Amateur Night at the Bubblegum Kittikat Read online

  Meat Curtains and her pimp weren’t the usual kind of South Florida trash. Our scumbags have money, ill-gotten and recent for the most part. They like pills, brand names and hot pink leopard prints. Implants from hair to tits, even pecs and ass and bad plastic surgery performed by cheap doctors in the Dominican Republic. Houses done up like Caesar’s Palace. Our trash walks into the posh steakhouse in Daisy Dukes and gets pissed because there’s no meat to be found in the beefsteak tomato salad. These poor Ozark meth cookers with their Deliverance smiles, Meat Curtains with three inches of black roots hanging in her beady eyes and The Pimp with his greasy, center parted mullet, could never hang with the high falutin’ South Florida sleaze we were used to. Fancy for them would be ordering the Frisco Thickburger at Hardees and eating it inside instead of in the parking lot.

  Meat Curtains went on first and the crowd went wild because she was a freak show with a science experiment crotch. Melissa, one of the cocktail waitresses, set her empty tray down on top of my cigar case and looked at the stage in horror.

  “What the fuck is wrong with that girl’s pussy?” she asked.

  A frat boy in a Gators tee shirt yelled out from the audience

  “Holy shit, is that a dick??”

  From the first time Meat Curtains tugged off her thong and threw it into the audience, we’d all been asking the same question. By then, I’d seen a lot of vaginas, and no, if you’re wondering, I hadn’t gotten sick of it yet. They were all different. Some girls had neat little peaches with all the folds and flesh tucked inside out of sight, while others shared hints of pink, like a few enticing petals peeking through the rails of a fence. A few showed it all and this kind of vagina made a lot of money because customers love a good view. Meat Curtains had the last sort of vagina and then some. It looked like she had a cube steak between her legs. Folds and slices of dark, wrinkled skin hung so long and loose that they flapped when she waggled her hips and whereas most women possess the standard vulvar anatomy, it seemed like this girl had a lot of extra parts stuffed inside her labia majora. Was she born that way? Had something happened to her and if so, what could mutilate a vagina to that degree? These are the questions I couldn’t help but ask, but which sadly, I would never learn the answers to. We’d enlisted Iris to ask her one night, figuring only Iris would be brash enough to go up and ask a stranger what was up with her cooter. It didn’t end well. Meat Curtains grabbed a handful of crotch flesh and shook it at Iris telling her to leave her fucking pussy alone. Then she made a comment about Iris’s teeth, Iris told her to look at her own teeth and before you know it hair was being torn out and poor Charlie was pulling them apart.

  The audience at the Amateur Contest consistently loved anything bizarre and ridiculous and would clap, holler and whistle boisterously for anything that fit that bill, so often our winners, like Ms. Chocolate Thunderpussy, scored ironic victories, though it appeared none of them realized what had happened or if they did, who cared because they just made five Benjamins. Meat Curtains never would have won had she not been a vaginal sideshow. Lord knows the girl couldn’t dance. She’d take the stage, pull herself out of her tee shirt, wiggle out of her jeans and then manage to get herself tangled up in her thong and she undressed with such a lack of grace and self-awareness that you’d swear she thought she was at home getting ready to throw on a pair of sweatpants and flop back on the sofa for a Maury Povich marathon. Once Meat Curtains realized “Highway to Hell” was playing and that a few hundred people were looking at her, she’d attempt a half-hearted strut, prance a little, stand still for a few long seconds staring blankly and then scuff over and stand by the pole which she’d grab and look at, trying to figure out what to do next. Sometimes she’d turn around and shake her butt, giving it a weak spank and then she’d lie on the stage and roll around a bit before finally humping the floor, which made her tired so after a couple seconds of that she’d lie there some more to catch her breath. Her movements, because you cannot call what she did dancing by any stretch, had no rhythm, no reason. She had the herky-jerkies of a tweeked out speed freak and it hardly seemed she knew where she was or what was happening.

  Casey knew that Meat Curtains was a hard act to follow and even harder act to beat, but she’d done her homework attending every Amateur Night for the past six weeks, taking notes. She practiced at home, got some of the seasoned dancers who were friendly enough to give her tips. She stayed late when her shift ended watching and remembering the thrusts, sways, neck arches and pouts that got the biggest payouts and then added in her own flourishes. She knew exactly what to do, but she never realized her biggest asset was that she looked pre-pubescent.

  Choosing the right song to get the crowd going helps hook the audience and sets a mood, creating the right illusion and bringing the dancer’s character to life. Casey chose well with Britney Spears’ “Hit Me Baby One More Time.” If only she could have worn the schoolgirl kilt, but once she got naked it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. For a moment the crowd hushed with a collective gasp. Was that a little girl on stage? With Casey’s overbite, which gave her the face of a nibbling bunny, her deep, double dimples, the auburn pageboy, bangs and all, flat chest, and the whiskerless satin slit just inches below her outie bellybutton, she really was a pedophile’s wet dream, a real life nymphette. But it couldn’t be a little girl on stage. They’d never allow that. It would be illegal, yet there she was, so it must be ok, you could imagine the men in the crowd thinking and when they finally figured it out, I swear, you could have probably heard the hollering fifty miles away in South Miami. Casey barely needed her artful pole work. Her cartwheels might have been overkill, but she flipped, skipped and somersaulted her way to a standing ovation, ending her routine with her arms in the air like she’d just landed a perfect ten, back handspring off the vault in Sydney.

