Dealing Flesh

by Birgit Waldschmidt

  Hot Shot: You rock.

  Chopstick Prescription

  The minute Raymond dashes off to work, I plop down in the chair in front of the computer desk. The seat cushion is still warm from him having sat here moments ago. I jostle the mouse to release the screen-saver mode on the monitor.

  “Son of a bitch!” I shout as I stare at the colored hugely blown up anal copulation scene that fills the screen in all its crisp contoured glory.

  Avengelia: How dare that fucker do this to me?

  Scaredy Cat: I need candy…now. I’m not gonna feel this, I’m not gonna feel this. Nooo. Fuck. Nooo. Maaake the fuuucking feeelings stop.

  I get into the car and drive down to the convenient store, where I fill my basket with large amounts of glucose-laden snacks. Halfway home, I finger open the family-sized cookie package. One hand on the wheel, I stuff four of the round delights into my mouth at once, competing with Krümel Monster on Sesame Street…mampf, mampf, mampf, crumbs sticking nearly all over me, and on much of the car’s interior. Two thirds of the pack is gone when pulling into the driveway. I finish off the rest inside the living room.

  Scaredy Cat: I know I’ll die, if I stop eating.

  I slam down the pint of ice cream as well. Panic stricken, I run into the kitchen, feverishly digging for the chopsticks I took home from the Chinese restaurant the other day. Armed with the Asian utensils, I schlep into the bathroom, tie my hair back, and kneel down in front of the urinal. Inexperienced as I am at this, I gently tickle the back of my throat with the long wooden device simultaneously leaning over the bowl. Within a minute, the pre-digested mass lands inside the lavatory. Long, slimy, thick strings of snot hang from my nose. My trachea hurts, the acidy smell of vomit burning my nostrils.

  Hot Shot (coughing): Fuck, I hate this shit.

  Whip Cracker: Look at the bright side, dear. You just uncovered one of the greatest secrets to happiness – the key to a permanently slim figure. Wouldn’t you say that is reason enough to celebrate?

  I hook Bella to the leash and take her on a walk. Knowing that from now on I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want, without putting my body in jeopardy ever again makes me feel exuberantly happy and powerful.

  Hot Shot: Why hasn’t everyone figured this out yet?

  Russian Roulette

  A man with dark features, a sturdy build, wearing neatly creased dark brown pants, and a high quality rose-colored Polo shirt enters the Velvet. His dainty eyes that speak of “life experience” stare right at me as he marches toward the table by the front stage. A bunch of his buddies follow behind. He takes a seat. Roused by the sweetness that enfolds his baseball player silhouette, I make my way over and flop down next to him. “Maurice,” he says is his name. I can hear both of us talking, but don’t comprehend much of what’s being said in the moment because I’m super busy concentrating on the long full lashes on his slightly slanted eyes, the even tone of his olive colored skin, his teeth that come across perfectly aligned, and his succulent well-formed lips.

  Romy: I wonder, where he is from? Strikes me to be of some kind of Pacific Islander African-American decent?

  Further into the conversation, I find out that, indeed, I guessed right. By the end of my shift, I barely remember where my feet are.

  Romy: I must see him again.

  Lustania: Uh-huh.

  From here on forward, Maurice shows up at almost all of my shifts.

  He sits down in his favorite spot again this afternoon - the round table near the main stage. All my woes instantly melt as his gently smiling eyes cross mine. On my next performance to a Patty Labelle love song, I wind around the pole like a mamba, showing off my most lecherous moves. Diving deeper into Eros’ ocean, the rest of the crowd fades from my view. In my mind, it’s just Maurice and I inside the raunchily furnished room.

  Super elated, I watch him approach the platform, paving the entire front stage with twenty-dollar bills. Exaltation sets in, sending me high, high into the clouds. The song ends. I join the generous one at his table, expressing my thankfulness with words, looks, and gestures, but also enjoy the awesome feeling his company affords me; so much that I make no further effort to hang with anyone else tonight. Maurice pulls an elegant looking gift box from his jacket.

