Tag Archives: stripper

“Life Is A Series Of Dogs”- BORDERLAND’s Excerpt #12

Don’t know if this is something that will actually make it into the book, but we’ll see. Felt compelled to write it because I’ve neglected this project and I apologize for that. No excuses.

So, this is for Trouble and “Neil” and Daisy and any of the other girls who have been touched by her and anyone else who has received one of her amazing puppies.

Life Is A Series Of Dogs

My roommate and I drive up Poudre Canyon, soaked in river water with an eight week old puppy curled and shaking in the back seat, silt and mineral-rich water glistening in her black coat. We were turned away from the campsite by the rangers because we refused to pay seventeen dollars for a half hours worth of playing with the puppy by the waterside. We packed up and drove along the water’s edge, looking for a spot with the least amount of rocks to relax by.

The puppy is asleep and I love her, though I’m certain there is less love for me on her side at the moment. Trouble sold her to me. Picked her out for me and everything. She chose right. Always intuitive and knowing beneath her bubbly exterior. No, perhaps it is that very exterior that makes the interior, where that certain spark of understanding comes from. I always believed wisdom came from those who were perpetually serious, callous. Men and women you couldn’t stand to be around unless they were doling out advice you knew was vital. Trouble is nothing like that. Talking to her is like talking to that aunt you can’t help but love and tell all your secrets. In the club she would approach me and hug me and it was never forced, never the fake show of affection I felt so many times from women I’m certain resent me or just men in general. Trouble is genuine through and through and for that many are grateful. Think of her as a rigid spine of steel. The middle. A neutral ground where everyone can rely, everyone can relate. Feel accepted.

The day Zilla brought me to see Trouble’s puppies for the first time, she was dressed in a tank top and shorts. Only a few days before she had helped me finish my piercing apprenticeship by allowing me to pierce her nipples. If there was any sign that anything like the sort had happened between her, my mentor, her husband and I, it was not in her eyes. She walked me into the garage and there in a homemade corral where almost a dozen balls of black and white and faun colored fur. They mewled and crawled and wagged their little tails. Several came to where I stood immediately, arching and standing, whining for attention.

“Which one is she?” I asked Trouble.

“That one,” she replied, pointing to a serene ball of black laying behind the others. Only her toes and a small strip on her stomach were white. “You can go in and pick her up if you want.”

Trouble smiled the entire time and when I took the puppy out and placed her on the lawn to play with her she sat on the cement step before her door and watched and her lips did not uncurl while I remained. Even on her own stoop nothing about Trouble changed. She remained the mother figure, the loving aunt. A tower of warmth and light. You want something dark? Perhaps in her past. Who knows. It no longer remained. Zilla stayed in the car, checking his messages.

When I gave the puppy back to Trouble and clambered into Zilla’s car, I asked him if he had seen her. Seen the dog.

“Yeah,” he answered in his bass voice, not looking over to me, “[The puppy] is fucking adorable.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“Man, I can’t wait to eat that puppy,” he added before pulling off back into the street.

Trouble is a ziggurat of cheerful light that saunters about like a monolith from the times before iPods and earbuds, back when myriad gods were all folks knew. All of that presence stuffed within a five foot and some inches frame. Her uniform is a Budweiser bikini which she wears almost every night. The owners ask her to change into something else but she rarely does and regardless of the fact that she’s a mother and into her thirties, that bright light doesn’t just shine forth, it attracts every poor bastard looking to experience the hometown girl and every dancer who needs an unbiased shoulder to cry and confide upon. A simply beauty who never left the town she went to high school in. Her white toothed smile and cornflower blue eyes. The one girl no one says a damn bad word about and rightfully so. Dirt could be dug and damage done but why mess with the only one who seems devoid of doubt? Why cast down an idol when it’s clear that idol is only giving guidance and love?

The puppy Trouble picked for me is calm and sweet, unlike any other puppy I’ve met. Perhaps it’s because of her amalgamation mutt mix of big breeds or maybe it’s her natural born demeanor. Either/or, it’s who she is. She lays out on the kitchen floor and ignores all goings-on. A stone sphinx, some marble-cast gargoyle guardian. She is precious. I love her.

Trouble and Neil, her husband and one of the DJ’s at the club, stand in my kitchen and unload a glitter-covered gift-bag filled with extra dog food and squeak toys and a miniature braided rope for tug-o-war and her short vet record and even her last deworming shot.

