Some Dance to Remember; Some Dance to Forget

I’d bought a new orange “dress” for work on Friday night, something tight and obnoxiously neon under black lights, strobes, colored lights. I’ve decided it makes me feel like a sexy snake wearing a snow fence (the construction fence the city erects to keep snow drifts from sweeping us all away, for you sun-birds). In the meantime, my skin has gained a few darker hues and a hell of a lot of freckles, and my hair has lightened from running in the sun. I look…stripper-y. Much more stripper-y than usual. Blonde. Tan. Wearing neon and obnoxious eye shadow.

I feel like I’ve got this split-personality thing going on, especially this week. 

I spent Monday enjoying bone-hunting in my yard with a pal, eventually digging with bare hands and sticks in a mound of dirt left behind by foxes. We found nearly an entire skeleton of an opossum that likely was eaten last year, and pulled what remaining rotted tissue there was from the bones. We found a dead bird, eyeless but still movable, and speculated. I spent Tuesday sweating up a storm, running on the singletrack at the swamp, leaping in fear when I saw a beaver for the second time in my life. Fuckin’ beaver, man, interrupting my zoning out and picking my way through the roots and loose rock. Yesterday, Wednesday, I put the spine and skull of that opossum back together on my kitchen table, proudly posting my little archaeological dig photos on Instagram and Facebook. 

I spend my days getting dirty and sweaty and learning and playing and thinking and running happily under the pines and through the creeks. I spend my nights hairless and perfectly shaved, with straightened hair and examining myself for tan lines in a mirror, and being a polite, legs-crossed kind of girl.

I don’t actually remember which girl I used to be, before I danced. I’m dynamic, of course, but was I the kind of girl who would have plucked stray pubic hair stubble? Was I the kind of girl who loved the day-old baby ducks from the very-hidden trails, or would I have overlooked this little bit of spring? Who was I? What the hell will I be like when I quit?

One thing’s for sure: I’ll still be running around naked as often as possible.

Sunday, I spent the evening at a casino with The Geneticist. I always love his company, and he’d brought me Frangelico. After the Valentine’s fiasco and my intentionally-annoying staying up all night, he’d gotten two rooms this time. I left my dogs with my pal, and headed two hours from home. Dinner was classy, as usual, and my steak was enormous, as usual. Ribeye, my favorite.

Three Card Poker is “our” game of chance, and neither of us did well. I’d asked him a few times if he wanted to change tables or games, or just enjoy a movie upstairs, and he firmly sat, losing hundreds on the gamble of coming back from the initial losses. It sucks for me, because he always gives me the winnings or the remains of what chips we wind up with — and he’d gambled them away instead of trying at blackjack or craps. I don’t gamble on my own, without clients, because losing doesn’t make me happy and the games’ odds are in the casino’s favor. 

He didn’t linger upstairs afterward, and went to bed shortly, tired and likely disappointed in losing. He promised he’d see me the next day in the club, and we said our goodnights. 

I spent the whole night dreaming about working a bachelor party in a gymnasium. The stage was the kind they use for elementary-school kids’ plays and choirs, and the poles were beautiful and sticky and fit my hands perfectly; spinning poles. The lighting was awesome, and I looked like hot shit — a million dollars! — and all of the party attendants were throwing twenties at me instead of death-gripping their dollars. I had a blast, in my dream, working this party, and I was a goddamned star.

I woke up, in a hotel bed, realizing I’d worked the night for real at the casino, spent my dream life working, and had a two-hour drive home before I’d spend another (real) nine hours working at the club. Damnit. 

“You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

He never showed, but the Indian Guy has started talking to me. After four years, he now has something to say, other than that his weekend was “good” and he is “good” in response to my questions. Now, he’s been gossiping about this married female coworker of his who is sleeping with another coworker. Monday, I finally gave him my best bit of advice on this matter: quit being so fucking nosy. Now that he’s started talking to me…I wish he’d just shut up! I liked it when he didn’t have a million questions about whether her intimate, extramarital relations with another man were acceptable and why.

I danced with a Turkish man who had the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen — wide, dark, curious, pure, kind.

Aaaaand…I have to go back to work. I’m exhausted. Soon, I’ll get my Epic Road Trip Vacation Across the Country, and so soon, I’ll have a few weeks off as a reward for having paid my taxes (on time!). For now, it’s back to shaving my pussy and grinding on old dudes for cash to make it happen…

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~ by The Stiletto-Shod One on May 9, 2013.

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