  “You can open it later,” he says with a grin while handing it to me. But I excuse myself this instant and disappear inside the dressing room. The package comes apart quickly, bringing to light a sleek looking golden watch that perfectly blends in with the delicateness of my forearm. I wear it with pride, marveling at it often because seeing it shine from my wrist reminds me how truly adored I am.

  I am on for the night shift. Eight o’clock strikes. The club reminds me of a morgue with its handful of customers.

  Romy: Ahhh. If only Maurice baby could be here with me right now.

  I dial his number.

  “Hi, sweetie. Are you busy?”

  “Not really. What’s up, gorgeous?”

  “I am at work, but it’s kinda dead. I’d so much rather be with you right now.”

  “Well, that can be arranged. Why don’t you meet me at my office?”

  “I’d love to, but there is one little problem. I gotta bring home at least close to what I usually take in, or my hubby is gonna get suspicious.”

  “How much?”

  “No less than one eighty.”

  “I’ll give you two hundred, so will ya’ please bring your beautiful behind over here? I’m dying to see you.”

  I hurriedly pack my things and immediately set course for Monrovia. While speeding down the freeway, I crank up the hip-hop music to club volume. Excitement increased by the party tunes, humming the wabdeedoodeeleedee sound of the last song that is still carved into my mind, I make my way up the creaking stairs to Maurice’s office in seven-inch black heels.

  My heart pounds even faster when he spots me. He tackles me immediately. My silken minty blouse flies off somewhere into the barely lit room, so does the shiny black rubber mini skirt that seconds ago was held together by one long zipper that opens from top to bottom in the front. We drop to the carpet of the small but cozy space. I keep the pumps on, figuring it makes sex more enticing with the shoes elongating my legs. Maurice on top of me, I feel the bristles of the rug scratch my back as his demanding thrusts push my body back and forth in rhythmic motion.

  Hot Shot: Don’t sweat it. There’s nothing wrong with a little carpet burn. Take it as evidence that you’re a sexy bitch; that you do it in all places, that you are cool like that.

  I rush home right after sex. By now, I only vaguely recall bits and pieces of what transpired, but the pain the carpet caused me clearly lingers in my head.

  Pretender Babe: Hurry. Destroy the evidence. You know, Ray could be here any moment.

  Mighty frazzled, I set foot into the bathtub but I hear the Beemer pull into the driveway.

  Scaredy Cat: Ohhh, verdammter Scheißdreck. Now what?

  One look in the mirror turns my face kreideweiss. Small clusters of dark red hickies show on both sides of my neck. I rapidly turn around only to find the formation of several brownish streaks running down my backside.

  Scaredy Cat (terrified): I’m toast.

  Tough Gal urges me to throw on a baggy turtleneck and the most unattractive pair of sweats I can find, and hop into bed. I follow her advice, but unfortunately, this is the night that Raymond picks to get it on with me lights lit and all, something he hardly ever asks for. Maurice’s scent still all over me, I feel my body stiffen when his hand glides over my skin. I watch myself screaming for help inside the eye of my mind, at the same time well aware that there isn’t much that can save me now.

  I try my best to keep Ray in missionary position during the act, but he impatiently flips me over, taking me doggy style. The turtleneck slides upward every other second; each time I pull it back down, excusing my doing so because I feel chilly.

  “What happened to your back?” he asks the next time the shirt shoots up.


  Scaredy Cat: This is it…I’m dead. Good-bye world.

  Doubt Cloud: It’s useless to explain it away. It’s just too obvious. I mean, what can you possibly say that he would buy?

  Pretender Babe: Don’t fret…don’t fret. I have an idea.

  Courageously, I blurt out, “Ohh, I know. Bella and I goofed off this morning. I don’t know what got into her when she jumped up on me from behind, scraping my back with her long nails. I can’t believe that animal. Don’t touch that area, please. It’s sore.”

  “Okay, I won’t,” says Raymond. Much to my relief he finishes within a minute at which time we both turn to opposite walls and go to sleep.

  Standing inside the shower this morning, some of last night’s events jump into my head.

