Tricks

  to make love with Bryn, who responds

  by taking “nasty” to a whole new level.

  It is only afterward, floating

  on a sensual fog, in an uneasy state

  of half sleep, that it comes to me:

  Bryn didn’t join in the dragon chase.

  A Week After

  My first sweet-bitter taste of smack,

  Bryn has talked me into indulging

  again four or five times. I don’t

  want to get hooked, and I’m sure

  I won’t, as long as all I do is smoke

  a little every now and again. I have to

  admit I like the way it makes me

  feel—like I’m on top of the world.

  Bryn never indulges. I can’t

  get it up if I do, and I want this

  to be all about you. So why does

  he keep asking me to do things

  that seem mostly all about him?

  Things like performing dirty

  acts on pay-per-view webcam?

  It won’t be forever, I promise.

  Just long enough to save up

  some serious bank. I’ve got my

  eye on a really nice place. It’s

  pricey, but you’re so worth it.

  When I’m high, I don’t mind.

  But when I touch back down,

  I start to worry. Is this the same

  Bryn who valued my almost-virginity?

  I Also Worry

  About him spending more

  and more time away from me.

  Talking more and more about

  “the girls,” and I’m starting to

  wonder if the girls he’s talking

  about are really pageant hopefuls.

  If he’s getting paid to photograph

  models, he’s not getting paid well.

  Our money seems to come in spurts,

  and some of that seems to be from

  the webcam spurting going on.

  He doesn’t want me to work, though,

  except for private webcam spurting.

  Some guys like to watch girls

  getting off all by themselves.

  Make it look good for the camera.

  I was never into touching myself,

  but it isn’t so bad, especially when

  I’m high. Besides the occasional

  H, Bryn supplies me with bud—

  mediocre seeded Mexican—

  and prescription downers. Not sure

  where he gets them, and I really

  don’t care. As long as I’m buzzed,

  the things he asks of me are easy

  to do, and hey, anything’s better

  than wasting away in Santa Cruz.

  God, if I were there, I’d be starting

  my junior year of high school.

  High school is so not me anymore.

  Wonder what Paige is doing.

  Wonder if she hooked up

  with that guy after that night at

  Lucas’s party. Shit! Why did I have to

  think about him? Wonder if he likes

  it in San Diego. Wonder … stop

  it. Fuck. Where the hell’s my stash?

  I locate it under the coffee table. Two

  tokes of half-ass pot, a bigger question

  hovers: Where the hell is Whitney?

  It’s Almost Midnight

  When Bryn comes in. He’s not

  alone. The guy he’s with is Latino,

  I think. Olive-skinned. Dark-haired.

  Okay-looking. Dressed well.

  Bryn comes over, kisses me.

  Hey, babe. This is my buddy,

  Oscar. He nods toward the stash

  box, sitting on the coffee table.

  Oscar’s been very good to us,

  if you get my meaning. Now

  I want you to return the favor

  and be very, very nice to Oscar.

  Very nice? Does he mean what

  I think he means? Play hostess.

  “Uh, nice to meet you, Oscar.

  Can I get you something to drink?”

  Maybe after. Oscar comes over,

  touches my face. You’re right,

  Bryn. She’s very pretty. Tight

  little body, too. Yes, she’ll do.

  His hands slide over my front,

  reach up under my blouse.

  The skin of his fingers, seeking

  my nipples, is calloused. Cold.

  “No, wait. I can’t. You’re not

  serious … Bryn?” He can’t want

  me to do this! I jerk away from

  Oscar, turn to Bryn. Search his eyes.

  They are deadly serious, and so

  is Bryn when he says, Yes, you

  can. And if you love me, you will.

  You do love me, don’t you?

  “Of course I love you! But this

  isn’t …” Isn’t right, is what I want

  to say. But what is right, anymore?

  Is this really what loving him means?

  Bryn’s hands press down on

  my shoulders. Do this for me,

  Whitney. Do this for us. He kisses

  me. But it is the kiss of a stranger.

  I Beg for a Buzz First

  Pot won’t do. It has to be

  smack, and three long pulls

  of the acrid smoke barely take

  me to the place I need to be.

  Oscar watches. Waits impatiently

  for the H to kick in. You should

  use a needle. Smoking the Lady

  is a waste of good dope.

  Fear-queasy, I stumble down

  the hall, into the bedroom.

  Oscar follows, shedding clothes.

  His body is lean, muscular.

  Another time, another place,

  I might find him attractive,

  but attraction is about choice.

  I have no choice here but to

  take off my own clothes, lie on

  the bed, wait for him to come,

  and do whatever it is he has paid

  to do. I hate you, Bryn. I hate you.

