Friday Pussy Blogging



This week . . . yours truly :)


The Photography of Mary Ellen Mark



Make sure you check out the picture of Christina Ricci in the "Celebrity Portrait" section. I posted it first, but then took if off, fearing they'd throw me in jail.

Oh . . . and the movie stills are great, too.


Savasana Sweetheart

It was just past nine in the morning when I arrived to work. When the old man working behind the front counter caught sight of me, he immediately barked, "You're late and Silky called in sick! I've had to turn away three customers already because there weren't any girls on stage."

I kept a steppin'.

"And you know what that means, don't you?" he shot after me. "It means the company lost money! Lucky for you, one of 'em said he'd be back in about ten minutes . . . so hurry up and get back there."

I didn't look back. I didn't need to. I could see him clearly in my mind's eye: the deep crease in his forehead, his eyes burning over the tops of his glasses, shaking that bony finger at me.

I stepped into the dressing room and all was eerily still and dull. Most mornings I'd walk in to find Silky prancing around half-naked, music blaring, the room all up in smoke. She always had a cigarette hanging out of her pretty little mouth--a long red-grey ash hanging precariously off the tip. But today, there was only the nauseating smell of stale cigarette smoke, making me long for the fresh stuff.

I dropped my bags and started toward my locker when the music on the main stage turned on, blaring Good Vibrations by the Beach Boys. I cursed the clerk and that damn oldies station he had us listening to these days. He tries to tell us it's good for business--that the guys really like it. Maybe fifty years ago they liked it, and even if they liked it now, it was something they tapped their toe to in the garage bent over a greasy engine, not while they beat it to a young hot girl.

I opened my locker and the stage lights flashed on next. They turned off and then back on again--the code for a customer wanting a stage show. I was still wearing my street attire: faded black jeans, hooded sweatshirt, and a pair of worn-out black converse. My face hadn't a smudge of makeup and my hair was an unwashed disaster. I had planned on donning a wig, but there wasn't enough time for that now. The old man was working himself into a frenzy with the lights, flashing them on and off like a strobe. He'd surely pop a vessel if I didn't hustle. I quickly stripped down to my bra and full bottom cotton panties--the kind I wear at home--ran a couple of fingers through my hair and headed for the stage sans heels.

A nicely dressed business man stood in the far left-hand corner booth, staring blankly ahead with his mouth agape as he beat it madly. I followed his gaze down to a girl, lying face down in the filthy red carpet with her panties pulled down to her knees. Her corpulent ass was ungracefully hiked in the air and her crack wore a thick greasy sheen. Her right arm stretched out toward a large, dark green, double-headed dildo. I felt as if I had just stumbled upon some perverted crime scene. I walked toward the man in the window, but he wouldn't look at me. His eyes stayed fixed on the girl, while his arm worked like a piston.

When I got to the window, his shade started to fall. I knelt down and yelled through the tip slot. "You could at least tip her for that that!" I said. I could see him through the tip slot, wiping himself off with a tissue, doing up his slacks and straigthening his suit. He picked up his briefcase without saying a word and walked out.

My attention shifted back to the girl. I knelt down beside her and brushed the tangled mess of hair from her face. It was Honey, the new girl, stinking horribly of hard alcohol and cheap perfume. She had a purple ostrich egg of an eye. I figured she must have gotten tossed working last night, fell down, and passed out--or so I hoped. I couldn't believe the old man hadn't kicked her out. He was either blind or he secretly had a heart, letting her sleep it off. I shook her shoulder and she stirred.

"Hey, Honey," I said, "Are you OK?"

She strained her head up and pried open a watery red eye--the good one. "Yeah, just let me sleep a little longer," she muttered, "I promise I'll leave then. Just a few more hours--that's all I need." Her head dropped back down to her forearm. I shook her shoulder again.

"But you're on stage naked," I pleaded, "and a customer just beat it to you for free."

"I don't give a fuck," she mumbled into her arm.