  Chris had to hire Casey after that. She started calling herself Amberlyn and made enough money in one week to pay for the new rack she wanted, except by then she’d finally realized she’d be richer without the augmentation. She took the cash and used it as the down payment on a new white Mustang convertible. In less than a month, Amberlyn was our most popular dancer and our biggest earner by far.

  29

  Had it been any other day that January, I probably would have let the phone go to voicemail at eight in the morning. I’d only gotten in from work five hours earlier and I would have loved to have slept in ’til noon, but I had a flight to catch, so I was awake, though barely, and I’d definitely need a few cans of Red Bull and a couple stops at Starbucks to get me through the rest of the day. I was surprised to see Angelina’s number on the caller ID. I’d gone to a New Year’s party with her at Money Mike’s house, but that was two weeks earlier. We’d worn my sister’s old prom dresses, loose on Angelina and tight on me, and spent the evening hovering over a table laden with stone crab claws on a veritable glacier of ice. The party wasn’t quite our scene, too many cokeheads, but most of the Kittikat employees went and we wanted to see Money Mike’s opulent, waterfront mansion with its impressive collection of red, blue and green Murano glass chandeliers. I’d spent the evening chatting up a handsome British doctor named Robin who seemed as out of place as I did, but come midnight I saw him bestow his New Year’s kiss on another guy and not two days later I saw a tacky ad in the back of the local, free, news rag, The New Times, advertising his pain clinic. I sure can pick ’em. Gay and prescribing oxycodone to junkies. Angelina had had better luck than me. She’d recently met a Brazilian trainer at the gym and was hot and heavy.

  “What are you doing up so early?” I asked.

  “Heading to class from Thiago’s. School starts today,” Angelina said, “But that’s not why I’m calling. You have got to hear this one.”

  “Do tell then!”

  “You will never believe this. That jerk Rick called me last night wanting me to go out with him again. I was like please, I am not interested and I’m dating someone else anyway. So then he wanted to talk and he told me he’s bor
ed now and has nobody to hang out with because Adam’s girlfriend moved in with him this week.”

  “His girlfriend?” I could barely talk, “How do you get a girlfriend and move in with her that fast? I saw him in November. Barely two months ago and he said he was too busy for a relationship or some stupid crap. How is this possible?”

  “Umm, sweetie, because he had a girlfriend all along.”

  “He did not!”

  “Yes he did. He’s been with this girl for a couple years. Apparently he is like crazy over her and she just messes with his head all the time. It was long distance and she lived in New Hampshire. Her name is Sunny and she’s supposed to be like amazingly hot or something, and she would come down like every other weekend or so for a few days, but now he finally got her to move down here full time and move in with him. Idiot.”

  I made a little high pitched grunt of disbelief.

  “You’re not still sad about him are you? He wasn’t even cute. He was gross and a complete waste of your time.”

  “I just. I just. I don’t know. I can’t believe it. I’m in shock. It makes total sense though. He called me when she wasn’t there. He couldn’t take me out because he might see someone who knew he had a girlfriend already. No wonder his house was so pretty. She probably decorated it!” I said.

  “Well she can have it. Who cares. She has to live with his little pee-pee and we all know he cheated on her with you. Who wants that?”

  “Ugghh. Not me. I feel so stupid. How could I have been so naive?”

  I was mad, hurt, sad and humiliated. How could this guy have done this to me knowing all along what I had gone through with Evan? He had to be a heartless sociopath to lie and seduce a vulnerable girl like me. But I allowed it to happen. I shouldn’t have slept with him and I should have insisted that he take me out a lot before I would even consider going to his house, but I was needy and I wanted to feel loved so badly that I overlooked the obvious signs and ignored the red flags.

  “It’s ok,” Angelina said, “It’s happened to the best of us. The key is not letting it happen again.”

  “Oh you better believe it’s not happening again,” I said, “But hey, I have to get in the shower. I have to be at the airport in an hour.”

  “No way! You’re going on vacation?”

  “Not exactly. I’m going to a wedding in Atlanta. My best friend up there, Rachel, is getting married this weekend.”

  “Are you are bridesmaid?”

  “Um, no actually. Just a guest.”

  “Didn’t you just say she was your best friend?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know. It’s a small wedding. She comes from a pretty weird family. Should definitely be interesting and I’m dying to get back up to Georgia. I miss it so much.”

  It was true. I couldn’t wait to get back to my old home and being there would surely keep my mind off of Adam and his apparent girlfriend. I thought once I hit the Georgia red clay, it would be like before, like nothing had changed. How wrong I was.

