Holie Lemon was having a very bad day.
Her cheap ass make up had started to run off her face from the sweat half way through her first set of songs. God damned fucking Annabelle cosmetics, she thought. That’s what she got spending all of her money on a wig instead of good make up.
Coming off the stage, and feeling a small pain in her lower back from the pole twirling, Holie grabbed herself a water from the small fridge waiting offside and waited back stage for her second set. Standing beside her LaWanda, the woman who ran the bar and go go lounge of Dark Moon Rising, grinned.
“You look like shit.” LaWanda Wigwamway said. She had her long black hair parted down the centre and looked like a white trash version of Cher.” LaWanda took a step back and regarded her. “No, honey, you know what you look like?” LaWanda snapped her fingers. “You look like god damned Children of the Corn.” She huffed. “Like one of those creepy British doll kids or something.”
“That’s not even the same movie.” Holie said.
“Bitch, whatever. The point is, honey? What’s with the fucking wig? You’re not Julia Roberts.”
Holie sighed. That had been the idea actually. “It helps me pretend.”
“Honey, you’re not going to find a nice man out there that’s going to want a pieces of this,” LaWanda motioned at Holie. “When he can have a piece of this.” She motioned to herself and slapped her ass. “Why would he want some ugly ass doll anyway?” LaWanda put her arms around Holie’s shoulders. “What it is? Is it you’re Daddy?”
Holie nodded. “I just miss him.”
“Well I’ll take care of you now, you know I will. You just remember that when the time comes.”
“When you want half my paycheck you mean?”
LaWanda sighed. “Shut the fuck up and go dance for that man there in front of the pole. His name is Roule Capitale.” LaWanda stroked the girls wig and ran a soft touch along Holie’s cheek. “If he’s mean, you know where to call me, alright?”
Holie nodded.
“Who’s my girl?”
Holie sighed. “I am.” Every time with this shit, Holie thought.
“Who’s my lemon pop?”
Holie rolled her eyes. “I am.” You dried up old bitch.
“Good. Now go over there and earn me some money.” LaWanda smiled and handed the girl a warmed cloth and some cold cream. “And clean up your face. You look like fucking shit.”
Her cheap ass make up had started to run off her face from the sweat half way through her first set of songs. God damned fucking Annabelle cosmetics, she thought. That’s what she got spending all of her money on a wig instead of good make up.
Coming off the stage, and feeling a small pain in her lower back from the pole twirling, Holie grabbed herself a water from the small fridge waiting offside and waited back stage for her second set. Standing beside her LaWanda, the woman who ran the bar and go go lounge of Dark Moon Rising, grinned.
“You look like shit.” LaWanda Wigwamway said. She had her long black hair parted down the centre and looked like a white trash version of Cher.” LaWanda took a step back and regarded her. “No, honey, you know what you look like?” LaWanda snapped her fingers. “You look like god damned Children of the Corn.” She huffed. “Like one of those creepy British doll kids or something.”
“That’s not even the same movie.” Holie said.
“Bitch, whatever. The point is, honey? What’s with the fucking wig? You’re not Julia Roberts.”
Holie sighed. That had been the idea actually. “It helps me pretend.”
“Honey, you’re not going to find a nice man out there that’s going to want a pieces of this,” LaWanda motioned at Holie. “When he can have a piece of this.” She motioned to herself and slapped her ass. “Why would he want some ugly ass doll anyway?” LaWanda put her arms around Holie’s shoulders. “What it is? Is it you’re Daddy?”
Holie nodded. “I just miss him.”
“Well I’ll take care of you now, you know I will. You just remember that when the time comes.”
“When you want half my paycheck you mean?”
LaWanda sighed. “Shut the fuck up and go dance for that man there in front of the pole. His name is Roule Capitale.” LaWanda stroked the girls wig and ran a soft touch along Holie’s cheek. “If he’s mean, you know where to call me, alright?”
Holie nodded.
“Who’s my girl?”
Holie sighed. “I am.” Every time with this shit, Holie thought.
“Who’s my lemon pop?”
Holie rolled her eyes. “I am.” You dried up old bitch.
“Good. Now go over there and earn me some money.” LaWanda smiled and handed the girl a warmed cloth and some cold cream. “And clean up your face. You look like fucking shit.”
* * *
Holie tried to remember that the pole was really an extension of her body. That was the secret to good pole dancing; you had to become one with the pole, as corny as that sounded.
But it was the truth. You couldn’t come out here and just dance with the pole. You had to welcome it against your body like a lover. Only then would your movements be graceful and elegant (if such a thing could be said about a stripper).
She had trained in classical ballet and modern dance. She had a BA and a Masters Degree in dance and she was here, dancing for men and women who wanted only her body. Holie kept dancing at Dark Moon Rising because it was the only way she could dance.
And when she danced, she felt free, pole or no pole.
She eyed Roule Capitale sitting at the table in front of her. She bent down so that he could get a good look at her tits. She knew from the motions that he was making that he was probably jerking it under the table.
She didn’t care one way or another. If the men were horny, they paid more. She sighed and bent down when he motioned to her. He tucked a fifty dollar bill in between her breasts.
“You are very pretty.” He said, his accent heavy and alluring.
“Thanks. You’re not too bad yourself handsome.” She said.
As she danced, she tried not to let the tears fall from her eyes but was unsuccessful. They streaked down her face like scars. Instead of making her ugly however, the tears added a depth to her performance.
How odd, she thought. Only when we are horribly depressed can we truly be creative; it’s because we’re always wishing for more.
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