73 Things To Do Ch. 01

She looked at herself in the mirror for a long time, sometimes turning this way, sometimes that. She smoothed her blouse down over her stomach, feeling only flat and hard-won muscle. Her breasts, finally healed from the surgery, defied gravity in a way that they hadn't since she was eighteen. A long time ago. They were still tender, unfamiliar. They made the woman feel like someone else.

Her thighs flexed slightly under her expensive wool skirt, rubbing together, the sensation pleasant. She pulled up the skirt a little, taking some time to look carefully at her legs. They were long, strong, glorious. Easily her best feature. She drug her fingernails lightly up her thighs and shivered. She ran her hands along her lower back and down over the stretched gray fabric of her skirt; her ass was perhaps not as taut as it once was, but it was still acceptable. There might be someone yet, someone out in the world, that would like to interact with it.

She hiked up her skirt and shimmied her panties off, pulled her skirt back down. The sensation was faintly dirty, a little delicious. She brought the crotch of the panties up to her mouth and nose, closed her eyes, inhaled. She hesitated, then dragged them along her neck, the tops of her breasts, her stomach. She unbuttoned one of the buttons on her silk blouse and lifted one of her new breasts, heavy and firm in her hand, rubbed the nipple with seam of fabric in her hand. Her eyes closed; a soft moan escaped her lips.

Without opening her eyes, groping along the low dresser that fronted the mirror, her fingers touched on a long and thick-bladed kitchen knife that was still sticky with blood. She absently wiped the end of the hilt on her skirt and carefully slid the handle up between her legs until it rested, cold, against that little knot of sensation at the center of her. Her head fell back. She kneaded her breast, pinched the nipple. She moved the haft of the knife in small circular motions, getting blood on her inner thighs, but she ignored this. She gasped and shifted the knife down, careful not to cut herself. She adjusted her posture, rested the tip of the knife against the top of the dresser, and then slid herself, slowly, down onto the stainless steel handle of the knife. She slid it back out, then in again; once, twice, three times. It was cold inside her, shocking. It was somethingnew.

She brought her panties to her mouth again and licked them, then pushed her head through one of the legs. She wrapped her fist in the damp cloth and twisted, the white fabric biting into her neck, deep enough to draw white to the fine skin.

She brought the knife up to her lips and licked the wetness, the taste of herself, from the handle. Her eyes fluttered; she twisted harder on the faintly damp cloth. She set the blade of the knife against the first button on her blouse and jerked it away. The button flew free, exposing slightly freckled and rounded skin. Slowly, she cut the rest of the buttons away, then worked the tip of the bloody knife under the side of her bra and sawed at it until it broke loose. Her breasts spilled out and the nipples hardened painfully in the air.

She toyed with one with the point of the knife, pressing in until the pain made her gasp. She was breathing heavily now, her eyes squeezed shut, her teeth clenched.

She carefully put the blade of the knife against her stomach and pushed slowly down, catching in her expensive skirt, and slipped the tip down until the flat of the blade lay against her lower lips, tangled in the shock of hair there. She turned it and jerked, savagely, parting the wool material and cascading it down that long fall of leg to land on the floor. She shrugged out of her blouse and remains of her bra, letting them fall as well. She slipped the cold blade of the knife up the side of her neck, working the tip under the shockingly white band of her panties, still drawn tight in her fist. She jerked the knife, and the panties fell away.

She sucked in air, shuddered, and wiped the last of the blood on the blade across her stomach. She opened her eyes.

She looked; studied herself in the mirror; dark hard nipples, a long and graceful neck, almost ridiculously large new breasts, the slim hips, a dark shock of pubic hair, her flat stomach, her disheveled hair, her half-mad eyes.

She looked down at the knife, considering. She dragged her index finger up the length of her sex, then sucked the sweetness from her finger, studying herself critically in the mirror as she did it.

She was still beautiful, and all of her scars were on the inside. Her intention had been to bring herself to climax, to come one glorious time, and then to place the barrel of the still-unused snub 38 under her chin and fire. But she hadn't climaxed, not quite. And she hadn't reached for the gun. She looked at the blood, shockingly red, smeared across her stomach. Surprisingly, she giggled. She looked back up into her eyes, reached down into the wet, hot place at the center of her. She took a deep breath, exhaled. Watched her body move and twist as she did it. Her eyes were hungry.

