Sex in the Abattoir



Sex in the Abattoir

I'd just been ripped from the nourishing teat of the Lusty Lady--kicked out of the litter you might say. But it was time; I had seen all I could see in that place. And while many would have gone pale to see such things, my mind was like some kind of possessed machine, wanting to wrap itself around every possible scene . . . it was restless.

On my silent sojourn home, I passed the competition: The Champ Arcade. The Champ's fateful sign stared down at me and I felt as if it were drawing me in, seeming to recognize my predicament. I would have never given that place a second thought before that night. The Champ had a reputation. There were stories and the girls at the Lusty knew 'em all. There was the story about the girl who turned blue and died of a heroin overdose in the dressing room and there were stories of girls fucking customers every way in the hallways. The girls at the Lusty Lady were of the Indie Girl Finishing School variety and the Champ girls were more like the Switchblade Sisters. However, I remembered hearing recently that the ownership had changed and that they were trying to fix up the place.

Two weeks later . . .

I sat in the manager's office of the Champ, filling out my contract.

"Do you have your license?" the manager asked in a southern drawl. He was a young, skinny guy, with long messy hair. He wore skin tight acid-washed jeans and a pin-striped button-up shirt, which hung open.

"No, I didn't know you needed one to work here. Is that a problem?"

"No, no. You can start today . . . just get it when you can," he said, smiling.

I handed him the paperwork. "I think that's it."

"Yeah, looks good. I guess you're part of the pack now," he said, patting me on the back.

The manager showed me around the place. The dressing room was filthy and devoid of any comfort. The counters were littered with dead fast food bags and heaped ash trays. He explained to me that the main stage was under construction and that I would just be working out of a booth. He went on to explain that the new management fired most of the girls who were working here so I would be alone during the day until they hired more. He gave me the rundown on how things worked and then he left me to go about my business.

The Champ was unlike any place I worked before. The booths were actually themed rooms. There was a room decorated like a doctor's office, a room that looked like a French parlor, and a room resembling a dungeon. And if that was not enough to satisfy the desires of the average gent, there were also rooms where you could watch a girl take a shower or a bubble bath.

I was told that I could work out of any room, especially since I would be alone. After meticulously scrutinizing each room, I decided upon the doctor's office. Even if there was e-coli lurking in some deep dark fissure, my mind might be tricked to think otherwise once atop the examining table.

The first day came and went and although it was relatively dead, I still left with over $200.00, which was more than I would have made at the Lusty--but then again, I wouldn't have had to spread my ass cheeks either. But all and all, it was a good day. I could do this, I thought.

The next day was busier. I had several customers during the lunch hour. It was getting so bad that the customers were complaining that they were slipping on the floor and the janitor seemed to be conveniently absent. One customer refused to do a show in the booth.

"Can you do a show in the French parlor?" he asked with a thick German accent.

"Sure, no problem." I said. "I'll meet you over there."

I could see his shadow beyond the shade when I opened the door to the parlor. I walked over and closed the shade to the hallway and then laid down on the bed in front of the window, waiting for him to put the money into the bill acceptor.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes, baby. I'm ready for you."

A couple seconds later the shade began to rise.

"Hi," he said. "I don't think I've seen you before."

"I'm new. Today's my second day."

"What's your name?"

"Natalia."

"Natalie."

"Natalia."

"Oh, Natalia. That's nice."

"Thank you."

He turned his head a certain way, which caught my attention. Something was familiar about him. It was as if I had seen that angle before. My mind raced, going through archives, trying to make a match. He was an attractive young man with a muscular build. He had blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore a wedding band.

"I like your body," he said.

"Thanks," I said as I moved around the bed like a lynx.

He started to touch himself through his slacks and I could see that he was hard. I slipped the straps of my bra off my shoulders and was reaching around back to undo the hooks when the match was made. It was Gunter and I hadn't seen him since high school--he was a senior and I was a freshman. He was a foreign exchange student and we were on the same powerlifting team. I'm pretty sure he wanted to fuck me back then. My body froze. I did not remove my bra but when I looked at him I saw that he was starting to undo himself. I didn't know what to do. Should I tell him? No, I shouldn't. It will just make things weird. Besides, he probably won't come in again. But something took over--the voice of reason maybe.

"Wait a minute," I called out.

He looked up at me, startled. "What's wrong?"

"I think I know you."

He started laughing. "Really?"

"Yeah, my name's Cassandra. We used to work out together in high school."

A huge smile spread across his face. "Oh my God!" he said. "Is it really you?"

"Yeah . . . it's really me."

"What are you doing here?"

"Working here and going to school. What about you?"

"I just got married."

"Congrats."

"Thanks."

"You work down here?"

"Yeah, just a couple blocks away."

"On your lunch hour?"

His smile shrunk a little. "Yeah."

"You know, we don't have to do the show," I said.

He started touching himself through his pants again. "Actually, if you don't mind, I'd really like to finish the show."

"Sure, sure. Of course," I replied, not believing my luck.

After the show, he asked for my schedule and said he would be back. However, things at the Champ didn't work out so well after all and I quit shortly thereafter never to see him again.

A month later . . .

My mom calls me up.

"Cassandra."

"Yeah, mom."

"Someone left a message on my voicemail, looking for your number."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He said his name was Gunter?"

"He called?"

"Yeah, he said he ran into you downtown the other day. He said he lost your number."

"Really."

"Do I know Gunter?"

"Yeah, mom. I think you met him once. He was the German exchange student who was on my powerlifting team in high school."

"Oh, Gunter. Now I remember. He was such a nice boy."

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