Art by Lisa Petrucci

Lisa Petrucci


Swan Lake



Swan Lake

He stumbles through the front door with his derelict hair and clothes covered in filth like he does every Friday night. He sits down and waits in silence--his wiry beard resting on his chest. When I come out to greet him, the whole place smells of cheap alcohol. He looks close to death and I think maybe he'd be better off stinking in the waiting room at Harborview. But this is his therapy--probably one of the only things still keeping him alive.

As I walk over to him, he starts to stir. He looks up at me and I sense he's searching, trying to remember if I'm the one.

I reassure him. "Hi, sexy. It's good to see you. Did you miss me?"

He smiles, remembering. "Yeah, I did."

"I missed you, too," I say getting the paperwork ready.

He looks like he couldn't afford the video booths at the local peep show, let alone the ninety dollar fantasy shows he gets here. But he always pulls out a wad of cash and with one eye trying to focus, counts out five twenty dollar bills.

"Keep the change," he jokes. "It's the State's money, anyways."

"Thank you," I say and I take him down the hall to the same room I've been taking him for the past three months--the one the other girls don't like to use. They don't like the way he smells.

As soon as he steps into the room, he starts stripping, leaving a trail of clothes from the door to the couch. I tell him I'll be back, but he never answers. He's in his own world, standing naked before a mirrored wall, sizing up his reflection.

When I come back a couple minutes later, he's still there, admiring his flesh.

"Do you have your music tonight?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says, pulling a CD out of his bag and handing it to me.

I walk over to the CD player. "Hmmm . . . Tchaikovsky," I say, putting it in and pressing play.

The music fills the air.

He sits down on a towel spread out on the couch. "I thought you'd like it," he says. "You seem like the type."

"Funny," I say. " I was thinking the same thing about you."

I sit down on the chair, which he places right in front of him. I always sit in the chair like some kind of pseudo psychiatrist--a witness to his madness. Maybe it wasn't such a bad use of the State's money after all.

We spend the first part of the show with our eyes closed, exchanging energy . . . the way he and his sister used to do when they were kids. He showed me how they did it, sitting face-to-face; the palms of their hands and the soles of their feet almost touching.

"Can you feel the energy?" he asks.

"Yes, I can feel it, baby," I say.

We sit that way for a while, exchanging energy. I think I'm getting the raw end of the deal.

He stands up suddenly as if drawn by the music. He faces the mirror and starts stretching and doing side bends.

"What do you think of my body?" he asks.

My eyes take a gander at his portly hirsute physique. "It looks good," I say.

He stands sideways and sucks in air. He places one hand over his stomach, attempting to flatten the bulge.

"I just need to lose this," he says, turning this way and that, assessing the goods. "Then I'll be happy."

He then turns around to take a look at his ass, clenching his cheeks.

"You should feel this," he says, poking his ass with his finger.

"Yeah, looks tight," I say.

He starts dancing to the music. I step back and lean against the wall, watching him leap, promenade and plie--his fingers soft and graceful.

"Wow, you're really good at that." I say.

"I used to do ballet when I was a kid."

"I can tell."

He digressed, standing on his tippy-toes, flexing his calf muscles at me.

"Check 'em out," he says, poking again at his flesh.

"Very nice," I say.

"You should feel them?" he says. "Seriously, you won't believe it."

"I believe you; I can see them from here."

"Come on," he says. "You gotta feel how hard they are."

I knew he was harmless. I'm sure he hadn't been touched by a girl for a long, long time. I felt it was the least I could do; just a small token of humanity. I walk over and poke his calf with the very tip of my finger, withdrawing it quickly.

"Wow, just like a rock!" I say.

Satisfied, he sits back down on the couch and wipes the sweat off his forehead with a towel.

I stand right in front of him, my legs apart.

He starts stroking his placid cock, staring between my legs. I bend my knees a little so the muscles in my legs can be seen. It's how he likes it and it's one of the strangest things anyone has ever asked of me.

His cock starts to grow in his hands.

I move my hips from side to side a little so my legs won't fall asleep.

I tell him he's sexy. He seems to agree with me.

He strokes and strokes like he's working toward something--something that's gonna take him a while. I wonder if he'll be able to do it, or if maybe the alcohol's gonna win out tonight. His eyes start rolling back into his head and he struggles to bring them forward, blinking and shaking his head, trying to focus again on my thighs.

I tell him I want to see him do it tonight. I want to see it real bad.

He nods and keeps at it, while Tchaikosky blares in the background.

