finished with his camera, he lays
me back on a thick blanket.
You are exceptionally lovely,
he says, brushing sand from
my hair. He settles beside me,
props himself on one elbow.
Bryn’s free hand begins a slow
exploration of my body, over
the sheer fabric, tracing each
curve. You don’t mind, do you?
Eyes closed to the lowering
sun, brain suspended on a Valium
cloud, I sigh, lift my head. “Kiss
me.” He does, and then he lowers
his mouth to other, much more
intimate places. So this is making
love! Well, not quite. I want to know
the rest. “Make love to me.”
You’re sure? he asks, but there
can be no doubt I’m very, very
sure. Bryn guides me to a place
Lucas has no idea exists.
Okay, It’s Kind of Disturbing
That, immediately after learning
the meaning of “orgasm,” I think
of Lucas. Maybe it’s because
I need to know, “Was that okay?”
Oh, darling. Bryn kisses across
my face. That was more than
okay. That was extraordinary.
With just a little practice,
you will become perfection.
And I so want to be …
want to be your coach. But …
He rolls away from me—déjà
vu of the most terrible kind.
I jerk upright, reach out for him.
“What? What did I do?” Oh my God,
he’s not going to dump me too?
Nothing, baby. He accepts my hand
against his cheek. It’s just that
I got a call this morning, from
an agency in Vegas. They want me
to shoot a beauty pageant, plus
some pre-event studio work. I’ll be
gone for several weeks. Oh, sunshine,
I am sure going to miss you!
My Summer
Just grew a whole lot darker.
“Oh.” It is barely audible, but
even if I could make words come
out, I wouldn’t know what to say.
He takes my hand, kisses
my fingertips. I probably
shouldn’t have … you know.
But I couldn’t help myself.
You looked like an angel.
And now I want you more
than ever. If only you could …
He shakes his head. Never mind.
“What?” What he suggests
thrills me. Scares me. Tempts
me. And, finally, “I’m not sure
how I could pull it off.”
I know. I didn’t really think
you could. But it would be
like a dream to spend every day
with you. He pulls me to my feet,
and we wander up the beach
toward the car, his invitation
echoing inside my head: Come
with me…. Come with me.
Mom’s Home
When Bryn drops me off. She takes
one look at me—how I’m dressed,
the state of my hair and makeup—
goes off on a rant. Where in the hell
have you been? And with whom?
I never gave you permission to go
anywhere. She catches her breath.
You do remember “permission”?
Suddenly she cares? “You do
remember that you actually have
to hang around the house long
enough to give permission?”
Rant becomes rave. You shut
the hell up. And you’d better
understand that you may not
leave this house for any reason.
I want to scream. But silence
is the better course of action.
“Whatever.” I go to my room,
flop down on my bed. Where—
and why—did she find this sudden
case of maternal instinct? I consider
my next move carefully. Call Bryn.
“Okay. I’ll go. Pick me up at ten.”
A Poem by Ginger Cordell
Move Carefully
Who knows what lurks
beneath that beautiful
rock you want to turn
over?
I once thought
I wanted to live
on a mountain. But
how high
before the altitude
would take its toll?
Now I want to dive
under
deep water. But can
I hold my breath,
stand the pressure?
How low
can I go, and will
Fate keep the sharks
far away, or
will Destiny
in fact send some
hideous sea creature
to catch me in its jaws,
drag me down?
Ginger
They Call Vegas
Sin City, like calling it what it is
somehow legitimizes the name.
Las Vegas is Sin City. Whole lot
of sinning going on, from fancy
high-rise casino rooms to sleazy
well-off-the-strip motel dives.
People come here specifically
to sin. But I wonder whether
it’s really true that “what happens
in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
People stain themselves here.
I bet, no matter how hard they
scrub themselves after sinning,
when they go home, a certain
amount of stain remains visible.
Then, I guess, it’s up to the spouse
or significant other to recognize
the meaning of that dark splotch
ghosting beneath the bleach.
Most of ’em probably don’t want
to look. Don’t want to know.
The Reason
I know so damn much about
the sinning is I have pretty well
been pushed into causing some
of it. As sin goes, at least so
far, my own participation
has remained fairly mild.
