Heather at The Pink Poodle

She steps onto the stage
and immediately owns it. Naked,
she is warmed by an inner fire.
Her eyes radiate invitation.
Red hair, milk-white skin,
pink nipples, pubis shaved down
to a narrow "landing strip".
She is not as busty as the previous girl,
nor as tall and muscular as the next,
but in this moment the whole house is hers.

And she moves. And she is all women.

Young girl's green twig, old crone's ashes,
these are just the tips of her outstretched fingers,
but her breasts are the sun and the moon,
her pink slit drips danger and delight.
And the haggling begins. "Pay me and I'll show you," she dances.
One by one, the men build tiny green tents for her,
drape folded 1's and 5's over the low plastic barrier.
"Show me and I'll pay you" they reply, waiting, motionless.

And one by one, she is theirs, all theirs for a moment,
one after another, marking them done
by pulling their bill up onto the walkway.
Some put up another to lure her back.

But at last it is time to go, for men
grow bored so easily that they will soon
abandon a goddess for a fresher face.
So she gathers up all the loose ends of their desire
and spins them into a single thread,
spins on her back like a top, holding her knees,
holding herself closed like a flower at night.
The men cheer. She sweeps up her tribute
and, with one last smile, is gone. Already
they have forgotten her.

And no one sees the small oozing spot over her spine
worn raw by her spin.

May 19, 2000

I saw Heather dance when I was taken to the Pink Poodle several years ago for a friend's "bachelor party". Perhaps because this is not something I would normally do, I remembered the details (including the raw spot) quite vividly and was still able to write about it.