  Within Seconds

  I hate Oscar, too. He breathes

  beer, sweats onion, and there is no

  love, no kindness, nothing but

  greed to his sex. He grabs my wrists,

  holds them over my head so I can’t

  move when he bites my neck,

  and lower. I’ll wear his teeth marks

  for days. “Stop. You’re hurting me.”

  You think that hurts? You ain’t

  seen nothing yet. His teeth close

  even harder and his hand squeezes

  my arms like a vise and now

  his knees force my legs apart

  and there is no pleasure to what

  he does down there. Only pain.

  Bruising pain. I give myself to

  the morphine shroud, denying

  the pounding between my thighs.

  Something makes me look toward

  the door. Bryn stands there, staring.

  A Poem by Ginger Cordell

  Staring

  Into the midnight sky,

  starlight defeated by

  the scream of neon,

  truth

  is hard to discern.

  Does it sparkle?

  Does it burn? If

  a weightless moment

  transcends

  the gravity of time,

  what proof is there

  of its existence?

  Does it infuse

  every

  tick of the clock,

  each blink of an eye?

  Which is harder to

  bear—reality, or a

  lie?

  Ginger

  Our Own Place

  Wasn’t easy to come by. Most

  landlords prefer their tenants

  to be over eighteen. We finally r />
  found a weekly where the lady

  in the office didn’t look too hard

  at our application. The four weeks

  up front probably helped with that.

  The room at Lydia’s was nicer.

  But the drive into the city got old.

  At least, that’s what we told Lydia

  when we said we were moving out.

  In reality, living with her was getting

  old. She could be a real bitch,

  and she was pushing us to do

  stuff besides strip. You could make

  a lot more if you’d treat a few

  of your clients to a little touchy-

  feely. Not all of them, of course.

  Just think about it. Getting

  paid for something most

  people give away? No-brainer.

  She Pushed Hard Enough

  That Alex has actually considered

  doing it. It’s not such a big deal,

  as long as they use condoms.

  The thing is, Lydia wouldn’t have

  to know. I could do it on the side,

  and not give her a cut. We could

  save up enough money to blow

  this city. Go somewhere pretty,

  like Portland or San Francisco.

  When she talks like that, it makes

  me think about Iris. How turning

  tricks has used her up. How she

  tried to let it use me up. Why

  couldn’t I have a real mother?

  Why did she have kids at all?

  Iris used to talk about moving

  somewhere else—somewhere

  exciting, like New York City.

  Oh yeah, I can just picture

  Iris in Manhattan. Cruising

  Central Park. Hustling johns.

  When I Think About Iris

  I can’t help but think about

  Gram. She must be worried

  about me. I should probably

  try to send word that I’m okay.

  Alive, anyway, “okay” being

  a relative term. But how can

  I let her know without giving

  away where I am? Letters have

  postmarks and phones can be

  traced. I just hope she’s taking

  care of the kids. Keeping them

  safe from Iris. Most of ’em are

  back in school. Except Sandy.

  He’s still too little. Hope he’s all

  healed up, chasing balls

  around again. Just not in

  the street. Oh God, why did

  I have to think about them?

  A Mack truck of guilt crashes

  into me. How can I be home-

  sick, when I don’t have a home?

  I Start to Pace

  North and south, across

  the grease-stained beige

  carpet. Guess the last tenant

  kept his moped in the living

  room. The carpet was steam-

  cleaned when he moved, but some

  black marks can’t be excised.

  Alex went to the store about

  an hour ago. I would have

  gone along, but my period

  this month is major. I’m close

  to bleeding out, I think, and

  I’ve downed enough ibuprofen

  to kill a horse. But I’ve still

  got cramps. Maybe that bastard

  who raped me made me pregnant

  and God was gracious enough

  to let me miscarry. Whatever

  the problem is, it has definitely

  put the brakes on shedding

  my clothes for strangers.

  Which Means a Couple of Things

  One, Alex is the only one

  working, so our income

  is cut in half right now. Plus,

  she’s going out by herself,

  which scares the crap out

  of me. I know she can take

  care of herself and all, but

  still … Ah, can’t think

  about the downside of that.

  If anything bad ever happened

  to Alex, I’d go crazy. Except

  for Gram, Alex is the only good

  thing I’ve ever had in my life.

  She lifts me, like a double shot

  of espresso. I wish she were here

  right now, to lift me out of this

  black pit of boredom. My indoor

  hike carries me past the bathroom,

  where the laundry basket

  overflows dirty clothes. Might

  as well wash them as keep

  walking by ’em, I guess.