As Trouble feeds my puppy the sweet nectar that will keep her intestines clear, Neil stands barrel chested and serious, intimidating for a man fairly my senior. He wears glasses and a red t-shirt and I want to make him laugh to break the tension that is probably on my side alone. I can never tell if he dislikes me or not.

They say their goodbye’s to the puppy and I thank them and walk them out to their car and wonder what my life would have been like had I not met them both.

Though I have yet to meet him, I’ve seen pictures of my puppy’s older brother. He resembles an enormous black golden retriever. I imagine that Trouble picked him for Daisy in a similar way she picked my puppy for me.

Most recent pictures I see of Daisy are her with the puppy as he grows. Pictures of him sleeping. Pictures of him in the car. Pictures of them both on the bed or couch. A picture of him curled around the toilet, passed out. His entire life documented on the internet for the world to see. Daisy told me more than once that her dog was all the man she needed.

My roommate is passing out on her bed with my puppy by her chest and her own cat bove her head. The puppy looks up at me and I put my face to her face and she breaths tired puppy breathes and I kiss her nose and leave the apartment.

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“Heartbeat”- BORDERLANDS Excerpt #11

I wait tables. Customers come, customers go. A dollar, two dollars, more, less, sometimes none. Black pants, polo tucked into a black belt, white t-shirt, black socks. After a group leaves I kneel half way in the booth, half way out, looking out the window. The sun sets into the interstate causeway. Trains bearing the same graffiti I saw months ago pass by, headed west, headed east. Dead flies lay on their backs, black husks arrayed into a dust covered insect graveyard.

 

In another universe we might have met somewhere else. I would have noticed her curves, her eyes, her lips, the way both work together when she wants your attention. She’s not a beauty but there’s something pretty about her. A realism to her. I meet Aurora and it doesn’t take me long to realize I want her. I want her body because I know I shouldn’t. She’s a dancer, a stripper, a mother, she’s someone’s wife, someone else’s girlfriend. Still, I want her.

 

“It’s complicated,” Aurora tells me as we speak of her husband, “It’s a pain.”

“But you guys are technically together,” I inquire.

“We’re separated. That’s about as good as it gets right now. But let’s not talk about him.”

“What about you and Suit?”

“Life is good. He still gets irritated he’s not allowed in here. So.” A few weeks prior Suit was kicked out of the club for his actions regarding a situation with Aurora. Now he’s only allowed in when she’s not there.

“People don’t really seem to like Suit.”

“I would imagine. I don’t care,” Aurora giggles.

“Other people bring their boyfriends in. Autumn and them.”

“I have no idea. Should I know why? Should I care why? When I’m not working it’s time for relationships and- do you have the ashtray?” she asks another girl.

 

Whether she was meant to be or not, Aurora’s crafted herself into a unique sexpot. Five thousand dollars worth pumped to make already impressive breasts larger. Tattoos line her waist and back like ink-jewelry. Microdermal anchors go from her collar bone down to the middle of her sternum. A necklace of sparkling aurora-borealis colors. In the semi-darkness, beneath the black light, the eye might make one believe it is a standard decoration instead of gems punctured into her skin.

 

“How do you feel for these poor assholes who, don’t want to take a stripper home but, genuinely fall for [them]?” I ask Aurora.

“There’s a big difference there. Yeah, I don’t feel bad for guys who come in here expecting to go home with a stripper. I, I think they’re arrogant and have the least chance of getting a dancer, stripper without money outside of the club.

“Now, a guy who comes in with the intention of spending a little bit of money and locking eyes with a girl and going ‘Oh my god, there’s no way in hell I’ll ever have her’, I would feel more sorry for him if he doesn’t get her than I would for a guy who’s like ‘Oh yeah, I’m built, I have a six pack, a twelve pack, I’m bad ass, I’ve got the tips of my hair dyed’.”

“What do you mean ‘feel sorry for them’?”

“It would make me feel bad because it’s-” Aurora pauses, touches her feet in pain, “Stripper shoes.

“It’s sincere. Their feelings are sincere. They’re not in it for the sex. They, you know, they honestly click with the conversation, you know? That makes me feel worse than some guy coming in here and going ‘Oh yeah, I’m taking one of you home tonight’. Fucking no you’re not. I wouldn’t date you if you were the last guy on earth. Simply because of [their] attitude.”

