by Dee Simon
“Okay. Sounds good.” She leaned over and planted a kiss on my lips. “Well, even though you’re a freak sometimes, I still think you’re sexy. Toodles.” She winked at me and then exited the booth.
“Uh. Okay, s-see you later,” I stammered, watching her ass rhythmically shake from side to side as she walked down the hallway. I hobbled over to my CD case with my ass cheeks held tightly shut, resembling a child with cerebral palsy first learning how to walk with his crutches and leg braces. In desperation, I grabbed the first CD I could find. Led Zeppelin. This would work. Zeppelin was most definitely rock and the majority of their songs were over four minutes in length. I threw it in the CD player and scrolled to the second song. “Kashmir.” Perfect. This song was over eight minutes long, which would give me more than enough time to run to the bathroom and get back to the booth. I pressed play and grabbed the microphone:
“G-gentlemen, l-let’s put those hands together for our next s-sexy dancer. Guh-give it up for Gigi.”
I was barely able to spit out the words. I didn’t stay to see whether she walked onstage. I made a bold dash for the bathroom at the end of the hall and luckily no one was waiting in line. I kicked open the door and, as expected, discovered that the bathroom was in a state of utter disrepair. The faucet was running, and the sink was filled with water, vomit, and paper towels. The floor was covered in urine and sodden toilet paper. And to make matters worse, some asshole had kicked the toilet seat off its hinges, leaving it hanging haphazardly over the left side of the commode. I tried to lock the door but gave up when I realized that another asshole had broken the lock. Wonderful. Not being able to hold back any longer, I yanked my pants down and hovered my ass precariously over the toilet bowl while using my right hand to hold the door shut. I enthusiastically released a jet stream of liquid shit and sighed with relief as my bowels evacuated. I cannot remember ever feeling so relieved to take a shit. Suddenly, the door handle moved and someone tried to enter, but I lurched forward and slammed the door shut with all my remaining strength.
“Hey, what the fuck?”
“There’s someone in here,” I bellowed, still holding the door shut tightly.
While a river of shit streamed steadily from my asshole, I listened to hear what part of the song we were at. I still had time. Robert Plant had just reached the chorus. I looked down between my legs and realized the front of the toilet bowl and the back of my pants were covered in shit. Flustered, I searched the room for a roll of toilet paper to clean up this awful mess, but as my luck would have it, the only roll had been ripped from its dispenser and lay on the ground soaked through with urine and water. I saw that someone had also torn open the paper towel holder, but at least they left a stack of towels on the corner of the sink. Once my bowels had emptied, I hopped forward, my pants down around my ankles dragging through the pool of urine on the floor, towards the sink. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and feverishly rubbed them up and down the crack of my ass, trying in vain to wipe off my shit-coated thighs. Even worse, my pants were shellacked in diarrhea and soaked from the urine on the floor and cleaning them was going to be a challenge. I wet another stack of paper towels in the sink and squirted hand soap over them before attempting to wipe the shit from my pants, but it was a lost cause. I had to locate a replacement pair of trousers. Standing there with my shitty pants around my ankles, still holding the door shut with my right hand, I remembered that Ryan, the daytime DJ, always kept a spare outfit in the booth. On more than one occasion, I ridiculed him for it, but now his spare trousers would be my salvation. Again someone tried to push open the door, but I leaned on it hard with my shoulder, slamming it shut.
“What the fuck, man? How long you gonna be in there?” shouted an angry voice.
“Take it easy. I’m almost done,” I answered, sounding more than irritated. I took a few seconds to listen to the song to see how much time I had left and formulate a plan of action. Robert Plant was singing something about his finding his Shangri-La. We were in the middle of the second verse, and I knew I had at least four minutes left. Filled with desperation, I surveyed my shit-soaked dystopia and shuddered at the thought of having to return here again. It was the middle of the song. I had to move fast. I snatched the remaining paper towels and formed a makeshift diaper so that my soiled crotch wouldn’t come in contact with my skin. The night wasn’t even over yet and this was already one of the most tragic experiences of my life. I yanked my pants up, buckled my belt tightly to hold in the paper towel diaper, and checked my ass in the mirror to see if there was a massive brown stain. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that bad. I attempted to flush the toilet, but there was no way that was going to happen. In fact, I think it had been clogged before I had even come in here. Looking down on the unholy mess that I had created, I shook my head in disgust and reached into my pockets for some matches. At the very least, I could try to dissipate the ghastly odor. No dice. My matches were in the DJ booth. I attempted to wash my hands without touching the puke and water-filled basin and then opened the bathroom door to find a disgruntled yuppie in an Armani suit, his face contorted in a rictus of revulsion.
“Jesus Fucking Christ. It smells like a goddamn sewer in here,” he said, pinching his nose.
The other two men in line swiftly performed an about-face and, I imagine, opted to use the downstairs bathroom. I didn’t even bother to apologize. That mess in there was well beyond the realm of apology. I just walked as fast as I could to the DJ booth and shut and locked the door. Hastily, I rummaged through the cabinets along the back wall till I found Ryan’s spare outfit which consisted of a nondescript pair of black trousers and a dark blue Polo shirt. He was quite a bit taller than me, but at this moment, my sartorial options were severely limited. I carefully removed my soiled pants and the paper towel diaper and buried them both deep inside the trash bin. Then, I slipped off my boxer briefs and tossed those in the trash as well. I grabbed some hand sanitizer off the counter, squirted it down my crack, and proceeded to clean my ass with Ryan’s Polo shirt. After I felt sufficiently cleaned, I pulled on Ryan’s pants and had to tuck at least five inches of fabric inside the leg so that no one would notice they were about three sizes too long. As “Kashmir” was nearing the grandiloquent crescendo of the final bridge, I leaned over the booth and watched Gigi crawl about the stage on all fours while men showered her with dollar bills. Since she had been onstage for nearly eight minutes, I didn’t think it was necessary to play her a second song. I slowly faded out Plant’s “oohs” and “yeahs” and asked the audience to give Gigi a closing round of applause before starting the next song. Over the next several hours, I made three more trips to the restroom. However, none of these subsequent visits were as violent or traumatic as the first one. When I returned to the booth after my third trip, I found Gigi and a blonde dancer named Sonya sitting on the couch, smoking my cigarettes. I could tell they were both very intoxicated by the way they were screeching every time they spilled their martinis on my CD books.
“Where have you been?” asked Gigi.
“I had to run to the bathroom.”
“Number 1 or Number 2?” she asked, bursting into laughter.
“Number 3,” I answered gravely.
“You’re gross.”
“What are you guys doing up here?”
“We want to give you a booty bump?”
“A what?”
“A booty bump.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t know?” They both burst into laughter this time. “I’ll show you.” Gigi pulled down Sonya’s thong and positioned her over the couch so that her bare ass was up in the air. I shut and locked the door just in case one of my managers happened to be in the vicinity. Gigi produced a small bag of cocaine from her bra, licked her index finger, stuck it in the bag, and held it up so that I could see the small mound of blow on the tip of her finger. She then spread Sonya’s ass cheeks apart and deftly inserted her finger into her asshole. Sonya squealed as Gigi jammed her finger i
nside of her. She pulled out her finger, licked it, and looked at me, smirking. “That’s a booty bump. Now it’s your turn.”
“Umm, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said, knowing full well that Gigi did not want to stick her finger anywhere near my asshole right now.
“Come on. Don’t be a faggot. It’s intense. You’ll love it.” She lurched towards me, dangling the small bag of cocaine up in the air.
I grabbed her and said, “No, I don’t think so. I still have an hour left. I can’t do blow right now.”
“Come on, you’re such a faggot. Do a booty bump.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Fine, then I’ll do one. Sonya, you want to give me a booty bump?” She pulled down her thong and lay over the couch with her ass spread open. I was so aroused that I had to adjust my pants. Someone should make “booty bump” porn, as I imagine it would be a top-selling genre. Sonya licked her finger, scooped up some blow, and shoved her finger deep into Gigi’s hole. Gigi squealed with delight and asked for another. I couldn’t stop staring at the sight before me but reluctantly had to turn away to start the next song for the dancer onstage.
