to make love with Bryn, who responds
by taking “nasty” to a whole new level.
It is only afterward, floating
on a sensual fog, in an uneasy state
of half sleep, that it comes to me:
Bryn didn’t join in the dragon chase.
A Week After
My first sweet-bitter taste of smack,
Bryn has talked me into indulging
again four or five times. I don’t
want to get hooked, and I’m sure
I won’t, as long as all I do is smoke
a little every now and again. I have to
admit I like the way it makes me
feel—like I’m on top of the world.
Bryn never indulges. I can’t
get it up if I do, and I want this
to be all about you. So why does
he keep asking me to do things
that seem mostly all about him?
Things like performing dirty
acts on pay-per-view webcam?
It won’t be forever, I promise.
Just long enough to save up
some serious bank. I’ve got my
eye on a really nice place. It’s
pricey, but you’re so worth it.
When I’m high, I don’t mind.
But when I touch back down,
I start to worry. Is this the same
Bryn who valued my almost-virginity?
I Also Worry
About him spending more
and more time away from me.
Talking more and more about
“the girls,” and I’m starting to
wonder if the girls he’s talking
about are really pageant hopefuls.
If he’s getting paid to photograph
models, he’s not getting paid well.
Our money seems to come in spurts,
and some of that seems to be from
the webcam spurting going on.
He doesn’t want me to work, though,
except for private webcam spurting.
Some guys like to watch girls
getting off all by themselves.
Make it look good for the camera.
I was never into touching myself,
but it isn’t so bad, especially when
I’m high. Besides the occasional
H, Bryn supplies me with bud—
mediocre seeded Mexican—
and prescription downers. Not sure
where he gets them, and I really
don’t care. As long as I’m buzzed,
the things he asks of me are easy
to do, and hey, anything’s better
than wasting away in Santa Cruz.
God, if I were there, I’d be starting
my junior year of high school.
High school is so not me anymore.
Wonder what Paige is doing.
Wonder if she hooked up
with that guy after that night at
Lucas’s party. Shit! Why did I have to
think about him? Wonder if he likes
it in San Diego. Wonder … stop
it. Fuck. Where the hell’s my stash?
I locate it under the coffee table. Two
tokes of half-ass pot, a bigger question
hovers: Where the hell is Whitney?
It’s Almost Midnight
When Bryn comes in. He’s not
alone. The guy he’s with is Latino,
I think. Olive-skinned. Dark-haired.
Okay-looking. Dressed well.
Bryn comes over, kisses me.
Hey, babe. This is my buddy,
Oscar. He nods toward the stash
box, sitting on the coffee table.
Oscar’s been very good to us,
if you get my meaning. Now
I want you to return the favor
and be very, very nice to Oscar.
Very nice? Does he mean what
I think he means? Play hostess.
“Uh, nice to meet you, Oscar.
Can I get you something to drink?”
Maybe after. Oscar comes over,
touches my face. You’re right,
Bryn. She’s very pretty. Tight
little body, too. Yes, she’ll do.
His hands slide over my front,
reach up under my blouse.
The skin of his fingers, seeking
my nipples, is calloused. Cold.
“No, wait. I can’t. You’re not
serious … Bryn?” He can’t want
me to do this! I jerk away from
Oscar, turn to Bryn. Search his eyes.
They are deadly serious, and so
is Bryn when he says, Yes, you
can. And if you love me, you will.
You do love me, don’t you?
“Of course I love you! But this
isn’t …” Isn’t right, is what I want
to say. But what is right, anymore?
Is this really what loving him means?
Bryn’s hands press down on
my shoulders. Do this for me,
Whitney. Do this for us. He kisses
me. But it is the kiss of a stranger.
I Beg for a Buzz First
Pot won’t do. It has to be
smack, and three long pulls
of the acrid smoke barely take
me to the place I need to be.
Oscar watches. Waits impatiently
for the H to kick in. You should
use a needle. Smoking the Lady
is a waste of good dope.
Fear-queasy, I stumble down
the hall, into the bedroom.
Oscar follows, shedding clothes.
His body is lean, muscular.
Another time, another place,
I might find him attractive,
but attraction is about choice.