 

Some people would like to demonize strippers, create succubus out of them, say that any woman willing to take her clothes off must be willing to go further for a couple more dollars. Whores, trollops, harlots, sluts, hookers, every term, any term, a human being willing to go to great lengths to remind everyone, including themselves, that someone else is seen as greater trash.

And a dancer will be offended by the mere idea that they’ve ever gone home with a customer. Never meeting for dates. “Only whores do that” and sometimes they imply the “whore” is right across the room. Ask the “whore” the same question and they’ll accuse the real “whore” at the bar. An endless game. There is an animosity towards these “whores” that is as fierce as the misunderstood hatred of those outside the nighttime world.

Yet most of the women meet their male counterparts for life or the moment in the club. When your existence revolves around a place it is bound to happen. Isis, Trouble, Satin, these women all met their husbands in the club- some of the men were co-workers, others customers. Brooklyn, Vanessa, Sadie, Belle, Shie, Tessa, Nightmare and others have met and dated a customer or someone they work with at some point. Some instances result in love, in children, in long term investments. While others burst into proverbial flames, leaving both parties bitter, eager to let loose the injustices they feel were thrown upon them.

For the most part the girls are tight-lipped about these romances. Secrets guarded beneath the plates of their psychological stripper armor. Aurora is an exception. The other dancers look at her situation with up-turned noses and speak of it with disgust. Still married but separated, Aurora dates Suit, a man she met at the club. In a world where their skin is for sale in limited amounts, many of the girls attach great pride to fidelity and monogamy. Prostitution is weeded out, disgraced, put on display and then eradicated. Extra-martial relationships receive similar treatment. And flagrant showings of male-female sexual interaction between the dancers and any male, customer or otherwise, triggers a reaction.

“What they do is their business,” a girl tells me, sitting straight in her chair, “but when [Aurora] is blowing [Suit] out in the parking lot when we all get out of work, that makes us all look bad. Separated or not, that’s fucked up.”

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“Ain’t No Barbie”- BORDERLANDS Excerpt #7

I see Madison and she is beautiful. Not beautiful in the way where I fall in love with her at first sight but in the way where I want to avoid eye contact and creep to the other side of a room so I don’t embarrass myself before her. Beautiful in that way where if she were pushing a carriage down the street with an infant I’d stop and tell her “Your baby is going to be lovely,” knowing I can’t tell shit from the lump of new pink flesh swaddled in blankets.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Lovely, lovely, lovely.

Though, I did make the mistake of calling her a Barbie. It’s not that she’s got long blonde hair or a body that defies physics. Her hair is colored shades of artificial but spectacular gold. When we stand face to face without her heels we’re even, a few inches above the average man or woman. You can see where children drained her in the stomach and breasts, loose skin showing beneath the black light. What makes me think of Barbie is how her lips pout and the arch of her impressive eyebrows. It’s not what Barbie is, but what Barbie means- you want her for a few minutes? Well, ain’t no way in hell unless you’re willing to spend the cash.

Fuck off.

When Madison climbs the stage people crowd the plush seats. A man who seems a cross between a hippy and a lumberjack sits and puts twenty dollars bills on the padded tip rail like they’re Washingtons.

“The girls like me because of the poetry I write her,” the Hipjack tells me, alcohol wafting from his throat to my nose. He stares out from thick rimmed black glasses with bulging eyes behind.

Madison removes her top to reveal nipples hard and erect on small breasts, the flesh responding as if it knows that it is time to work.

“What do you mean I’m a Barbie?” Madison says while a drunken dancer who tells me to ‘call her Sparkles’ and Hipjack heckle me. I fumble for words and have no real response but half-assed reasoning. I falter. I fail.

“What is this?” Hipjack asks me, drunk and smiling, “Gonzo journalism?”

“You ain’t no Thompson,” Sparkles shouts over the bass, “You ain’t no Thompson.”

I float around the club, embarrassed. Sparkles. What a cunt. All I want to do is leave. To run. Why stay? Such a stupid idea? Who do I think I am, anyway? They’re right. This isn’t my world. I ain’t no Thompson and this isn’t Gonzo journalism. I should go home.

“And now to the stage is the beautiful Sadie,” the DJ drawls. Sparkles prances up onto the stage and dances to “Pretty Fly For A White Guy”, twirling her dyed red hair.

Liar.

