real joy there. I cannot detect it at any rate. But I have sullied my powers of observation with a decade long river of bourbon and beer-backs and your eye may well be keener then mine. Smiling, laughing, drunk and joyful, I hand this woman five dollars and attempt to kiss her feet through the thimble of the dream--but all I get is the shoo. Bouncers don't go for that shit, as well they shouldn't. Touch allowed only through the avenue of pupil and retina. Fair enough. I clasp my hands behind my back and the five singles magically transform my nose into a cock--blueballed to be sure. Down on all fours now, coltish legs spread wide and butter smooth, knees on the rack, heartshaped ass in the air, she rests her feet on my shoulders, bringing heaven slowly closer to the sin-spun earth, then rubs my snout with it, dips me in and out, and quickly pulls away. Ascension! A noseful of pussy and a shiteating grin. I will no doubt spend the entire evening here pissing away a full weeks pay. An ocean of whiskey with beer on the side and a boat on the far shore. The Titanic, of course. Leave moderation to those in the middle of the road; then run them over--preferably on cab ride back from the bar. Laughter elevates, seperates us from the souless beast. The heart of a dog beating for God. I wonder if the G. Bush Juniors of the world ever laugh while fucking? Or Fundamentalist Christians? Or Mormons? Or guilt-driven do-good liberals for that matter? Rarely if ever, I imagine. Although I am fairly certain that this is just wishful thinking on my part. These are, after all, the type of folks who are forever trying to legislate morality here in Portland, Oregon and elsewhere--among other things. So I happily corral them pell-mell with other more obviously unenlightened beasts of burden and draw my half-baked analogies thus. The joyless fucking of sheep and sow and barnyard fowl. But who knows? Maybe two dogs fucking really do laugh now and again. When no one is listening perhaps. The old does a falling tree make a sound if there is no one in the woods to hear it bit. Or, as the mushroom said to the bartender after being refused service because his kind could clearly not be tolerated, "But why? I'm a fun guy!"