  Hot Shot: Now that I can get away with almost anything, does anyone care for a little more of my favorite game – Russian roulette?

  ~~~

  Tijuana, Mexico – One Week Later

  It is roughly nine o’clock in the morning. Maurice’s bosom buddy Felix, Maurice himself, another dancer from the club, and I are flying down the 405 freeway in Felix’s white Mercedes headed for Tijuana. There are two reasons I agreed to taking this trip. Number one, they promised that they would have me back in time for dinner, and two, I have always wanted to see what it is like south of the border. Reaching the destination, we immediately break for lunch at an authentic Mexican restaurant. Maurice arranges for a group of Mariachis to sing me a love song. My heart is touched.

  Romy: So sweet.

  3:30 approaches. We take off for Los Angeles. Getting to the border, Felix instructs me to put on my thickest American accent, pretending I am a United States citizen. The stern-looking Mexican officer approaches the car. “Nationality?” he asks each of us with a grim expression on his face. Everyone answers inadvertently, directing all eyes at me. Sensing Scaredy Cat’s pulse rate shoot way up, I say in the most believable twang, “American.” For several seconds the patrolman passes distrusting looks our way, but then he signals Felix to move about.

  Scaredy Cat: Pffhhh. That was close.

  I show up at my house right in time before Raymond gets in the door.

  Avengelia: Little does he know that I’ve seen another country today.

  CHAPTER 16

  No Mo’ Freaky-Deaky

  I walk into the mirrored dressing room at the Velvet at 10 a.m., tossing my stuff into its usual spot, the lockable big black traveling trunk underneath the far right corner counter.

  Hot Shot: Shall I wear the white bra, or the pink one; or rather go for the neon yellow one-piece bathing suit?

  Miss Vanity: I’d start out with the black lace wild-animal-print body suit. It’s always gotten you chair dances. Remember?

  “Does anyone know if Petula is scheduled today?” I throw out to the group of girls around me that is likewise getting ready for the day.

  I know that when she is on my shift, things are a lot more fun; besides she seems to be one of the few girls who, I feel, genuinely welcomes my presence. Her funny Australian accent causes me to snicker, and seeing her whiz around the pole to her favorite song, Eye of the Tiger, grinning cheerfully, makes it hard not to smile back at her. Lately, she has been striking me as particularly elated, which I attribute to the fact that she is seeing one of the regulars, this guy K, with whom she says she’s madly in love.

  “Petula ain’t coming back no mo’,” says Vanessa.

  “Why not? Did she find a better joint to work at?”

  Silence fills the room.

  “She’s dead.”

  “Fuck, nooo,” I mumble, feeling my skin coat over with goose flesh.

  “Yeah. She was found with a bullet in her head at K’s house. The investigations point to a drug-related homicide,” says Bambi.

  “That’s really fucked up. I can’t believe this.”

  The day drags on as I keep seeing Petula’s sparkling eyes flash before me.

  Doubt Cloud: Any of us could be next in this damned line of business.

  Scaredy Cat: I don’t feel safe to work here anymore.

  Hugely haunted this morning by visions of Petula’s fate, I confidently retire from the world of sleaze, now age thirty-four. I vow to obey a whole new set of rules from now on. They are as follows…

  “No more freaky-deaky, meaning…No cheating, flirting, or intriguing at the sight of greener grass, but instead running like hell in the opposite direction should a hot guy come near me.”

  Hot Shot: Are you saying I have to keep this up for a lifetime?

  Doubt Cloud: Looks like it’s my fate to stay in this lousy marriage and wither away until I croak.

  I am afraid this is as good as it gets.

  Ouch

  Having greatly enjoyed last year’s classes of equine science, I show up for the first day of another term this morning. Ingrid, an exchange student from Austria, asks if I want to hang out sometimes after school. I’m all game.

  Tonight, we attend a local rodeo together. An hour-and-a-half later, the show concludes.

  “I wished we had more time to ogle them cowboys,” Ingrid gushes. “Do you know of a place where a lot of ‘em hang out at once?” I sense a longing in her voice.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” I respond, glad to have an excuse to not yet face Raymond’s belligerent attitude in the house. She follows me to a restaurant in a neighborhood close to mine which, on numerous previous occasions, I saw bubble over with cowboys on particular nights.