Sadie reminds me of porn stars the way her facial expressions form for customers. Her teeth remind me of Europeans. She’s wrapped in leg warmers and lace as her g-string sinks into her hips, camouflaged in flesh. Hipjack comes to the stage and drops a twenty.

“I was hoping you’d come sooner,” Sadie says as she moves from some Mexicans to the drunken amalgamation, nuzzling and dancing against his aging, flannel-clad body.

I end up sitting with Aurora and Suit in the back by the pool tables, sulking and talking with less heart than earlier. As the night wanes Madison comes and finds me and sits down. Aurora makes room and is quick to leave, looking the two of us over, telling me she’s going to dress out. Madison apologizes for Sadie and Hipjack. All that’s left is her and I, four inches from each other, and it all feels too close. I want to be on the other side of bullet proof, prison-grade glass with guards and shackles and then I’ll feel as if we’re separated enough. She intimidates me.

Articulating my Barbie comment comes out even worse with us one on one, but Madison waves it away with a manicured hand and tells me she understands. Her own words are broken. I can tell she wants to be clear, but everything comes out chopped up. She fishes for words and starts one sentence only to begin a new one half way through. Regardless, she lets me know she’s never seen herself as some unapproachable beauty.

“Well, yeah, but I’ve always hated the girls who sat in the mirror [and were like] ‘I’m so hot’,” she tells me as she moves her hair from her face, “I don’t see myself that way and I never have, nor will I ever view myself that way.

“I kind of prided myself in a way too, like, to seclude myself. I always had a lot going on as a kid and I was not involved. I don’t know, really, I’ve always be an individualist. And for the most part I look the same as I did when I was [younger].”

Hipjack comes up while the other girls are up on stage doing Platter, where most of the girls dance as a singular organism, vying for tips and interacting to get the last bits of cash from the pockets of drunkards and number-one fans. Madison excludes herself. The older girls tend to do so on occasion, though some are willing to slither in the pile for a few extra dollars.

“Hey,” Hipjack interrupts, “I got- I threw out a bunch of ones up there,” his voice gets quiet, tones of inebriation overtaking him.

“Do you ever,” he pauses, “dance?”

“I don’t ever [do platter]. I let them do platter,” she motions to the stage and smiles at Hipjack, using his real name. It sounds so proper, so out of place here on the ripped leather with cigarette smoke filling our ears and eyes and noses. “Go home.”

“They broke my eardrums with their tits.”

“Oh yeah?”

Madison ignores Hipjack’s presence and lets her words form into sentences more concrete than before. In her little black dress with her tangles of golden hair she looks tired, disinterested, only here with me to clarify her existence.

“I never really, uh- I know this sounds funny but I’m good at this. It’s something that I was good at from the get go, so I kind of, I dunno, when you’re good at something you stick with it.

“It’s not really socially acceptable. It’s very age sensitive, but-” she let’s the words linger, disappearing into wisps of smoke as if whatever the ‘but’ is she expects me to get. To just know.

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“The King What Sits On His Throne”- BORDERLANDS Excerpt #6

“I love this place,” Pumpkin says. His voice is sincere. It is hard not to believe words that come out of this behemoth of a man. Something in his voice holds the remnants of an east coast accent though from what I know he’s been out west most of his life., “ If I could I’d own [The Den] and I tried. I tried. If it wasn’t two-point-four million dollars I would be the owner.”

“You already seem like you are,” I joke. I give an anxious smile. He doesn’t smile back, “Mayor of the place.”

“Yeah, well, you know, I mean, I already told ya guys come in here all the time and they see me, ya know, not doing what a normal customer does and they automatically assume I’m the bouncer or I work here. And for the sake of, for the sake of, them having an eye out and to behave, I’ll tell em ‘Yeah, I’m the bouncer. I have my eye on you tonight.

“Really, I’m just here to have fun, man. Sit down, relax. That’s what keeps my head level for the week, ya know. Like, when I’m working I come out on Sunday night, I spend four hours here and it gives me a peaceful sense for the work week.”

Other than the owners and male employees and sycophantic boyfriends who hawk in the dark corners while their women bare their skin, Pumpkin is at The Den more than any other man I’ve met. Most of the week he spends hour upon hour in the back at what I dub his throne.

Twice as wide as the average man, taller than most and covered in tattoos of angels of death and skeletal outlining on his hands, Pumpkin could look the part of a disgruntled bouncer or an obsessive paramour but he is none of those and it pains him to know that. I see it in his face, in the way he smokes cigarettes under the black lights. It might as well pour from him like a noxious liquid, dark and frothing and foul.