I run my hands over my thighs, telling him how strong they are.

That seems to do it.

His face twists up in agony and his whole body curls up in a ball like he's been punched in the stomach.

I fetch him a hot towel and wait for him outside the door while he recovers. The drunk ones are never to be left alone as they often find their way out into the hallway, stumbling about in the dark like lost children.

I hear him hum as he puts on his clothes. The music stops and I knock on the door.

He steps out of the room and we walk down the hallway in silence. In the lobby, I tell him I had a great time. He smiles, curtsies, and stumbles out the front door.

I wonder how he'll manage.

I grab the cleaning supplies and put on a pair of latex gloves. I walk back to the room and his smell hits me in the face. I empty a half can of Lysol in the room, trying to kill the stench.

One of the mistresses walks by the room and looks in. "I don't know how you deal with that guy," she says, holding her nose. "You couldn't pay me enough."

I thought about what she said as I scooped up the soiled towels.

I knew the answer, but I knew she'd never get it . . . not too many do.





Sas Christian



Sas Christian




Some Know

Some Know

He exits the theater and walks past my booth on the way to the bathroom everyday. He never gets a show; he prefers to watch the girls do the nasty on the big screen. He has white hair and pink skin like paper. His frame is large and he walks with dignity like a World War II vet. The clerk says he's been coming in for years, showing up in the morning and leaving at night. He's the most faithful soul in this place.

He is open minded for his age--never complains about the tranny porn they play on Wednesday nights. He just quietly sits amongst the mix, enjoying the sundry shows.

One day he comes into my booth and asks me how much for a show.

When I tell him, he puts in a twenty.

I joke that I see him everyday.

He says he's been trying to cut down.

He asks if I work out of here.

I tell him I've been tempted, but . . .

He says he'll pay me two hundred dollars for an hour.

I ask him what he wants me to do.

He tells me he's got diabetes real bad--can't risk an infection.

I tell him I'm sorry to hear that.

He tells me he was thinking just a private dance--maybe a hand job.

I ask him what the special occasion is.

He says he's going away--to a place where these places don't exist.

I think how nice that would be.

He slips me his number and a five dollar bill through the tip slot.

I take off my top and shake my tits.

He smiles and claps his hands.

I take off my panties and show him my bare pussy.

He pretends to faint.

I dance around the booth, flashing him pink here and there--but not too much. He lived through the war; I don't want to kill him now.

For his sake, the curtain falls.

He tells me goodbye and to call him.

I smile and tell him I will.

I lie . . . again.

The next day, I wait for him to walk by. I have my lines ready to go, but he never shows.

I don't worry at first. But then one day turns into many.

He never misses a day, let alone two weeks. His absence is surely out of death or disconcertion.

Sadly, it is to be the former. Nothing spreads faster than the news of death and suddenly everyone was talking about it.

I heard it from the janitor. He said someone found his body a couple of days ago. He didn't know how long he'd been dead-- just that he died alone in his sleep. Such a shame we must all die alone.




Art by John Currin



John Currin


Soul Man



Thomas Foth

Soul Man

He bites his nails nervously as sweat forms above his quivering lip. He secretly watches her from the bathroom across the hallway as she lies in her booth, lovingly rubbing the sides of her pregnant belly, looking much too young to be in such a state. She looks as innocent as the Virgin Mary pregnant with baby Jesus--a sign from God that he is a sick bastard. He tries ignoring his self-deprecating thoughts, telling him to go home and pray . . . pray for forgiveness. But he is a weak man; he has the will power of an indolent child. And so he finds himself here, searching for some kind of peace . . . the kind the mistresses said they couldn't give. Maybe tonight will be different; maybe this Madonna will assuage his pain.

The janitor walks into the bathroom, wheeling a mop bucket.

"You done in here?" the janitor barks.

Startled, the man turns on the faucet and starts washing his hands. "Yeah, just finishing up," he says.

The janitor stands in silence, resting on his mop. His face impassive.

"Thanks," the man says as he leaves the bathroom.

The Madonna's eyes are resting now and so he ducks into her booth, hoping she won't notice.

He pauses not wanting to wake her, but finally picks up the phone. "Hi . . . you awake?"

She struggles to sit up. "Yeah, just relaxing a little. It's been slow."

"So, how does this thing work?'

"20 for full nudity, 40 for masturbation, 60 for toys."

"What if I just want to talk?"

"Just talking starts at 40."

"40 for just talking?"