"Okay." She said, whispered. She dropped the knife.

She stepped over the body on the floor and went to a nightstand, rummaging around until she found a small leather-bound dream journal. She walked out of the bedroom and padded, naked, through the large and empty house. She sat at the kitchen table, the expensive hand-made wooden chair cold on her bottom, and sucked on the end of the pen thoughtfully, looking off into space for a while. Then she opened her eyes, looked down. She opened the journal, flipped to the first empty page.

After a moment's thought, she wrote two neat little words across the top:

'Things That I Want To Do'. The 'Before I Die' was implied.

After another moment of thinking, she put a neat '1', a period after it, and wrote a sentence in a tight, graceful hand. Then a '2'.

By the time she was done writing the thing after '73', her hand was cramped from writing, many of the pages were filled, and it was morning. She took a shower, briskly. Her head felt very light, very clear.

She had a lot to do.

ONE

I probably stood there for three or four minutes before the two people I was watching fuck in front of me realized I was there and jumped apart like two cockroaches under a beam of light. Wished I'd had my camera out to get a picture of their faces; I'd probably want to laugh about this later.

Not now, but later. Maybe.

The bass thump of the house system seemed to be groping my ass, pushing me through the doorway and into this ridiculous situation. A situation that I just didn't want to be involved in, or deal with, or even acknowledge.

But here I was.

"Did you," I said, in what I knew was a very deceptively calm voice, "even know I was working tonight?"

Jazmalin was a cartoonishly voluptuous blonde that made the term 'Stripper' seem redundant. Her breasts were covered in my boyfriend's sweat. She had amazingly large dark nipples that the customers liked to drink champagne off of when the bouncers were feeling generous. She looked at my boyfriend for a second, then back at me, wide eyed. "Um, who y'all talking to, honey?"

I laughed, with no humor in it. "You know what? Either one."

"Baby," Derek was saying, scrambling to get his pants back on. "Listen..."

"No, how about this: Fuck you." I said. Then I noticed something else and groaned, exasperated. "You son of abitch, really? You didn't even use a fucking condom?"

Jazmalin dropped her air of fake innocence and adopted one of fake outrage. "You told me..."

"Oh, shutup." I said, exasperated. "Everyone knows you hate the fucking things. Oh, and you're supposed to be on stage. Rog is about to trade you up."

She squeaked, such a 'blonde stripper' thing to do that it made me laugh in spite of the sight of my boyfriend's cock-sweat still drying on her thighs . She shimmied into her sequined dress-thing, stretching the fabric out over her too-large breasts. She gave me a woeful 'I'm sorry' look and I smacked her ass sharply as she left. It was all the punishment she would get from me, probably.

Derek had managed to get his pants back on. He really was a good looking fucker, but with that expression he looked like what he was: An overgrown boy, caught stealing by his mom.

"Baby..." He said. I cut him off with a sharp jerk of my head.

"No." I said. "I'm working, this place is fucking crazy, we're not going to talk about this now. Go the fuck home and take a shower."

"Baby it didn't mean nothing, she was just all over..."

I threw up my hands and turned away, walking down the seedy black-painted hallway, long since overgrown with stickers and flyers for various acting gigs and other dancer paraphernalia. I grabbed my tray and order cards from where I'd left them, on the makeup table and checked the mirror. I was handling this thing surprisingly well, and I wanted to make sure I wasn't crying or anything without knowing it.

Fucking Derek. And fucking Jazmalin... Funny shit was, I didn't even blame her. She was a slut and everybody knew it. Everybody including Derek; that was obvious now. It was my own fault, telling him all those funny fucked-up stories about her. Might as well put a steak in front of a bulldog. I sighed, looking in the mirror.

I couldn't even summon up much anger to throw at Derek. It wasn't like it was the first time. You could make a case that it wasn't even Derek's fault; it was as much in his nature as it was in Jazmalin's. Fool me once, shame on you, etc. If there was blame to lay, it probably went to the leggy brunette in the cocktail waitress dress that I was looking at in the mirror, a girl who could easily be making five times the money a night if she wasn't too chickenshit to get naked in front of people. The problem was Catherine Ames, who was stupid enough to be dating someone like Derek in the first place.

The problem wasme, twenty-seven years old and watching her life slide through her hands like a rope she can't be bothered to grab hold of.

