sassy
I am one fluid movement to the music, my five-inch heels, my sequined bikini – its all an extension of me. I try not to focus on the regulars, the lollygaggers, the staring dogs. Instead I feel the music course through me and I pretend I’m one of those movie characters who’s having a breakdown, all to an overpowering soundtrack that’s supposed to mean something. When I move my head fast enough, the lights swirl and run, like wet paint.
The less I think about it, the faster it goes and the less I notice the time. I imagine working in a factory, wearing an oversized jumpsuit and straining my back, hunched over, assembling things. I could gain weight, eat what I wanted, be ugly; I dream about those things like people dream about money and vacations.
I’m gathering up my stuff in the dressing room when Candy walks in. “Ohhhhh fuck,” she mutters under her breath, then looks up and sees me. “O, I only made $200 tonight. Isn’t that ridiculous?” She’s a haughty blonde, fake tits so overblown they look unreal, like two tan plastic coconuts. Personally, I think her tits are disgusting. They remind me of department store dolls, or animal hide. I can’t believe how men act around them, wanting to squeeze tits so disgusting, so fake, just because they don’t have their own.
Candy presses fake silver lashes to her real ones, gawking at herself the way everyone else does. I wonder if that’s the way she learned to look in a mirror, through the eyes of every horny sack of testosterone, eyes and mouth wide open, gaping. “Have you ever thought about going into porn?” Candy asks me. I don’t even know if she’s asking me actually, she could be talking to her reflection, but I answer anyway.
“I don’t know, I’d really rather not have sex with random guys. Stripping isn’t as sleazy.” Candy shrugs, picks up the other half of the silver lash set. “This guy keeps telling me it could be artistic…he says porn is underrated as an art form. I just want to make some fuckin money!” Her smile is wide and full of dumb; she is the prey to every predator. I pick up my bag and swing it over my shoulder. I am dressed, and ready to leave. “Be safe, okay?” I warn, sweetly, like I care about her.
My manager collects a percentage of my tips for God knows what, and he’s always trying to get me naked in his office. He’ll offer to take out less if I let him suck my nipples, but the nightmares come too easily so I always say no. I’d rather be a virgin than a whore. He does what he can; while I’m counting out how much I owe, he flicks my nipples, hard little points coming through my t-shirt. He rubs his hand between my legs, he caresses my ass. I’d cry sexual harassment, but I’m pretty sure everyone would just laugh.
My manager is waiting by the door when I leave. “Want to stay at my place tonight? My wife can sleep on the couch,” he offers, and then he guffaws, laughing at his own terrible joke. “Maybe we could take turns banging you,” he whispers, and he keeps tracing his finger up and down the middle of my ass, breathing too hard on my neck. I grab his hand, making sure to sink my nails into his skin, and throw it at him. “Maybe you could go home early and catch her cheating on you,” I say, and walk out. They don’t call me Sassy for nothing.
I walk outside to the parking lot; this crumbling, lost city filled with memories of drunken backseat fuckings and stripper beatings. Sometimes I can even smell the desperation, the sadness. My feet are killing me, so I walk slowly, when someone grabs me from behind. He’s strong, and his hand, cold as metal, goes right over my mouth. I bite, but it does no good; he doesn’t even wince. He drags me to his van; the back doors are swung open revealing ragged carpet and dried bloodstains. He throws me, and the force knocks me out. I always thought I was strong until I got thrown into a van.
I wake up to bumps in the street, gravel getting caught in tires, shuffling from the front. There’s a wall between me and him, so all I can see is a shield of rusted metal. It is so dark inside, all the windows being taped up, and I have no idea if it is still night. I don’t know how long we’ve been driving. As soon as the thought crosses my mind, we stop and I soar across the carpet right into metal, hitting my funny bone and giving me rug burn. The car turns off, and I hear the driver’s side door open and slam shut. The anticipation is driving me wild, and I ready myself for the back doors to open. When they finally do, he’s wearing all black, even over his face, and he’s armed with a knife and an armful of rope.
After tying me up, he picks me up and dangles the knife in front of my face all the way to his house. It’s so dark out I can’t see where we are, if he lives in a mansion or a shack. All I see is that knife.
As soon as we get inside he throws me as far as he can, and I land hard on the other side of the room. I can feel the bruises forming, and I keep thinking about how hard it will be to cover all this up the next time I’m on stage. Everything is sore, so I just lay there, like every girl you’ve ever yelled at in a horror movie for making an equally stupid decision. My will to fight is so trumped by my will to sleep its not even funny.
He stomps up to me and then swings his leg back for a kick to my side. I try to give him puppy eyes, but its like he doesn’t even see me. I’m a tin can, a dead animal. A stripper beanbag. He kicks me, punches me; I’m starting to taste blood. The whole thing reminds me of the countless drunk assholes I’ve seen take their anger and stupidity out on one of us girls, punching and kicking blindly, like we’re an acceptable person to abuse. Someone always stepped in though, be it best friend, bouncer or total stranger; someone was always there to pull the jerk back. To tell him, Stop man before you kill her! No one was here to tell this guy that, to be his obviously absent inner voice.
I start to panic, as he doesn’t let up; I’m bleeding in several places and the anger still seeps out of him, like too much cologne. I can’t think of anything to do, so I lick the blood around my mouth and start acting.
“Mmmmmm, oh baby, keep it up!” I purr, “Every time you touch me, I go crazy!” He stops, cocks his head to the side like a dog. I can’t believe its working. “You are making me so wet, so fuckin wet I can’t take it. I want you inside me!” He leans in, like he’s squinting at me, and for the first time he whispers, “Really?”
“Oh ya,” I moan, “I need your hard dick, I need you to cum inside me! I am so turned on right now. I wish you’d just come here and fuck me.” Before I know it, he’s pulling off his pants and grabbing at mine, like he can’t get inside me fast enough. All of the sudden we’re having sex, and to my surprise, it feels amazing. He pumps into me with so much force that every time he goes deeper and deeper. In the excitement, I pull off my shirt and he quickly leans down to start licking and sucking my chest. “Holy shit,” I whisper, in shock and in pleasure.
**
Fast forward to my life now, standing outside in oversized sunglasses, looking too tan, waiting for my assistant to grab me a strawberry frap with tons of whipped cream. “Sassy Splash!” I hear from behind me, and I know it’s autograph time. A guy walks up to me, his head so low to the ground I can’t imagine how he could see me in the first place. “Could you sign this?” he asks in a quivering voice, and hands me one of my first movies, Sassy Splash is Wet ‘n Wild! “Sure!” I say in my best squeaky voice; porn stars are meant to be seen, not heard, so when I talk, I like to make it as surreal as possible.
Yes, porn star. After that crazy night, I ended up moving in with my kidnapper. Crazy, huh? The ultimate case of Stockholm syndrome. We loved having sex so much we decided to tape and sell it; it sure beat being drooled on by drunken assholes at a hole-in-the-wall bar. I get respect now. I mean, c’mon, I’m a movie star! Even if its all because I’m best known for the time I lifted my ankles to my head, spread bald eagle while two chicks flicked their tongues until I squirted all over the camera. They don’t call me Sassy Splash for nothing.
But fame is fame, honey. No longer do I get ogled because of the way my ass sticks out, or how my nipples are showing. Now it’s all about how much I can stuff into my snatch, or they just want to know, do I like it better anal or vaginal? Maybe it’s odd to you, but I prefer it. Oh, and if you want to know the answer, it’s both. At the same time! There’s nothing like a good sandwich.