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Angel
(Probably the 1st fictional short story I wrote!)
My stage name was Angel on account of my soft fall of hair, my plump-cheeked baby face and satin-like pink and white skin.The audience appeared to like the sight of an innocent-looking eighteen year old shimmying up and down the pole like a veteran of perversity whilst almost invisibly unhooking the hook and eyes, straps and bows of my clothes. I had been invited to work in an underground club in Belgium. A voyeurs paradise secreted and hidden behind the choclate-box- pretty lattice windows of the building's exterior. To work from 6pm to 6am whilst the club's TVs poured out lurid porn was hard, hard graft. However, the £1,000 per week salary more than compensated.
The owner, Rene, had made the effort to fox our scrambled body clocks by blacking out all of the bedroom windows. Hence we lived in a subterranean world of endless night. When we were not stripping we were networking and flirting to coax men to buy us expensive ginger ale marketed as champagne. In addition to this we were unsubtly coerced into earning additional cash on our backs. Rene had already taken me to one side for a pep talk.
'Men may love to look at a cute girl, Angel', he said, 'but they'll cough big time to actually touch flesh'. He paused. 'Blowjobs', he confided, 'since Zoe was here all of the men have asked for nothing else.' I leaned into his shoulders and whined. 'No, Rene, I can't do that'. Nor could I. As we spoke I could actually imagine the taste of a stranger's flesh in my mouth, feel the clotty fluid as it slid down my gullet and visualise stuffing a bundle of notes in my purse. I rapidly thought of a diversion tactic. 'What about Tara?' I asked, 'she's money-crazy and saving for a boob job, she'll do it'.
Rene dismissed her with a flat: ' too old'. I smirked ever so slightly and fair cuddled myself with joy and asked him: 'so what do people say about me?''Angel', he murmered, 'men want to love you and if you let them, then you could be a very rich girl'. Suddenly very sober he jerked a thumb at Tara who was working the stage with the slow, studied sleaze of a veteran. 'You rip shreds off that slag' he concluded. Then as he drew my dainty shouders in closer to his I swivelled to watch Tara.
She wore the remains of a nun's habit. Her lascivious face was well-painted.Wisps of white blonde hair peeped from beneath her wimple as her small, thin body angled on the chair. Slowly but purposefully she parted her stockinged thighs to display a silken, heart-shaped mound of glorious apricot pubic fluff.
I swallowed back my giggle and stuffed hid my contempt in my small sequinned handbag and reasoned to myself that this was how the sex industry worked. The teaming of a hard-core and a soft-core girl was a well-established umbrella trick used as a method of pleasing everyone. Moreover, degeneration into hard core was a potential fate awaiting most girls. There was no innoculation against time's ravages. No-on was immune. Except me, I reasoned.
I believed that I was indeed the exception .My obscenely bulging pay packet, the insane amounts of incoming calls asking, no begging, me to do a repeat show all convinced my agent, George, that he had stumbled upon a genuine darling of the fleshpots. Me, the eternal honeypot. All the likes of Tara et al could do was watch impotently, incandescent with rage and jealousy.
Tara swept into our room later, immediately searched out
a cigarette and sat down, a smile curving her lips upwards.
'Angel!', she giggled, 'Rene has asked me out to dinner
with him..Angie's gone to Paris with a punter so he's free..what do you think?
I reckon away from this place, he'll be a riot!'
'Yeah, but not with you' I iced flatly. 'Rene likes young
girls, Rene likes me'.
'Oh nasty, Angel', she hissed, 'yet butter wouldn't melt
in your mouth would it?'.
'So they say', I replied and my laugh seemed suspended
like an irresistable pink bubble above my head.
'You aren't always going to look this way, you know' Tara
added, trying to pop the bubble with her words.'Also, when you don't, what then? What when
George stops overbooking you, what when instead of begging for a night off you
have to call them for a night's work?
You never met Ella did you, you know George's wife?'
I rolled my eyes. Famous, glorious Ella. Who hadn't heard of that dirtiest of blondes ingenue? She even aced me totally in the outrage stakes by dint of having began her illicit stripping career at the age of fifteen. I knew she had left George. He had told me so.Yet still the agency was a shrine to her. From the walls she smouldered out at us, her violet eyes so huge, so lambent, so jewel like, and beneath her strategically arranged furs her glorious body remained. Ella. The goddess against we measured ourselves.
'Yeah', I said idly, 'what about her?'
Tara studied me oddly for several minutes. Strange. I had always thought she adored me yet the looks she was giving me were far from friendly and a million miles away from adoration 'Oh, surely you have heard', she said, 'after that night at The Flamingo when she spent all night jerking men off into a pint glass and drinking 1/3rd of a pint of the mixed up shit before slashing her arms to smithereens with the shards of the broken glass'. She paused to let me take it all in and then continued: 'George had her committed of course, but by then she had made the money to set up that fucking agency. Yes, Angel, Ella's money set that pimp up for life. Remember that when he has you jogging on his lap playing Santa Claus'.
I sucked my breath deeply and lastingly into my lungs. Her words may well have sidled into my very airways and bloodstream, yet I was adroit at clearing the airways out and spitting out what I didn't want to retain. Jealous, I mused. She is sick with jealousy and worse, too proud to admit that I was better than her. It was said I was better even than the legendary Ella. Yes. She had hoped to sidle into me, to locate and press my destruct button. If that much was achieved I would give in, would go home.
She was wrong. I wasn't an Ella handing cash over to a man like George. I had a savings account and only spent on clothing, costumes and clothes. The requisite glitz and glam of my trade, well, I could hardly neglect them.
I checked my radiant appearance in the mirror and waltzed out to the stage with the part playful part theatric flamboyance that had fast become my signature. I had always wanted people to tell tales about me to the other visiting girls. I wanted a whole Urban Myth created about me .I really wanted to be crowned notorious queen of the whole bump and grind scene.
My hair whipped across my face as I slithered forward during my floor show. My pink bra with it's cheeky black bows was scarcely hlding my cleavage in check. My pants rode up between my legs, their satin material teasing me until a damp, sticky patch formed. My stockings were only just rakishly held up and everywhere I looked I could see hands straining to touch me and hear voices howling my name. As the cat calls drowned out the music, as my name was chanted like an evil mantra, as my oiled and thrilling body was ready for mass seduction the throb between my legs simply burst open like over-ripe fruit. Pressing my own self destruct button, I reckoned had they drowned me in spunk that night, I would hardly have cared less.
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