All the ghosts are here. They get you in the end.
– John Fowles, “Daniel Martin”
{pause music.breathe}
The ghosts are here. That’s the part that’s both wonderful and terrible at the same time. I’ll break it down for you, from my own experience. From this side, I mean, being dead.
The woman I lost was the second most common obsession in boys. The first is Oedipal, no issues there. The sister, my Ophelia, has occupied the space of ONE:WOMAN most of my life. (:she: blushes with pride) I fear that her love of me, from that other side, as a ghost, is warming and loving my soul, but cannot satisfy or appreciate my physical needs. I remain self-sufficient in a lingering period of austerity. Money is not what it should be in my life.
Last night, in my real-time, when I was/am writing this, in this present timeline, I wanted to do something rad, sexy, different. I ended up at an adult club with a Hoppadillo IPA in a can and two dramatically overdone women on speed, underdressed and pressured. The thin cuteish one, began talling me, “Oh, I’m a writer too. What have you written. I’m an award winning screenwriter. Eighteen screen plays. All of them award-winning.”
I give little chase, eyeing the rest of the herd. Eventually they snorted and left together. The other woman is harder to explain without shaming her, so I’ll keep that one in memory rather than in words. I sat at a bar table and was immediately joined by a chatty young African American woman, 25, she told me. We talked about her job, how long she’s been here, what her plans were. She’s in community college studying to become a nurse. Well, studing her fundamentals so she can become an medical technician, but I didn’t want to bum her out. She was sweet. Innocent in the Inferno.
It was more bored than burning. 6 – 9 women standing around in lengerie with drinks and phones in their hands. Standing in that little alcove between the bar and the counter for the kitchen when food comes out. The scene was not unlike a high school party when the friends hadn’t really begun to mingle. The night was young. It was 9:30.
“Most stuff starts here around 11.”
She was called by the dj to dance, so she disappeared from my arm and reimerged in lights about 20 feet away, sparkling.
I had felt an impulse, a different dancer. Red. I can’t at this moment, 12 hours later, remember the color of her hair. That’s frustrating. Just a minute. Pinging the deeper recesses of my brain. April was the name she said when I extended a hand. She actually waved me over. Motioning and speaking silently “Wanna come over here.”
I did.
A different vibe than I had become unfamilar with due to the infrequency of my patronage. There are a lot of stores about this very club, however. I’ll leave those for later. She motioned me over. Smiled.
Her voice and face were even more fun than I imagined. She was turning on the charm a little. I could feel it. “Do you want a drink?” It’s code for “I’m into you.” What she hears is different. I’ll reveal that in just a minute.
In some altered universe, I hope she thinks about me, too. Her inside voice, “That guy was… ”
We chatted at the bar about imaginary pasts. “I’ve been doing this for fourteen years.”
“What? That’s amazing.”
“I like it.” She’d come from San Francisco, she said.
“Other plans?”
“Oh, I don’t do extras.”
“Huh?”
“That’s how I keep my job. Most of the girls to what are called “extras.” After hours, out of the club. Venmo/PayPal money, that’s what the clubs mostly mad about. They forbid us to accept tips on our phones. Some girls do it. Hell, most girls do it. I don’t.”
“It’s okay, I don’t do extras either.”
We laughed. I could see her entire 110 lb body, clad in sexy red matching…
The second IPA didn’t hurt my enthusiasm. The conversation was lively. Her smiles were frequent. She was even beginning the touchy feely thing, you know, like a girlfriend might do who’s not afraid of public displays of affection. PDA. (grin)
A song ended and we could hear one another, she said, “Let’s do a dance.”
A very different proposition than the high school “do you want to dance.” This was transactional.
“Of course, I said.” I opened my wallet. Cash. Ten. Five. Four ones. “I’d didn’t bring cash, I’m sorry. Wasn’t counting on a dance.”
“It’s okay.” She put the money way. “Don’t tell anybody, it’s supposed to be $40.”
She strutted me over to a dance-worthy table, holding my hand, leading me, like a prized bull getting ready for slaughter or seduction or whatever transpires between strippers and their mark.
Driving home, her perfume was all over me. I was intoxicated by her, the touch, the youth, the smile, and now she was lingering on my sweater as I type.
Pulling back the lens, the answer is simple. She is red thread: sex. She is also a human. Happy. Attractive. Engaging. A WOMAN:MAN feedback look was established, played a bit like a string on a guitar. Our notes were in a minor key. Neither of us is highly motivated.
The dance was all that I imagined. Some leans into my chest, a chance glance of a nipple to my lips, and the grind to bump to this is exactly what it might look like if we were fucking on camera for money. Porn. She was enacting porn in real life for me. For money. Earthly delights are not all bad or bad for you.
Finally tally: 2 beers consumed, $74 spent. Red blood cell production increased: 23%
April on my mind, here in January on a rainy Saturday. Like an addict, I might imagine, plot, plan, even start out on a return to La Vie en rose.
The song’s title can be translated as “Life in happy hues”, “Life seen through rose-coloured glasses”, or “Life in rosy hues.” Its literal meaning is “Life in Pink.”[5]*
*wikipedia link left for reference
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*this is part of a new work in progress:
