Fresh Meat

Last night I shaved my legs, got on a bus and rode it along the freeway to this small town’s only strip club.

Fact: I cannot go very long without money and male attention; they have, admittedly, become my oxygen.

“Hi, I’d like to audition.”

“We don’t really audition,” the doorman tells me. “We just need you to fill out some paperwork and we’ll go from there.”

I’m wearing a massive winter coat, scarf, gloves and bulky boots. Without taking any of the aforementioned items off, I am hired.

I’m looking forward to having some human interaction, even if it is in the form of an inebriated lap dance. I’ve been writing, writing, writing, alone with my own thoughts for nearly two weeks now and it’s quite possible that I’m going to go all Jack Nicholson on Shelly DuVall if I don’t have some small talk with stupid drunk men, FAST.

Here’s the clincher:

“You have to wear latex,” I am told by the manager.

I hate having to go shopping for new shit. It used to be novel but now it’s just a fucking chore and a business expense that would be tax deductible, if I did my taxes.

“State Law of New Mexico states that if your nipples aren’t covered, you are, by default, soliciting.”

So if I flash a pink nip I’m a whore. We’re all whores! I’m fine with this! I say whore like I say cunt! With love, affection, and admiration! I don’t think New Mexico and I share the same feelings on this, though. American rules are funny.

“Most of the dancers go to Walmart and get fabric glue and paste that over their nipples,” he suggests.

I start next week.

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