Spoiler Alert: I’m Not Pregnant

My area was among those that had plenty of snow on Tuesday and Wednesday, so I figured I’d suck it up and work back-to-back shifts on Thursday and Friday instead. The Geneticist texted me, asking whether I’d be in and promising his presence. The night started to look like a winner before I even hit the bathtub.

I’d woken up late, thrown clothes on, hit the bank to deposit some of my earnings from Monday into savings, and hit the drugstore for a pregnancy test. Yep. That. My period was thirteen days late, and I’d already taken two after a week of tardiness (both firmly negative). I’d been taking megadoses of bitter and hard-to-swallow vitamin C and ground ginger, drinking a little, exercising vigorously, masturbating, trying to coax my uterus into cooperation and bleeding the bloat off in time to restore my savings. Still, nothing. Just about the last thing I need right now is to be knocked up and have to pay for an abortion.

I didn’t have time to piss on the stick before work, because I spent my hour paying my credit card, making breakfast and lunch to take to work, running a bath, taking a bath, packing my meals, gathering my strewn-about possessions, stuffing my enormous and tender “D” boobs into a “C” bra. I made it to work on time, feeling like the cartoon Tasmanian Devil spinning through all of my tasks.

I’d promised the Indian Guy I’d be in on Wednesday, but then all of the snow happened, and like clockwork, he showed up Thursday, knowing when I’d be in. I made it out of the dressing room around 7:30, as always, and he’d disappeared to his minivan in the parking lot as he often does, presumably checking his phone in paranoia. I finished my makeup, his reappeared, and like always, he told me he was in the club around 7, waiting for me, and where was I. And like every shift I’ve seen him for nearly four years, I explained that I was getting ready. For four years, I’ve been out of the dressing room at 7:30. For four years, he’s been asking me why I wasn’t there at 7. For four years, I’ve been explaining that I was getting ready for my shift. He tipped me $3 and left, because he couldn’t stay through my stage set this night, with promises to be back again Friday — at 7.

A few hours of mild hustling, keeping an eye out for the Geneticist, who never showed, keeping an eye on the crowd that never picked up. I sorted ones next to a club regular, chatting a bit and expecting nothing, as he never does dances with me. He spontaneously offered up that he had two hundred bucks and wanted to spend it. I think he was just bored, and I happened to be there. We finished our vanilla dances and he gave me the stack with a small tip. After midnight, our crowd died off like molasses: one patron left, a few minutes passed, another left, another, with none to take their seats. I grabbed my book and read by the light of the saltwater fish tank, enjoying being on the Appalachian Trail again with Bill Bryson, interrupted only a few times by the chatty girl on blow. I played a few rounds of a “find-the-objects-in-the-picture” game, only to find that after a few months of not playing, I didn’t remember where any of the items were.

The night ended, and I berated another dancer while we waited to be released to our dressing rooms. “BedBug” takes signature pole and floor work from the other dancers, making her stage set this awful conglomerate of the girls’ best stuff, performed as badly as possible. One girl is flexible enough to keep both ankles behind her head; BedBug does and keeps winding up stuck on her back like a naked turtle. Repeat ad infinitum, through the girls’ best stuff, including my own. My mouth got the better of me on Thursday, and I just laid into her, loudly: “If you’re going to do everyone else’s tricks, try not to suck so badly at them,” and “No wonder you can’t get any dances,” might have popped out of my mouth, among the things I’m willing to repeat. Clearly, it was not my shining moment, ripping this fragile junkie’s self-esteem to shreds with sass and teeth bared. Still, she’s been torn apart by others who were less willing to put up with it long ago. She hasn’t found her own way on stage yet, and after months of being avoidant-but-civil, I figured laying into her might just get the job done. I’m pretty sick of being a sweetheart.

I wasn’t sleepy and hadn’t made much. I called the Ex-I’m-Fucking, and asked him if he wanted to have a steak-and-blowjob night. I’d made steak and had one left over I wasn’t going to eat, and why-not sex, something I hadn’t tried to induce menstruation. I needed to talk to him about being so late on my period, and needed a friendly face among all of the critical and scrutinizing ones I’d encountered all night. He thought he was dreaming, and nearly hung up on me before deciding to get dressed and wait for me. While the sun was rising, we had this kind of passionate, loving sex, the stuff I’m not used to. We fuck; I like fucking him. This tender, eyes-fixed, embracing stuff with the first light of the sun was like the sex we had while we were engaged. I was flooded with emotions, old and new.

Until we switched positions and…realized we were both covered in blood. Blonde pubes of his dyed a deep hue of uterine lining, his dick covered in specks of organ meat….and we laughed about it, happy. After orgasms and a deserved shower, we fell into bed, wanting more and tired.

At least I’m not pregnant.

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~ by The Stiletto-Shod One on March 2, 2013.

One Response to “Spoiler Alert: I’m Not Pregnant”

  1. You seriously have the most addictive writing style miss. It’s why I come back here, even if I don’t post anything or a response. It is genuinely amazing.

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