I have no choice here but to
take off my own clothes, lie on
the bed, wait for him to come,
and do whatever it is he has paid
to do. I hate you, Bryn. I hate you.
Within Seconds
I hate Oscar, too. He breathes
beer, sweats onion, and there is no
love, no kindness, nothing but
greed to his sex. He grabs my wrists,
holds them over my head so I can’t
move when he bites my neck,
and lower. I’ll wear his teeth marks
for days. “Stop. You’re hurting me.”
You think that hurts? You ain’t
seen nothing yet. His teeth close
even harder and his hand squeezes
my arms like a vise and now
his knees force my legs apart
and there is no pleasure to what
he does down there. Only pain.
Bruising pain. I give myself to
the morphine shroud, denying
the pounding between my thighs.
Something makes me look toward
the door. Bryn stands there, staring.
A Poem by Ginger Cordell
Staring
Into the midnight sky,
starlight defeated by
the scream of neon,
truth
is hard to discern.
Does it sparkle?
Does it burn? If
a weightless moment
transcends
the gravity of time,
what proof is there
of its existence?
Does it infuse
every
tick of the clock,
each blink of an eye?
Which is harder to
bear—reality, or a
lie?
Ginger
Our Own Place
Wasn’t easy to come by. Most
landlords prefer their tenants
to be over eighteen. We finally
found a weekly where the lady
in the office didn’t look too hard
at our application. The four weeks
up front probably helped with that.
The room at Lydia’s was nicer.
But the drive into the city got old.
At least, that’s what we told Lydia
when we said we were moving out.
In reality, living with her was getting
old. She could be a real bitch,
and she was pushing us to do
stuff besides strip. You could make
a lot more if you’d treat a few
of your clients to a little touchy-
feely. Not all of them, of course.
Just think about it. Getting
paid for something most
people give away? No-brainer.
She Pushed Hard Enough
That Alex has actually considered
doing it. It’s not such a big deal,
as long as they use condoms.
The thing is, Lydia wouldn’t have
to know. I could do it on the side,
and not give her a cut. We could
save up enough money to blow
this city. Go somewhere pretty,
like Portland or San Francisco.
When she talks like that, it makes
me think about Iris. How turning
tricks has used her up. How she
tried to let it use me up. Why
couldn’t I have a real mother?
Why did she have kids at all?
Iris used to talk about moving
somewhere else—somewhere
exciting, like New York City.
Oh yeah, I can just picture
Iris in Manhattan. Cruising
Central Park. Hustling johns.
When I Think About Iris
I can’t help but think about
Gram. She must be worried
about me. I should probably
try to send word that I’m okay.
Alive, anyway, “okay” being
a relative term. But how can
I let her know without giving
away where I am? Letters have
postmarks and phones can be
traced. I just hope she’s taking
care of the kids. Keeping them
safe from Iris. Most of ’em are
back in school. Except Sandy.
He’s still too little. Hope he’s all
healed up, chasing balls
around again. Just not in
the street. Oh God, why did
I have to think about them?
A Mack truck of guilt crashes
into me. How can I be home-
sick, when I don’t have a home?
I Start to Pace
North and south, across
the grease-stained beige
carpet. Guess the last tenant
kept his moped in the living
room. The carpet was steam-
cleaned when he moved, but some
black marks can’t be excised.
Alex went to the store about
an hour ago. I would have
gone along, but my period
this month is major. I’m close
to bleeding out, I think, and
I’ve downed enough ibuprofen
to kill a horse. But I’ve still
got cramps. Maybe that bastard
who raped me made me pregnant
and God was gracious enough
to let me miscarry. Whatever
the problem is, it has definitely
put the brakes on shedding
my clothes for strangers.
Which Means a Couple of Things
One, Alex is the only one
working, so our income
is cut in half right now. Plus,
she’s going out by herself,
which scares the crap out
of me. I know she can take
care of herself and all, but
still … Ah, can’t think
about the downside of that.
If anything bad ever happened
to Alex, I’d go crazy. Except
for Gram, Alex is the only good
thing I’ve ever had in my life.
She lifts me, like a double shot
of espresso. I wish she were here
right now, to lift me out of this
black pit of boredom. My indoor
hike carries me past the bathroom,
where the laundry basket
overflows dirty clothes. Might
as well wash them as keep
walking by ’em, I guess.