  I gather them up, grab some

  detergent, and shovel quarters

  into my pockets. The laundry

  room is downstairs and in

  the other building somewhere.

  This will be my first trip there.

  Jeez, man. For almost October,

  it’s still hotter than hell. Maybe

  ninety in the shade. By the time

  I locate the short bank of washers,

  I am dripping sweat. Lovely!

  Hopefully, the person pulling

  her own clothes from the dryer

  won’t get close enough to smell me.

  Her Back Is Toward Me

  And just in case my ripeness

  doesn’t precede me, I say,

  “Hello,” so she knows I’m here.

  She jumps about three feet.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to

  sneak up on you.” When she

  turns, I can see she’s a little

  younger than me. Wow,

  her posture made me think

  something different. It’s okay,

  she says. Guess I was off in

  Never-Never Land. Don’t use

  that washer…. She points.

  Someone’s pen exploded

  in it. There’s ink all over.

  “Thanks.” As I put my dirties

  into the other two washers,

  she starts to fold her clothes.

  I can’t help but stare. The girl

  would be beautiful, except for

  the dark circles under her eyes.

  She reminds me of those

  models—what do they call

  them? Oh, yeah. Heroin chic.

  I know squat about heroin,

  but my guess is she’s using

  something. Or it’s using her.

  Eventually she notices me

  observing her and jumps on

  defense. Something wrong?

  “Oh, no. Sorry. You just, uh …

  remind me of my sister. I haven’t

  seen her in a long time.”

  Not totally true (Mary Ann

  resembles her only slightly),

  but it works. The girl exhales

  (was she holding her breath?),

  and her shoulders relax. Oh. Okay.

  I haven’t seen my sister in a while

  either. Not that she cares,

  I’m sure. Well, I’d better go.

  See you. Poof. She’s gone.

  The Clothes Are Still Spinning

  So I take a minute to duck

  out the door, watch where

  the girl goes. Not sure why.

  Her room is kitty-corner from

  ours, across the parking lot

  and on the ground floor. Wonder

  who she lives with. Guy?

  Girl? Relative? She can’t be

  out on her own, can she?

  What is up with me? Why do

  I care who she lives with?

  Shit, I really am bored, aren’t I?

  Bored and bleeding. Sounds

  like the name of a book:

  Bored and Bleeding in Vegas.

  Okay, Alex, you’d better get

  home soon, or I’ll turn into

  a bore
d, bleeding, babbling loon.

  Early Evening

  And Alex still isn’t back yet.

  Where the hell is she? I call

  her cell, but the canned voice

  that answers informs me that

  she’s unavailable, meaning

  she’s out of prepaid minutes.

  Guess I’ll have to be patient.

  I fold the clothes, put them

  away. Treat myself to a Lean

  Pocket. Turn on the aged TV.

  Half listen to Jeopardy! while

  I go to the window, hoping

  to catch a glimpse of Alex,

  coming up the sidewalk.

  I don’t see her, but I do see

  heroin chic going into her room,

  about six paces in front of a guy.

  He’s older. Balding. Her father?

  My guess is no way, or if he

  does happen to be her father,

  it’s a definite case of incest.

  Is Every Girl

  In this nasty, stinking city

  turning tricks? Young,

  old, at least as old as you

  can get without dying

  of some incurable sex

  disease? I swear, I will never

  do that, never sink as low

  as my mother. My pretty

  heroin chic neighbor.

  My beautiful best friend,

  who I love so much it hurts.

  And I swear, as soon as

  I can, I will find a way out

  of this place. Will Alex come?

  Or have I lost her to the night?

  She Stumbles In

  Around nine. Worry turns to

  relief. Then I take another

  look at her—hair mussed,

  makeup smeared, clothes

  wrinkled and buttons undone.

  Relief explodes into anger.

  “Where the fuck have you

  been?” I sound like a crow.

  “You scared me shitless.”

  Alex remains placid. Been

  taking care of business

  is all. Someone’s got to.

  It’s more than a little bit

  obvious that the day’s

  “business” included more

  than stripping. The smell

  of sweat and sex hangs

  in the air, a storm cloud.

  “Alex, what have you done?

  You’re not turning tricks

  like some hooker, are you?”

  A strong memory of Iris

  stumbling in after dark,

  perfumed in sex, surfaces,

  swims into blurry view.

  Goddamn it, no! “Please,

  Alex, tell me you didn’t.”

  But she doesn’t deny. Won’t

  say I’m wrong. It’s okay,

  Gin…. It’s not so bad, really.