She wasn't moving. It was clear I was going to have to get her off stage somehow. I mean, I certainly couldn't work with her just lying like that in the background, looking like a corpse. The customers would surely see her . . . and they'd probably try to get me to use that dildo on her. Guys are weird that way. I once worked with a girl who partied all night and slept all day in her booth. You'd be amazed how many customers passed me by, choosing to go knock on her window instead.

I looked around the stage. There was a bean bag chair off to the side, which the girls sometimes used for their shows. I looked back over at Honey. She looked heavy. I was no wimp, but I had a feeling she might put up a fight, start swinging once I started dragging her. I could cover her up with the bean bag chair, I thought. I wouldn't have to move her then. I decided against it, fearing she might suffocate. I rolled Honey onto her back. She muttered something, but didn't move. I then lifted her, holding her under the arms. I was just about ready to drag her, when I heard the whir of the bill acceptor. I laid her back down to the ground. She groaned and curled up into a ball. I turned around and saw the light turn on over the middle, one-way shaded window. I wiggled over to the tip slot and gave him the spiel: five to see my tits; ten for full nudity.

"Hey, no offense," the customer said, "but I was wondering what that other girl looks like over there."

"The woman laying on the ground?" I asked shrilly.

"Yeah," he said, "I mean, no offense, you're really cute, but I like bigger girls."

"Listen, buddy," I said, trying to be Buddhist, "if you haven't noticed, the other girl's takin' a little break. I'm the only one working right now and if you don't like what I got, maybe you should come back another time." I waited for the whir of the bill acceptor, thinking he'd come to his senses, but nothing happened. He walked out of the booth instead.

I walked back over to Honey and lifted her again. She was heavy, much heavier than she looked. I decided to pull her onto the bean bag chair, and drag her that way instead. It worked pretty well and I was able to get her into the booth without much of a fight. I covered her with a blanket and closed the window to the hallway so she could sleep in peace. I was just about ready to jump out when a man ducked into the booth and picked up the phone. "How much for a two girl show?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, baby," I said, "I'm the only one working right now."

"What about the other girl?" he asked.

"She's not feeling well," I explained. "She's taking a nap."

I could see him through the crack in the shade. He was a handsome young man with a glint in his eye. "Do you think she would mind if you did a show while she slept?" he asked. "I mean . . . I would pay her, too."

I looked over at Honey peacefully curled up, clutching the blanket right up under her chin like a baby. Fuck no, she wouldn't mind, I thought. She needed the money more than anyone I knew--she'd do it for five dollars. I shook her. "Honey, there's a customer who wants a two girl show," I said. "He said he'll pay you just to lay there."

"Okay," she slurred, "whatever you say."

I looked back over at the customer. "All right, but no touching her while she's sleeping," I said. "I may be a lot of things, but I'm no molester."

He slipped two fifties into the hole under the window. Their edges were inches from my finger. "A hundred to do the show and a hundred more if you come," he said. The deal was sealed.

By the end of the shift, I had a fist full of dollars. Turned out me and Honey were quite the team after all. I rolled out of the booth and started getting ready to go. Honey rolled out a few minutes later, yawning and stretching.

"Damn," she said. "How long was I out?"

"You were out before I got here," I told her.

"What time is it?" she asked, rubbing her swollen eye.

I told her. "Shit!" she cried. "Goddamn my head's all spun around! What day is it?"

"Forget about that," I said, handing her three hundred dollars. "This is what you made tonight." She took it and counted it, incredulous. "Goddamn! I've never made this much money, ever in one night!"

"You were hot tonight, baby!" I said.

Her mouth was open as she searched her brain for memories that weren't there.

"Hey, by the way, what happened to your eye?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah," she said, patting the side of her face. "It must've happened last night when I fell out of my booth. I think I hit my head on the lockers."

"Well, I hope you feel better," I said, heading for the door. "I hate to run, but my cab's waiting."

Honey stood there staring at the money. "Wow!" she said, "I can really use this. Thanks!"

I opened the door and paused. "Oh . . . just one more thing," I said, "Thanks for the orgasm."


The Photography of Araki Nobuyoshi




Pulp Feng Shui




The Photography of Bruce Davidson




Art by Romare Bearden



Reclining Nude

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