I gather them up, grab some
detergent, and shovel quarters
into my pockets. The laundry
room is downstairs and in
the other building somewhere.
This will be my first trip there.
Jeez, man. For almost October,
it’s still hotter than hell. Maybe
ninety in the shade. By the time
I locate the short bank of washers,
I am dripping sweat. Lovely!
Hopefully, the person pulling
her own clothes from the dryer
won’t get close enough to smell me.
Her Back Is Toward Me
And just in case my ripeness
doesn’t precede me, I say,
“Hello,” so she knows I’m here.
She jumps about three feet.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to
sneak up on you.” When she
turns, I can see she’s a little
younger than me. Wow,
her posture made me think
something different. It’s okay,
she says. Guess I was off in
Never-Never Land. Don’t use
that washer…. She points.
Someone’s pen exploded
in it. There’s ink all over.
“Thanks.” As I put my dirties
into the other two washers,
she starts to fold her clothes.
I can’t help but stare. The girl
would be beautiful, except for
the dark circles under her eyes.
She reminds me of those
models—what do they call
them? Oh, yeah. Heroin chic.
I know squat about heroin,
but my guess is she’s using
something. Or it’s using her.
Eventually she notices me
observing her and jumps on
defense. Something wrong?
“Oh, no. Sorry. You just, uh …
remind me of my sister. I haven’t
seen her in a long time.”
Not totally true (Mary Ann
resembles her only slightly),
but it works. The girl exhales
(was she holding her breath?),
and her shoulders relax. Oh. Okay.
I haven’t seen my sister in a while
either. Not that she cares,
I’m sure. Well, I’d better go.
See you. Poof. She’s gone.
The Clothes Are Still Spinning
So I take a minute to duck
out the door, watch where
the girl goes. Not sure why.
Her room is kitty-corner from
ours, across the parking lot
and on the ground floor. Wonder
who she lives with. Guy?
Girl? Relative? She can’t be
out on her own, can she?
What is up with me? Why do
I care who she lives with?
Shit, I really am bored, aren’t I?
Bored and bleeding. Sounds
like the name of a book:
Bored and Bleeding in Vegas.
Okay, Alex, you’d better get
home soon, or I’ll turn into
a bore
d, bleeding, babbling loon.
Early Evening
And Alex still isn’t back yet.
Where the hell is she? I call
her cell, but the canned voice
that answers informs me that
she’s unavailable, meaning
she’s out of prepaid minutes.
Guess I’ll have to be patient.
I fold the clothes, put them
away. Treat myself to a Lean
Pocket. Turn on the aged TV.
Half listen to Jeopardy! while
I go to the window, hoping
to catch a glimpse of Alex,
coming up the sidewalk.
I don’t see her, but I do see
heroin chic going into her room,
about six paces in front of a guy.
He’s older. Balding. Her father?
My guess is no way, or if he
does happen to be her father,
it’s a definite case of incest.
Is Every Girl
In this nasty, stinking city
turning tricks? Young,
old, at least as old as you
can get without dying
of some incurable sex
disease? I swear, I will never
do that, never sink as low
as my mother. My pretty
heroin chic neighbor.
My beautiful best friend,
who I love so much it hurts.
And I swear, as soon as
I can, I will find a way out
of this place. Will Alex come?
Or have I lost her to the night?
She Stumbles In
Around nine. Worry turns to
relief. Then I take another
look at her—hair mussed,
makeup smeared, clothes
wrinkled and buttons undone.
Relief explodes into anger.
“Where the fuck have you
been?” I sound like a crow.
“You scared me shitless.”
Alex remains placid. Been
taking care of business
is all. Someone’s got to.
It’s more than a little bit
obvious that the day’s
“business” included more
than stripping. The smell
of sweat and sex hangs
in the air, a storm cloud.
“Alex, what have you done?
You’re not turning tricks
like some hooker, are you?”
A strong memory of Iris
stumbling in after dark,
perfumed in sex, surfaces,
swims into blurry view.
Goddamn it, no! “Please,
Alex, tell me you didn’t.”
But she doesn’t deny. Won’t
say I’m wrong. It’s okay,
Gin…. It’s not so bad, really.
Tricks Page 24