“There’s no way I can tell you everything, you know.” The whites in his eyes were yellow-green from the blacklight. She could tell he was smiling. He had a boner.
“Tell me your name, again.”
“I’m Mercedes, you know, like the car…” He was buying it. Of course he was. She felt a hot, slippery hand grab her left ass cheek and she firmly placed it on the velvour armrest. She gave him a look, and squuezed his hand hard, as if vice-gripping him to the couch. He didn’t try to touch her again.
Thank god the dj was new. The club wasn’t too terrible, it wasn’t a brothel anymore, yet they kept Kenny, the security guy, and he was hardly larger than her, and not too quick in general. It was hard for her to relax at Flashers, unfortunately, but ever since she had been thrown out from the peepshow, she was back to square one. Dancing at her first club. Back to the strip.
And the shittiest dressing room on the block, she noted. Who only has one lightblub in a dressing room? And a fucking bloody tampon on the floor? Can people not be trashcan-trained? Some of the girls at this club were truly nasty; she held whoring against no one, no, this was different. Be a mess, be a slob, be a whore, but have a heart, or at least manners. She smiled back at the customer, who she had almost forgotten. The song had ended.
“Oh! I looove this song!” Actually, she had no idea what the song was, but she was trying to get a third dance. A third dance meant she had this sucker by the balls and would be able to have a few cocktails, and possibly some time in the private room. Either way she needed a drink.
“Me too. Mercedes I like the way you dance. Your eyes… You see me.”
“I know baby, I see you. I see how much you want me. Why don’t I dance the rest of this song and then we can-”
“Mercedes!!!!! Mercedes!!!!! Next up on the MAIN STAGE we have a sexy woman, rev your engine, boys!”
Mercedes groaned. It wasn’t her fault that her god-given name was a luxury car brand; nevermind, fuck the dj, this place was just as awesome as ever.
“Miguel,” she bent to his ear and meekly crooned, allowing her long black ringlets to graze over the glowing cotton plaid of his shirt. She reeked of Chanel No 5. She did her best “fuck-me” stare, this was what always did them in. She had tried many techniques, sometimes out of bordem or desperation as much as her own humor. Alochol always helped. But, for some reason, it seemed that the men that Mercedes chose, or rather, the men that chose Mercedes, always appreciated her macrabe sense of humor, irrverent sexiness and ability to be domineering and sweet, even with her incredibly petite frame. She had a dark voice and round, large tidal blue eyes. She was a natural blonde when she started dancing, years back at eighteen, but found that she didn’t want to be like the other young blondes, and all the girls that strived to be a blonde.
Dying her hair black set her apart instantly, and even though she was a natural-born stripper, she was ok with it somehow, with her dark hair. She went from Barbie to Snow White, and this thrilled her. Imagining dopey men surrounding her onstage was just like the adoration Snow White received in the tale. She loved the dark parts of the story best, especially when Snow White dies from the magic apple. She must have bitten that apple too, she concluded, growing up in the hell-fire and brimstone of Georgia.
“Marko,” he was rolling the beer bottle head in his mouth, as he stared intently in her eyes, trying to persuade her with his tounge. Men and their obsession with the female orgasm. She tried to smile.
“Wow. Marko. I can tell you’re a skilled man. Come sit by the stage and watch me dance for you. I’m up next and I really want you to watch me.”
He nodded, transfixed, staring at her. She wondered how drunk he was or if he just was normally so quiet. Either way, as soon as she was onstage he put down a $50 bill, before the song even came on. Maybe the night would be better than she thought.