See, when Alex and I first hit
town, like a few weeks ago,
Lydia seemed okay with giving
us a place to crash. Alex called
her from the bus station. Hey,
girl. You said to look you up if
I ever made it to Vegas. Well,
me and a friend just got here.
Could you come pick us up?
It was early morning, and
Lydia was not real happy
about having to pull herself
out of bed. We waited a couple
of hours, sipping coffee, until
she finally showed, took us back
to her small tract house south
of the city in a burb called
Henderson. She keeps her place
neat, with pretty flowers in trim
beds, giving the impression
she wants to give—legitimate.
See, for a while Lydia worked
as a stripper in a fairly nice
club near the Stratosphere.
I made pretty good money.
Most of it went to the house,
which took a big cut for keeping
the girls safe. I did all the work,
they reaped sixty percent of
the bennies. Hard to swallow.
So Lydia got smart, started her
own business—Have Ur Cake
Escorts. Now she takes a cut from
the girls (and guys) whose “dates”
she sets up. I still strip for fun
once in a while. All on my own terms.
Her Neighbors
Are completely clueless
about her means of support.
They think she’s a showgirl.
The ultimate Vegas dream.
Anyway, she let Alex and me
move into her spare bedroom.
But not for free. You can stay
for a week gratis. After that,
I’d appreciate a little rent.
She never asked why we were
there, although she did mention
Alex’s dad. How’s he doing?
Alex shrugged. Same ol’,
you know? But if he happens
to call, I don’t want to talk to him.
Far as I know, he never did,
and Lydia let the subject
drop. Alex and I looked for
under-the-table jobs, but they’re
hard to find, unless you’re good
with pulling weeds for five
bucks an hour. A week came.
A week went by. Two. Plus
a couple of days. Finally Lydia
said something. Okay, here’s
the deal. Both of you are pretty
girls. Great bods, with that fresh
look guys (especially old ones)
appreciate. You could make
boatloads taking off your clothes.
The clubs are careful about
underage girls, but work for
me, no one will check your IDs.
My first reaction was no way
would I ever let evil old pervs
see me naked. That’s when Lydia
mentioned how much money
we could make. Easily five
hundred a night. And that’s no
touching allowed. Bachelor
parties alone could make
the two of you very comfortable.
What She Forgot
To mention was that her cut
for setting us up in the exotic
dancing business was one-third
the hourly rate. Tips are ours
to earn and keep. And hey,
considering Lydia handles all
Have Ur Cake calls, screenings,
and advertisement, she’s
worth every penny. As per her
well-advised counsel, Alex and I
work exclusively as a team.
Sooner or later, Lydia said,
you’ll have to deal with a jerk
who won’t want to hear “no
touching allowed,” if you decide
to stick to that. With two of you,
you’ve got a fighting chance,
or at the very least, a witness.
So far, though we’ve had many
requests for more, and a few
grumbles when we say no way,
the men have all honored
the “look but don’t touch”
rule. Our two-for-one fee
is three hundred an hour
(a bargain!) plus tips for
straight dancing. Private
lap dances are twenty dollars
per song. Girl-on-girl action
adds another hundred to the tab.
Besides Lydia, we give a cut
to our regular taxi drivers,
who keep us off their meters.
They’re cool and weren’t hard
to hook up with. Pretty much
everyone in Vegas is a scammer.
As for the actual stripping,
Lydia gave us some pointers.
Turns out I’m a better dancer
than Alex. Her boobs are bigger,
though, and really beautiful.
I swear I never knew I leaned
toward girls until I met Alex.
Guess I never let myself lean any
way at all. Didn’t dare get close
to anyone, male or female.
But Alex and I are tight. I love
her heart. Her brains. Her body.
The men we perform for like
when we dance with each other,
breast-to-breast or belly-to-ass,
tan skin against pale, ebony hair
on blue-streaked blond, fingers
touching hidden places we won’t
let “clients” touch. Powerful!
That’s how I feel, seeing how
helpless we make them. I so enjoy
reducing them to masturbation.