“What keeps you coming back?” I ask him and the question seems to change his mood. Though never bright or happy, somehow Pumpkin grows more discontented. He slumps into his chair and plays with his cigarette lighter and ponders for a moment in his own mind. The silence is intimidating. A frown furrows his face.

“I don’t know,” he answers after a moment, “I fucking hate this place.”

The first time Pumpkin even acknowledged me was the night I met Nightmare. While the pale ice queen beauty and myself sat in awkward silence near the front of the club, Pumpkin lumbers in with his behemoth waddle, un-geled mohawk and dressed in his usual uniform of all black. That night he stopped and nodded to Nightmare and when I think back on this how strange it seems. Knowing them both now makes me ponder how uncharacteristic they both acted that night. Almost coincidental that these two people who would play such a huge part in my life for both better and worse would stand parallel but that evening Nightmare was still only a tall and lanky blue eyed beauty with a pixie cut who I was sure as hell was annoyed with me and Pumpkin a sort of scary tattooed mass of flesh who looked at me as if I were the biggest douche bag in the world.

Looking at those two I imagined they came from a familiar cut of cloth. Both in dark colors, black upon black upon black. I pictured them at home listening to angry mainstream hard rock pretty boys with long hair who were all angry at their fathers and every attractive woman who ever turned her cheek on them. Yet Nightmare and Pumpkin are opposites, one sitting on the side of wanted and the other, unwanted. And they are similar, wrapped in shadows and black light, quiet and to themselves, one saying forget the world and the other saying fuck it to hell.

Nightmare looked up to Pumpkin with her legs crossed and speaking in bored tones she pointed to me, “I like this guy.”

Pumpkin shrugged his shoulders and walked away without a word.

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“Fear Itself”- BORDERLANDS Excerpt #5

A Halloween party before Halloween itself. Brooklyn walks around in a correctional officer uniform streaked with blood and red handprints. She sits down in the back by Pumpkin’s Throne, the single table near the pool tables where the girls, myself and Pumpkin congregate to converse and laugh and complain.

“It fucking sucks ass,” Brooklyn says above the crowd, “I want to take everybody’s dick and cut it off and glue it to their [taints] so they always fuck themselves in the ass.”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice rife with sarcasm, “But how do you really feel?”

Tarin shouts over the music and the din of a busy Saturday night to no one in particular and to everyone, whether they wanted to hear or not, “I want to puke in your motherfucking mouth!”

“I feel like making my own Halloween costume out of one of these guys,” Brooklyn confides. A smile stays on her full lips though her eyes show she might be kind of serious.

“With my [tears] running down your nose!” Tarin continues.

“What?” I laugh.

“What’s that movie? ‘It rubs lotion on its skin’?”

“Silence of the Lambs?”

“Silence of the Lambs shit! Imma take one of these guys, I’m gonna skin him [and wear him] and it will definitely win the contest.”

Tarin sits down with us and with a reminiscent fondness in her voice she says, “I love that movie.”

The best way to describe how Brooklyn looks is that she is photogenic. Pictures of her show blonde curls and green eyes as vibrant as summer grass in the sun set into a face that has stayed pretty despite three children and a failed marriage, MMA fighting and stripping since she was eighteen. And toughness abound lives behind those eyes. More than once from the stories she’s told me I imagined Brooklyn standing over some poor bastard with fist reared back and bloody knuckles, breaking noses and splintering bones, the crimson rose tattooed on her hand splattered red. Yet every photograph I see of her, whether she’s simply smiling or making a duck face or posing with her children, I can’t help but see her and think “How pretty”.

“I’m obsessed with numbers,” Brooklyn says. In her mouth is a pink lollipop and dangling from her fingertips is a cigarette. She alternates sucking on both, “And I feel like if I don’t do something in those certain amount of numbers somebodies gonna die in my family.

“I don’t like the number two but I have twins so I try to work in the number two sometimes but if I do something and I walk away and my stomach feels gross, like, I feel like I need to touch it again and [if] I don’t then I [feel] like I’m gonna puke. And then if I don’t go back and touch it and make myself do it, I’m afraid my mom’s gonna die, my kids are gonna die.”