“You sure you don’t want one?” Sonya asked, her finger still in Gigi’s asshole.
“It’s tempting but no. I’ll take a regular bump though.” Sonya sauntered over to the counter and dumped out the contents of the little bag. She used a free lap-dance card to cut up a couple lines and then rolled up an ATM receipt and handed it to me. I snorted a line and reared backwards from its strong bite. Gigi always had good coke.
“If you don’t do both of those, we’re giving you a booty bump,” quipped Sonya.
I snorted the second line and could feel my upper jaw tingle with numbness. This was damn good cocaine. Luckily, there was only an hour or so left of the shift. Gigi had pulled her thong back on and walked over to me. She kissed my neck as I announced for the dancer to leave the stage and for the next dancer to stand by. Now Sonya walked over and started shoving her hands down the front of my pants. It was becoming very difficult to concentrate on the matter at hand.
“Gentlemen, how about a round of applause for that sexy lady. Grab a seat in the front row, and let’s get ready to party with our next dancer on the main stage. Give it up for Britney.” Sonya’s lips were now on mine, and just as she shoved her tongue in my mouth, I heard Steve, my manager’s voice, screaming on the walkie-talkie.
“What the fuck, Dave? That’s not Britney onstage. That’s Karma.”
“Oh shit,” I said, pushing Sonya off of me. I looked over the booth, and there was a very angry blonde dancer onstage staring daggers up towards the DJ booth. I just committed one of the most egregious strip club DJ faux pas. You never call them by the wrong name, and more often than not, the name that you mistakenly called them turns out to be the name of their arch nemesis. “My bad. Sweetheart, I am so sorry. Gentlemen, let’s make some noise out there for that very beautiful woman on the main stage. Sultry, sexy, and sensational. This is Karma.”
Gigi and Sonya were keeled over laughing. “I hope you know that Britney fucked Karma’s ex-boyfriend. That’s why they broke up. You couldn’t have said a worse name.”
“I figured as much,” I replied, frowning. Well I guess I lost that tip. Forever. “Hey, listen, you ladies gotta get out here before Steve comes upstairs and curses me out.”
“I was just about to leave anyway. I have my regular waiting in the VIP Room,” said Sonya, laughing. Most strippers treated their regulars horribly, yet they still returned two or three times a week and paid them hundreds of dollars each visit. I’ve never understood that.
“I suppose I should leave, but I don’t feel like working,” whined Gigi. She threw her arms around me and started licking my neck again. I had to forcibly pry her arms off of me and hold them down by her sides.
“You are too fucking sexy for me to be around right now. I just want to stick my dick in your mouth, and if I do that, I’ll lose my job.”
Pouting in a way that was unbearably attractive, Gigi acquiesced, “Okay, fine. I’ll go. But do you want to hang out with Sonya and me after work? I’m thinking of having a sleepover.”
“I am so down with that,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. Perhaps this night may end well after all.
“Okay. I’ll see you downstairs in a little bit.” She winked at me and left the booth.
I took Karma off the stage and made sure to announce her name properly this time, but the damage had already been done. I could tell by her scowl that she hated me. As I was about to announce the name of the next girl, I felt a sharp, stabbing pain deep in my stomach. Wonderful. The cocaine had ignited the diarrhea powder keg. I quickly flipped on the song I had cued, introduced the next dancer, and booked it to the bathroom for the fifth time this evening. By this point, I was becoming skilled at evacuating my bowels in mid-hover, so I didn’t make much of a mess this time around. In my current state, it wasn’t a bright idea to do cocaine with its laxative effects. I could only hope that the worst of it had passed. Literally. Though I finished the last hour of the shift without another episode of intestinal distress, I resolved to stop at a convenience store and pick up a bottle of Imodium before I went to Gigi’s apartment. I was grateful to play the final song of the night and then flip on the lights of the club signaling that it was time for all of the customers to leave. Most drunkenly shuffled towards the doorway, but there were always some who had to be dragged out by Tony. I felt genuine sympathy for them when they awoke the next day on the sidewalk with a black eye and a bruised rib. I packed up my CDs and rushed downstairs to meet Gigi and Sonya. There were a couple girls who still hadn’t tipped me, but I wasn’t all that concerned about it. I didn’t want to miss the sleepover. I found Gigi sitting on one of the grey leather benches in the foyer listlessly puffing on a cigarette, but Sonya was nowhere to be seen.
