BETWEEN ME AND THE BODY
by Christopher Ryan
I said I'd never date a stripper. Then there were three of them. Years apart, but always in the deep of winter, dirty snow lingering like ash, people walking down the center of the street. None of the women were in the business anymore, but the idea haunted. A footnote, a distant hum like that of a wasp in a vase. “I hate my job,” Carrie said, spreading out the want ads on the bed, “and what I made in one night of stripping is more than I make all week serving coffee.”
“But their hands,” I said, “always grabbing and stroking.”
“So? They're just hands. Nothing goes inside.”
“And the sickness of it all…”
“No. It feels good. For me and them.”
That I believed. I took in the sickness myself. I convinced Carrie to wear her high school cheerleader's jacket while we screwed, thereby enacting revenge on a younger version of myself. One time Lila dressed up like a hooker and ground against me in the street, laughing at me while my body contradicted my protestations. Then there was the time she and I were parked a meter or two from traffic, under the mothy sodium lights, crammed into the driver's seat...
But they never danced for me.
“If I can't do it for money,” Lila said, “I won't do it for love.”
“You and I have never used that word.”
“But you still love me.”
“I will if you dance.”
“See,” she said, “now you get it. The men think I love them for just those few minutes. That’s what they pay for. That’s power.”
“That's not power, that's deception.”
“The difference?” she asked, untangling her jacket from the sheets and shutting my apartment door so quietly that I heard thousands of them slamming between myself and the nearest vinyl-covered lounge.
Then there was Jeanette, who had only performed at parties, with props – nothing animate, just plastic and rubber devices that separated men from their cash. Jeanette and I couldn’t get together without screwing and fighting, usually at the same time. Finally, on the brightest, coldest night, we’d had enough.
“Now that we’re done,” I said, “I’ll pay you to perform for me.”
She unlocked her car and tossed her purse inside. “It's not about the money. Besides, you're broke.”
“I have ways.”
“We all have our ways,” she said, pulling me close and burying my face in her hair – hair so red I could see it leaping, bouncing, shocking the air on a stage I'd never sit in front of. I pushed myself though until I reached her neck, then kept pushing until I was on the other side, somewhere I'd never been before, standing behind her and yet looking at her face, her hands doing quick soft circles on my back, telling me don’t worry, everything is ok, but I wasn’t sad or hurt, not loved or hated, just felt what a man feels after giving away his last dollar and having no place to go but home.
She pushed me away, started to get into her car, then suddenly pulled me back and kissed me in a way I'd never known. Rough but tender. Wet but coarse. Satisfying but empty. Professional.
“You were the best,” she said, driving off, her tires skidding on the crushed snow.
“I know,” I said.
“But their hands,” I said, “always grabbing and stroking.”
“So? They're just hands. Nothing goes inside.”
“And the sickness of it all…”
“No. It feels good. For me and them.”
That I believed. I took in the sickness myself. I convinced Carrie to wear her high school cheerleader's jacket while we screwed, thereby enacting revenge on a younger version of myself. One time Lila dressed up like a hooker and ground against me in the street, laughing at me while my body contradicted my protestations. Then there was the time she and I were parked a meter or two from traffic, under the mothy sodium lights, crammed into the driver's seat...
But they never danced for me.
“If I can't do it for money,” Lila said, “I won't do it for love.”
“You and I have never used that word.”
“But you still love me.”
“I will if you dance.”
“See,” she said, “now you get it. The men think I love them for just those few minutes. That’s what they pay for. That’s power.”
“That's not power, that's deception.”
“The difference?” she asked, untangling her jacket from the sheets and shutting my apartment door so quietly that I heard thousands of them slamming between myself and the nearest vinyl-covered lounge.
Then there was Jeanette, who had only performed at parties, with props – nothing animate, just plastic and rubber devices that separated men from their cash. Jeanette and I couldn’t get together without screwing and fighting, usually at the same time. Finally, on the brightest, coldest night, we’d had enough.
“Now that we’re done,” I said, “I’ll pay you to perform for me.”
She unlocked her car and tossed her purse inside. “It's not about the money. Besides, you're broke.”
“I have ways.”
“We all have our ways,” she said, pulling me close and burying my face in her hair – hair so red I could see it leaping, bouncing, shocking the air on a stage I'd never sit in front of. I pushed myself though until I reached her neck, then kept pushing until I was on the other side, somewhere I'd never been before, standing behind her and yet looking at her face, her hands doing quick soft circles on my back, telling me don’t worry, everything is ok, but I wasn’t sad or hurt, not loved or hated, just felt what a man feels after giving away his last dollar and having no place to go but home.
She pushed me away, started to get into her car, then suddenly pulled me back and kissed me in a way I'd never known. Rough but tender. Wet but coarse. Satisfying but empty. Professional.
“You were the best,” she said, driving off, her tires skidding on the crushed snow.
“I know,” I said.
Rejected by Bombay Gin, Smokelong Quarterly, elimae, Barrelhouse, and Wigleaf.
Christopher Ryan received his MFA from Naropa University's Jack Kerouac School of
Disembodied Poetics and now lives in Helsinki, Finland. He is the author
of "The Bible of Animal Feet" (Farfalla Press, 2005).
More info and ramblings can be found at
www.thebibleofanimalfeet.com.
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