Brooklyn’s lisp shows ever the slightest. She speaks quicker and more professional the deeper she goes into her condition. Excited with tinges of panic soak her vocal chords. A fear of what rests within.

“Odd numbers are even to me. There’s two on each side and one on top. Five. One, two, they’re even.”

“Wait,” says Sadie. She’s been sitting with us, engrossed in the conversation. The woman still doesn’t like me and she acts as my foil, only coming around when she needs to cheer herself by demeaning and degrading me. To this day I have never met someone so proud of being a cunt. And a self proclaimed one, mind you. “You have twins and [a baby], right?”

“Yeah!” Brooklyn shouts. Enthusiasm comes to her in a rapid wave as she feels someone understands her blight.

“That makes sense.”

“Three is my favorite number,” Brooklyn tells me and Sadie, “I do almost everything in threes. “When I get shit from the vending machine, if it’s in the number six spot I will not get it. I will not getting anything with six. If a [cashier] hands me back change that’s ‘666’ I will give her money, say ‘take it’ and if she doesn’t take it I can’t leave until she does because I will feel sick to my stomach because she fucking-,” Brooklyn laughs at herself and smiles, “I know, I’m crazy. See, these are the things you don’t know about me. Now you understand why I am the way I am. Complete torture in my brain at all times.”

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“Motherhood, Part I”- BORDERLANDS Excerpt #3

Love them. Love women. Love their curves. Watch them sway and bounce their asses and pop out each cheek. Want them. Look them over. Stare from face to stomach to arms to tits to hips to legs to calves to feet to cunt and love them.

If you cannot love them you are already lost and I pity you for this. To understand them you must want them. Any who tell you otherwise lie. They know not women and they know not how sweet they smell or the looks in their eyes when they know they hold you in the palms of their perfumed hands and how they nod, acknowledging they can now take you into their mouth, chew you up and swallow you bones and balls and cum and all.

Once I asked Tarin about being a mother and she gave me a list that involved every adjective imaginable.

“Stressful. Tiring. Amazing. Fun. Hilarious. Hard,” Tarin’s voice grew more upbeat with every word. She smiled wider. The darkness of The Den remained but in the back by the mirrors and the billiard tables light as if reflected from the sun by the snow radiated from the plush armchair she lounged upon. Everything she said accented by the West and the world she had immersed herself within. “You’ve got to be creative sometimes. Pick and choose your battles, you know? You can’t win everything.”

“Do you enjoy it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she beamed, “It’s amazing!”

“Was he planned?”

“No. He was a total accident. Tried to get an abortion. Texas laws [are] different than Colorado so I was too far along. So,” her mood dropped but she perked up quick, “Oh, kind of had to have him then. It was, like, nine months of making myself believe I had to be a mom. There was no more fuck off time. I am now responsible for another human being and I have to teach him things and-,” Tarin paused and contemplated, drawing in breath.

“It was very stressful. I hated my life. I came up to Colorado when I was thirteen, fourteen weeks pregnant and I moved in with my mom and lived off the money that I had. Yeah. Crazy. Crazy life.

“But it has made me so much stronger and it’s made me open my heart and my mind to so much more of life that I think people without children forget and pass up. It’s the simple things that keep us going every day and that [make] life enjoyable.

“I also think I had him for a reason. I was going down a very destructive path. I was an alcoholic. Bad. I woke up in the morning to drink a drink,” Tarin laughed, nervous and truthful. She repeated the same noise over each time she attempted to make fun of her past. “There was at least a liter of vodka gone a day, easily. I liked to drink.

“So, I think it all happened for a reason.”

I could put the amount of times I’ve seen Tarin act professional, with her back straight and swaying her luscious hips beneath a tight black dress, on one side of Justice’s scale and then take the times I’ve seen her mock jerking off a cock she doesn’t have, shouting out loud that she’s not making any money and that men should stop sword fighting and pay attention to her tits, put them on opposite sides of each other and the apparatus would even out.

Tarin was nearing her thirties but the way she acted with her gamine features and curling blonde hair I would never have knew unless she was so honest about her age. On the best of days or under the worst of circumstances a smile managed to creep across her heart-shaped pixie face. Everything at The Den was a joke. Always she’d tell me she didn’t want to be there, that she’d rather do hair or even serve tables but she’d always be out dancing. With bills to pay, schooling for herself to fund and a son at home, working a job you’ve worked well for almost a decade seems realistic.

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