"Yeah, talking's considered role playing and role playing's considered fantasy and fantasy shows start at 40."

"Oh, I get it." He nods and puts two 20's into the bill acceptor not wanting to upset her.

The shade lifts, revealing a beautiful young pregnant woman, wearing a half-shirt and the hint of pink panties beneath a large belly with a flower painted on it.

"Hi, sexy," she says, twirling a piece of her long brown hair. "What's your name?"

"Bob," he says, nervously.

"Nice to meet you, Bob. My name's Rose."

"Nice to meet you, Rose."

"You want me to take something off first, Bob?"

"No, that's OK. You can keep your clothes on if you'd like. That's not what I'm here for."

She picks up a lighter and a pack of American Spirits. "Pregnant women not your thing, Bob?"

"Oh, no . . . of course not. Pregnant women are the most beautiful creatures on earth."

"I'd have to agree with you. I actually do better here when I'm pregnant," she says, bringing a cigarette to her lips. "You mind if I smoke?"

He hesitates. "No, go right ahead."

"Thanks," she says, lighting up. "You're probably thinking I shouldn't be smoking in my condition."

"Well . . . I'm not one to tell a woman what to do with her body."

Her forehead wrinkles. "I know it's not good. Believe me, I've tried to quit," she says, exhaling. "But I'm not big on will power . . . especially these days."

"Yeah, I can relate."

"So, what did you want to talk about, baby?"

"Well . . . it might sound a little weird."

She laughs. "I specialize in weird."

"Well . . . I have this fantasy and no one seems to want anything to do with it."

Her brow lifts. She leans closer to the glass. "R e a l l y . . . "

He laughs. "Really."

"Tell me . . . I'll do it. Whatever it is," she says, smiling.

"I dunno . . . you seem like a nice girl. I don't want to trouble you in your state."

"What . . . you into kids, animals or somethin' ?"

His face scrunches up. "No, nothing like that."

"Cause those are the only fantasies I don't do. Oh . . . I don't poop or pee either, sorry."

He clears his throat, leans closer to the glass, and whispers. "I want you to take my soul."

Her smile fades. "Take your soul?"

"Yeah, take my soul."

"You want me to be the devil? I mean, I'm no Christian or anything, but . . ."

"No, nothing like that. I just want to be totally submissive to you. I want you to have my soul."

"Maybe you should see a dominatrix for this. I mean, I've never took anyone's soul before. I dunno . . ."

"Oh, I'm sure you can do it. I have faith in you."

She smiles weakly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah!" he says, enthusiastically. "Besides, I do most of the talking. I have it written down on a piece of paper." He reaches into his pocket.

She bites down on her lip. "OK . . ."

"Let's see here," he says, trying to make out the words on the wrinkled paper. "Oh, Goddess, I stand before you in all your beauty and greatness as your servant. What ever your wish is, I shall grant it."

He holds up the paper for her to read her lines.

She squints, trying to make out the words. "Take off your clothes, slave."

"Yes, Goddess, whatever you desire." He holds the paper between his teeth and starts taking off his clothes until he is standing bare naked. He holds the paper up to the window.

She smiles as she reads the next line. "I want you to touch yourself."

"Like this?' he asks, touching his penis lightly.

She looks away from the paper, improvising instead. "No, harder!"

He starts stroking his penis faster. "Does this please you, Goddess?'

"No! I want you to squeeze it tighter."

He drops the paper, leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. His grip tightens around his penis as his hand strokes faster and faster. "How does this please you, Goddess?" he asks, gasping.

"I want your soul, slave. When you come your soul will be mine. I want you to come now!''

His eyes burn into her's. The veins in his neck and forearm pop; his face turns bright red. "I am your servant, Goddess. I give you my soul," he cries, coming into a tissue.

All is silent.

He throws the tissue into the garbage and grabs another one to wipe the sweat from his face.

"Is that it, baby?" she asks.

"Yeah," he smiles, wearily. "Thank you. That was wonderful"

"I'm glad I could help."

He starts gathering his things. "Hey, good luck with the baby."

"Thanks . . . but I'm not keeping it."

"Really?"

"No, I'm giving it up for adoption. I'm too young for kids. Couldn't get an abortion though."

"No?"

"No, I kept wondering about the soul. Some people say they have one right away."

He pauses. "Sounds reasonable."

"Hey, I want you to know if you decide you want your soul back, I totally understand. I'm here Monday through Thursday during the evenings."

He bites his thumbnail. "And then you can take it again?"

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