  30

  Rachel waited for me at baggage claim. Her mother had driven her to the Atlanta airport to pick me up because Rachel didn’t have a license and her mom circled outside while I waited for my luggage to tumble down the conveyor belt. I saw Rachel last the day Evan and I broke up, and since then she’d lost some weight and cropped her hair into a short and flattering cap of dark brown curls which framed her round, fair face and accented her blue eyes. I did the math in my head. It had only been seven months and back in June she hadn’t even met this guy she’d be marrying in a few days. Young Jesus Freaks move fast I guess. They have to if they want to have sex. Still, the speedy courtship shocked me. I talked to Rachel a few times a week the first month and then our conversations tapered to once a week, then once a month. In September she’d met a guy she liked and by our October call she was already asking my advice on invitations and favors.

  “You’re going to make the most beautiful bride,” I sighed as we hugged.

  Rachel let go first, stepped back and with her arms outspread, sized me up.

  “Look at you! Oh my gosh. I don’t know what to say!” she gasped.

  “Thanks!” I said.

  She leaned over and whispered in my ear.

  “Your cleavage is showing.”

  “Looks good huh?” I said, doing a little twirl.

  Rachel turned bright red.

  “Maybe you should pull your sweater up a little bit. There are men in here and my mom’s not going to like it if she sees you like that.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “You know, with your, your breasts hanging out and your skirt’s pretty snug.”

  “What? I thought this was a classy outfit. I just got it at Ann Taylor for my trip,” I explained.

  “It’s very pretty and all, but, hmmm. It’s chilly out anyways. Maybe if you keep your jacket on. Gosh, things are really different down in Florida, aren’t they?”

  She gave me a look of sympathy.

  “You got that right,” I said.

  31

  The wedding was on Sunday and I’d come on Wednesday to help with last minute preparations. I’d be staying with Rachel at her new home, which she’d already furnished and decorated though she and her fiancé hadn’t officially moved in yet. They weren’t allowed to spend time together unchaperoned because you just never know what trouble young, unmarried couples might get themselves into without someone trustworthy around to stop them. Caleb would be staying with his parents and Rachel’s mother would stay at Rachel’s new house with us because apparently I was not deemed trustworthy enough and might allow Caleb to sneak in and indulge in some pre-wedding shenanigans. I didn’t understand how she could marry a guy she’d only known a few months and with whom she’d never even been alone, but you know what? These people were insane. So yeah, I guess I wouldn’t be a good chaperone because I am all for premarital sex. I’d have no problem with Caleb sneaking in and getting right in bed with his betrothed. You have to try the pants on before you buy them as they say.

  Rachel called herself a PK, short for “Pastor’s Kid” and though her dad was ordained, he hadn’t preached or had a church of his own in years. In fact, he hadn’t had a job of any kind for a long time. Various sales positions hadn’t worked out for him and the promises of wealth made by late night infomercials, programs that swore they’d show you how to invest in real estate and stocks, were never fulfilled. The Cave family struggled and relied on help from Rachel’s grandparents as well as their church members to get by. Since her family was poor, she wouldn’t have a fantasy wedding, just a simple affair with punch and cake in the church fellowship hall, but Rachel didn’t need a lot – a white dress, a few roses. She just wanted to be married and she’d been that way since I’d known her.

  Coming from a hardcore bunch of holy rollers, Rachel grew up brainwashed into thinking that the end all and be all for a girl was for a good Christian man to choose her as his wife and the mama to his babies. There was no going to school, no getting a job, no working outside the home. Rachel’s mom was that way too and it used to drive me nuts hearing them lament their financial woes when Mrs. Cave, with two grown daughters who didn’t need her constant smothering, could have easily gotten off her big ass and gotten a job. But no, I guess Jesus wouldn’t have approved of that now would he? Mrs. Cave had to stay home and clean the house and make sure Big Daddy Cave had his supper on the table. Rachel bought into it though. I guess she didn’t know and hadn’t been prepared for any other sort of life. I’d met Rachel when she was still a teenager through my former neighbor, Merle, himself a religious fanatic, and even back then, her parents already expected her to be actively searching for a mate. Merle had been a potential candidate, but he’d decided she was too young for him as he was in his thirties. Her parents had been devastated. The entire time I lived in Atlanta, Rachel ate, breathed, slept and peed marriage. She turned eighteen and wept that she wasn’t engaged. You’d have thought she was a forty-five year old sp
inster the way she acted and of course I always tried to talk some sense into her about it. My greatest victory there was convincing her to actually get a job and persuading her parents to allow it. It was in a Christian bookstore. I told them all she might meet a nice guy there. Turns out I was right and now she was marrying him.

  Rachel never lived in the heart of Atlanta like I did. She was from a small suburb almost an hour away and so far west that you may as well have been in Alabama, so we had a long drive from Hartsfield International. The town was like something out of a Eudora Welty story –a Main Street USA , full of bickering busy-bodies. Before I moved away, since I had a car and a license, I used to drive all the way out there to get her and bring her into the city and every time I picked her up I felt like I was rescuing her. I’d have fantasies about driving clear to California with her, helping her escape the oppressive life her parents inflicted on her, showing her that there was more out there. I wanted her to know that fine cuisine wasn’t boiled peanuts, there was more to art than Thomas Kinkade portraits and the Left Behind series of books were not great literature.