  We sit down at a table opposite the cocktail bar. A live band plays groovy country tunes. Ingrid whispers something into my ear but I can’t hear a word she’s saying because nothing else exists right now other than the exceedingly striking, greatest showstopper of all times - a tall, black fellow with pearly white teeth who is leaning against the counter next to the window, smiling a smile that has potential to melt glaciers.

  The black hat that covers his perfectly shaped head gives him the audacious look of some of the proud characters portrayed in Westerns of honor and glory. Other “cowboy-type” fellows surround him. Every so often, I catch him staring in our direction. Overwhelmed by the powerful onset of my sudden ardency, I force myself to blankly stare into nowhere, trying hard to remain detached from the intense desire of wanting to get the gorgeous one’s attention.

  Doubt Cloud: Forget it. If anyone was ever out of your league…this is the one. I mean, look at him. Besides, a guy like that could never stay faithful to just one woman for the rest of his life? He looks like the total player.

  Romy: But…but…

  Scaredy Cat: Yeah. I won’t have any tolerance for men like that…it hurts too much.

  Romy: He’s a babe…

  Hot Shot: Precisely, and I’m a hottie. Go figure.

  Romy: We would make a beautiful pair. And he obviously loves horses or he wouldn’t be here.

  Doubt Cloud: But you are probably right. He’s just another pretty face in the crowd. That’s all.

  Hot Shot: I know I can get his attention. But don’t worry; I am not going to…trying to honor your stupid vow.

  I feel Ingrid’s elbow softly nudge my ribcage.

  “That black guy at the bar is so gorgeous; it hurts looking at him,” she giggles.

  “Mmmhmm, I’d say.”

  Romy: I’m about fed up with having the most universal taste on the planet. Will there ever be a guy I can like without a million other girls already pining for him in a line up?

  Hot Shot: Well, since my hands are tied, I no longer care to stick around here. It’s too tempting.

  I inspire Ingrid to wrap things up and step outside for further collaboration. Not before long, “Mister Untouchable” shows up, gradually moving toward us with a sprightly face.

  Romy: Holy shit.

  He introduces himself as Ken.

  Romy: That name fits him like a glove.

  During the conversation, it becomes apparent that he is connected to the entertainment industry, amongst other things.


  Doubt Cloud: That solves the problem right there…I certainly don’t need another shallow movie guy breaking my heart.

  “Would you gals want to go riding sometime?”

  I feel a rush come on simultaneously chased by extreme sadness as I strongly resent that the only answer for me should be a solid “NO.”

  Romy: I would give anything to be as free as Ingrid right now.

  Tough Gal: I know, he looks amazing, but I bet ya, he isn’t worth losing your self-imposed sobriety over. Stay strong, my dear, stay strong. You are just starting to regain some self-respect by no longer screwing around on Raymond.

  Romy: I’m not talking about cheating. I was thinking more along the lines of making him my one and only partner for life. He would be all I would ever need. That is, of course, if I were free. It’s all so twisted. I hate my life.

  Ingrid throws me a strange look. It remains awfully quiet for a moment.

  “I won’t be able to go, but maybe Ingrid here can. How about it, hmm?” I say with a feigned smirk while crying a river inside.

  She pulls out a piece of paper, jots down her number and hands it to Ken.

  “Why can’t I have yours?” Ken asks with a warm gentle stare that penetrates every cell in my being.

  “I am married, but hey, you guys should hook up.”

  Heavy-hearted, I tear myself away from the conversation, board my ride and head back to my house.

  Romy (crying): Life’s so unfair. Did you see the disappointment in his face when you told him you couldn’t go? Ouch, ouch, ouch. It hurts so much. I never wanted anyone more. You turned down the chance of a lifetime, you idiot.

  Hot Shot: Well, boo-hoo. Moving on.

  Romy: If I can’t have him, I rather not have anyone else ever again.

  Two weeks pass. I call up Ingrid. When she answers, I involve her in a bunch of shallow blah-blahs. Near the end, I tie in the one and only question I truly long to know the answer to.

  “By the way, have you heard from that Ken fellow yet?”

  It’s a negative. Much relieved, I go about my day. The semester concludes. As the time goes on, it becomes increasingly harder to catch Ingrid. Two more months elapse, at which time our contact shrivels to non-existence. With that, any and all thoughts of Ken cease to exist, as if we had never even met.