Her name is Heidi and in her face and body I see remnants of whatever genetic strain courses through Bailey’s veins. There is something sweeter in her face and in her voice. Harshness has not set in. She is all smiles. Bitterness against where she works has had no time to settle into her mind and bones and beating heart. Her words bounce from a throat she tells me she uses to sing opera. Her pearly whites look so unused. I imagine braces coming off them only days before.
She works at A Hunt Club, a ‘no touch’ gentleman’s club in Fort Collins. College boys and out of place Mexican workers slobber over girls they can’t have. Not even the illusion is complete, a bastardized monster that will haunt and torture them as they lay awake, surfing the internet for porn that tickles that spot they can’t find a woman to caress. The girls are all young in the way only females in college are young. Inexperience veiled in the varied uniforms of what they perceive as maturity.
“I like their no touch policy,” Heidi tells me from across the high table, “I don’t think I could work anywhere that didn’t have that.”
“Where you have to touch on the guys?” I ask.
“Yeah, where you have to touch or the guys touch you. So,” Heidi pauses, “Yeah, I think I’d be really bad at lap dances. I’m a really awkward person. Like, when I started here I was the worst dancer ever. So, if I had to, like, learn how to lap dance it would be bad.”
“I would never tell anyone at school I work here.”
“Is that a personal decision or are you ashamed?”
“I’m not ashamed,” she squeaks, quick to the trigger, “Like, if they asked I’d be like ‘yeah, it’s just a job’. It’s just a job, that’s how I look at it.”
Nude Night. Though all-nude strip clubs are illegal in Wyoming, The Den manages to get away with it by only having one night every couple weeks where the girls strip down to nothing but their skin and subconscious. Though any girl can work in any amount of clothing, most decide to shed it all and make the extra money with their cunts exposed, splaying for strangers and raking in the greenbacks,
Daisy plants herself on my lap and vents. I don’t mind this. Usually I do but I don’t with her. This isn’t romance though we connect or a crush though she is attractive. It’s almost a sibling-like feeling. An understanding. A pretty girl who doesn’t feel pretty finding safety in a boy who realize tthis and wants nothing more than to let her talk. She tells me about some asshole taking pictures of Nightmare while she dances. I try not to care. It’s not my place to care.
There is an innocence that floods from every pore of Daisy’s body. From her white outfits to her eyes that always look shut and bothered by the cigarette smoke to the sweet soprano of her voice. She is all legs and hips and backside, an archetype of what I should want but that isn’t there for either of us. She moves to a seat of her own and begins to let it out.
“There’s just a certain level of nakedness that shouldn’t be shared with the general public,” Daisy tells me, “I mean, like, boobs are okay. Boobs are fun. Like, I like my boobs.” she stutters a bit, bending her head to the side like a curious bird and corrects the motion with another avian movement, “Granted they’re-they’re small but they’re fun. I-I just feel like that’s a very private area that gives life, that-”
Daisy changes courses as if her first explanation wasn’t appropriate, “Have you ever seen that commercial where it’s, like, ‘It gives birth.’ It can, like, bring down nations. I think it’s for, like, a vaginal care thing.”
“Douches?” I offer.
“Yeah! It’s a stupid commercial.”
“I didn’t even know douches had commercials.”
“Yeah and then, like, two men , like, are battling and then there’s a picture of a woman. It’s, like, ‘Wars are fought over it’. And- and it’s all about the vagina. And so, but, I feel like there’s a level of nakedness I’m not okay with.
“And, you know, I feel like if you’re sharing, if you work here and you’re sharing a certain part of yourself, like, if you’re sharing a certain part of yourself like you’re lap dancing and putting your tits in someones face, you’re having fake romances, maybe, like, ten a night. So you should [keep your vagina] for yourself and if you are in a relationship, for [your partner]. It’s like your two, three inches of dignity, depending on how big your thong is.”
“Do you feel there’s a hypocrisy in what you’re saying?” I ask.
“No,” her answer is quick and adamant. Offended, “I mean, it’s my opinion on it, I guess. Sure, I may show one part of my body but that doesn’t mean that my body isn’t sacred to me. Like, I personally like to save something for myself. That part of my body is completely different from the top part of my body. Like, men play sports topless. Like, the penis and the vagina have always been sacred. They’ve always covered it, look at the statue of Adam. Is it Adam? The dude with the leaf covering.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“But, like, in, like, sculptures and what not, and in- and in, like, books, they’ve always had to censor out those parts. So I feel like boobs aren’t that big of an issue.”
“But it wasn’t always like that. Wasn’t it the Catholic church that made them cover up?”
“Yeah, well, that’s what I feel,” Daisy says, her voice dejected and dismissive, “I don’t care.”