It’s like they are masturbating
for me, and I can control when
they come by how I move
my body, what I let them see.
It’s a game I win every time.
Another Few Weeks
We’ll have saved enough
to get our own place. Maybe
a nice little townhouse closer
to downtown, where most
of the action is. Tonight
we’ve got a bachelor party.
Great gigs. Tips are good.
And when there’s a crowd
in the room, the dicks mostly
stay hidden. I’m standing
by the window, keeping
watch for the cab, when Alex
comes into the room, wearing
a yummy short leather skirt.
Just got a ten o’clock. We should
be finished with the boys before
nine. Younger guys tend to get
started early. The best man booked
us for seven, and they should all
be well on their way to passing
out before we even get there.
Which is why we collect our
basic fee up front. Don’t want
to get caught with our fingers
in some drunk guy’s wallet.
Of course, we do hope they
stay awake long enough to
reward our girl-girl routine.
We knock on the condo door
at seven on the dot. The guy
who answers is pretty cute.
Hello, girls. Come right in.
Can I get you ladies something
to drink? We decline and he
escorts us inside, where a half
dozen guys are ogling cable porn.
While I ask Best Man for cash
up front—six hundred, split
seven ways—Alex flirts. Okay,
boys, where’s the groom? We
want to treat him right! Where did
she learn that shtick? Stripping
for Dummies? Hah. Anyway,
once the cash is safely tucked
away, Alex outlines the rules:
Absolutely no touching, or we
leave immediately. One lap dance
is included, for the groom only.
If any of the rest of you are into
that, it will cost extra. Tips are
encouraged! Any questions?
One rat-looking dude pulls
his eyes from the TV screen
action. How much for head?
A couple other guys laugh
nervously, but Alex has
it covered. You’ll have to ask
your buddies. We don’t do head,
except on each other, and that
will cost an extra hundred.
No surprise that Ratman
reaches into his pocket
for a Benjamin Franklin.
Seven Fifty, Minus Commission
Toward a place of our own,
Alex and I bid adieu to groom,
Best Man, et al. Poor bride.
We’re giggling as we get into
Leonard’s cab. What’s so
funny, girls? Care to share?
Alex hands over a fifty. No
offense, Len my dear, but
men are just so disgusting.
I mean, really. Would you dare
beat off in front of your best
friends? We crack up again.
Lenny looks into his rear-
view mirror, grins. Only if
you two were dancing for us.
It’s a short drive to our next
appointment, in a not very nice
part of town. Lenny promises
to stay available, Just in case
you need a quick ride out
of here. Be careful, okay?
Hey, says Alex, no worries.
But if we don’t call you in an
hour, it’s okay to come looking.
She gives him a twenty for
caring and off we go. Unlike
Best Man, this guy is a pug,
short, wrinkled, and bug-eyed.
He doesn’t talk as we handle
the business stuff, but he does
pay extra up front for a three-song
lap dance. I glance at
Alex, who nods, meaning
she’ll do it for him. She knows
I never could. After a little
girl-on-girl rubbing, she goes
to take care of it. He sits
very still in his chair, staring
as she strips free of her bra.
Suddenly his hands are all
over her. “Hey. Cut it out.
Absolutely no touching allowed.”
No good. Alex’s eyes go just
a little wild. Okay, man, we’re
out of here. She tries, but
the creep snakes his arms
around her waist, squeezes
like a hungry boa constrictor.
All I want is a hand job. Give
it to me, I’ll let you go. You,
over there, play with yourself.
So much for control. Good
thing it doesn’t take long. He
finishes with a loud, Aaaagh!
He does let go of Alex, who
wipes her hand on his shirt.
We grab our clothes, throw
ourselves out the door, mostly
naked. Yank on what we can
at a dead run. Suddenly Alex
starts to laugh. She holds up
a wad of bills. Stupid shit
just gave us a really big tip.
Later, After Several Shots
Of whiskey (Lydia buys
it for us, as long as we
drink it post-business only),
Alex and I go to bed.
Fresh from the shower,
her skin is warm and apple-
scented. I reach for her,
but she turns over, away
from me. Not now. I’m tired.