“Hey, Gigi, where’s Sonya?”
“That stupid bitch is passed out downstairs. She can find her own way home.”
“That really sucks. I was really looking forward to spending time with her.”
“I bet you were, you dirty dog. Well, you can still spend time with me.”
“I’d love to. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” I grasped her hand and helped her off the bench. She gave the valet her ticket and within a few minutes, her silver Audi pulled up in front of the club. I barely settled in the passenger seat before Gigi floored it down Howard Street towards Potrero Hill, where she rented a two-story townhouse. She cranked the stereo, and Rammstein’s cover of the song “Stripped” blasted through the car’s speakers.
“Hey, grab the wheel for a second.”
“What?” I said, trying not to sound alarmed as she swerved into the left lane going at least sixty miles per hour.
“Grab the fucking wheel. I want to find my blow.” She let go of the wheel, and I clutched it, frantically trying to steer as she reached into the back and grabbed her purse off the floor. She emptied the contents of the black leather purse onto her lap. “Got it,” she exclaimed, holding up a much larger bag of blow than she had before. It had to be at least four or five grams.
“Wow. That’s a lot of blow. Here, take the wheel back,” I said anxiously, making sure my seat belt was tightly fastened.
Gigi took control of the steering wheel and tossed the bag of blow in my lap. “Give me a key bump.”
“Aren’t we almost at your place? I don’t mind waiting.”
“Well, I do. Give me a fucking bump.”
There was no reasoning with her when she was this drunk, but perhaps the cocaine might help her drive better. I dipped one of my keys in the bag, scooped out a hefty bump, and held the small mound of blow up to her nose, trying not to spill any as she snorted it. She arched her head back and snorted again. The car suddenly veered to the right, cutting off a cab in the right lane. The cab driver laid on his horn and flicked us off.
“Jesus, take it easy. You almost hit that cab.”
&nbs
p; “Fuck him. Give me one more.” I jammed the key back into the bag and gave her another bump. “Are you going to do one?”
“I’m fine.”
“Just do one. Sometimes you’re such a faggot.”
She was beginning to annoy me. But I indulged her and snorted a small bump. As soon as I felt the drip, my stomach started to rumble. The rumble rapidly turned into a dull pain and I could sense my bowels starting to flare up again. “Hey, do you mind stopping at this gas station. I need to get some smokes.”
“Okay.” She whipped the Audi to the right, without checking to see if there were any cars in her way, and pulled into the gas station.
Ill at ease, I exited without saying a word and walked briskly towards the gas station. I went directly to the bathroom and was relieved to find it unoccupied. Once again, I found myself hovering above a filthy commode. I had lost count how many times I’d done this tonight. On my way out, I purchased a pack of Durex condoms, a travel-size packet of Imodium, Parliaments, and a Diet 7UP. I swallowed two Imodium pills and prayed to the gods of anal leakage that it would be able to control my furious bowels. Between the coke and the anti-diarrheal medication, there was a war waging within. I just hoped that the Imodium would emerge the victor. I walked back to the Audi, hopped in, and we sped off towards her flat. Surprisingly, we made it there without being arrested or involved in a major accident. She parked in her garage and we walked upstairs to her disheveled living room. There was a massive black leather sectional couch in the middle of the room facing a 50” flat-screen television, and framed pictures of Bettie Page adorned the walls. Her place was unkempt and her stockings and assorted outfits were haphazardly thrown about the room amongst pizza boxes, empty bottles of vodka, and several overflowing ashtrays. I had to clear off a pile of clothing before I sat down on the couch.