Thanks, I'd like to be a writer someday. Writing is the province of the coward, right? I'll fit right in.

"Cat, honey, you okay?" This was Trish, coming off of a stint on the big stage. A fine sheen of sweat covered her dark skin. I wondered how much some of our patrons would have paid just to lick that sweat off those long, shapely legs of hers. She was toweling her short, punk hair, sending a fine mist of sweat into the air. Trish was cool; she maybe had a little crush on me but wasn't obnoxious about it.

I barked a quick laugh, more bitter than I thought it would be. Her eyebrows raised.

"Men." I explained.

She laughed. "I keep telling you."

She gave me a wink and I smacked her with my receipt book, watching her go. Truth? Maybe I'd been keeping her in my back pocket in case I decided to do something crazy, like fuck a stripper. I bit my lip, thinking, then looked back at myself in the mirror. I sighed.

As if. Cat the Coward. Cat of the unpaid loans for the degree she never got. Cat of the long string of Derek lookalikes. Cat of the Someday-Maybe's. Cat of the Never-Dreams.

I made sure all my parts were where they were supposed to be- our 'tress outfits here wasn't nearly as showy as some, but I had some skin exposed- and put my game face on. It was going to be a long night, and I was already sick to death of it.

The sad truth about strip clubs, bars, and amusement parks is this: They're fucking awful places to work. Sometimes I think there's an inverse square law in play, governing how much fun a place is to patronize versus how depressing it is to work at. I'm not sure why that is- just plain nihilism? Or perhaps it's to do with the relentless artifice of fantasy-lands. Whatever it is, it took a conscious effort for me to arch my back, paste a smile on my lips, fake a sparkle in my eye, and push out into the club. I wasn't up on the stage and nobody got to see me take my clothes off, but we 'tresses played a role just like the dancers. We were the facilitators, the smoothers, the procurers, the attainable- but nottooattainable- girls next door. We were the class. We made shit happen.

My club wasn't of the highest order, wasn't a Hustler or a Scores, wasn't a chain. But we were near the top, big, and we had a reputation for being a bit more relaxed about the letters of the laws than some clubs. The bouncers, the girls, the 'tresses; all had a complicated language of looks, gestures and signs that let us know what was on the table for a particular customer and what wasn't. Some days I called myself a glorified pimp and I wasn't much wrong, but I couldn't even muster up much outrage for that. It's not like anybody in this place had illusions about what we were selling.

I emerged into the cacophony of bass, booze and pseudo-sex just wanting to go home and watch a good TV show, something about beautiful exiting people doing immensely important things in beautiful exiting places. I just wanted to go somewhere and not bemefor a while. I felt like if even the slightest thing more went wrong, I'd scream.

So of course immediately the other 'tress on shift, Mary, found me.

"Cat," She said, "You gotta save me, honey."

Mary was one of those energetic, bustling people who, no matter what the actual size of their workload, were always just about to collapse into a panicked breakdown from overwork.

"What's up?" I said, groaning inside.

"Table 6." She said. "Some kind of high-class or something, whatever. I got this table of douche that think they got a shot and they're pouring money into me, baby fuckingpouring, but I gotta pay 'em some attention."

I tried not to sigh. "It's no problem, hon. What's her drink and poison?"

"Goose and tonic, no poison, she keeps turning down dances. Didn't have the time to find out. Thanks, C, I owe you like, six fingerbangs."

She bounced off. I shook my head. Mary was as likely to fingerbang me as marry Ellen. A straighter young woman hath never existed than our Dear Mary; a fact that caused much despair with our more 'ladies-focused' workmates. I looked over to 6; saw a good-looking woman, early forties maybe. Put together. Money. Didn't get many of that type in a place like this, but it was hardly unheard of. I started the laborious process of apologizing to my tables, flirting, taking hints, and eventually grabbing a goose and T from the bar.

On close inspection, the woman was even more out-of-the-ordinary than I'd thought. She had a piece of ice on her finger that would have bought a yacht and a dress that was worth more than I made in a month. She was pretty in a severe way, with coiffed blonde hair and tits that were too big for her frame. Fake, most likely, but good work. Long legs crossed under a dove-gray skirt; in shape the way these women usually were.

A trophy wife just past her prime, this one. Probably watched a few old seasons of the L word and was looking for something dangerous. