What Does a Stripper Wear? A Very Short Story.

This morning I decided to go to the gym. There was this woman yelling at the top of her lungs. I think she was a stripper. How do I know? Tight abs. Terrible clothes. Like a lost hippy from 1998 who had forgotten that she’d gotten old. She was probably only late thirties, but she looked very old in the face – about a hundred.

Her hair was dyed pitch black and hung in rattails down her back. She was wearing a crop top with some lettering on it – like a very cheap top from a chain store (I have lots of them too). Her pants were brown jersey flares, like the type you see in Byron Bay. She would have looked better there, but she was in Kings Cross, where I live: the Red Light District.

She was wearing lots of cheap jewellery, cluttery and jangly. Lots of big silver rings and makeup that looked tattooed on her face. She was screaming at her boyfriend who I didn’t see. Last night I was screaming at my boyfriend too.

She seemed to be carrying everything she owned – in her hands were multiple plastic bags, all worn and ripped and full of clothes, spilling out on the concrete. She also carried a little pink ghetto blaster, it was old – circa late nineties, to go with her ensemble.

I finished at the gym and came out the way I came in. By now she had set the little ghetto blaster on the concrete outside the Eye Bar, which claims to be a restaurant, but must be a drug den or brothel… or both. All her plastic bags were strewn around, their shabby contents spilled onto the floor. Nothing looked like it was worth keeping or saving – it just looked like junk to me.

My house is full of clutter since my boyfriend moved in. He’s got heaps of music equipment, T shirts that are old and dying, jars full of screws and paint-splattered boots. I hate seeing all his stuff in my house, but when I’m in love with him, I tolerate it.

He leaves mess on every surface. He’s clean but he’s messy. The lady I saw today (who I think is a stripper) was not clean at all. The last I saw of her she was sucking hard on a ciggie, surrounded by the detritus of her life.

Her boyfriend had gone.

Photo by Cap’n Monky

Previous Post

A Crappy Little Love Sick Poem

Next Post

Trading the Radio Mic for the Gavel

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.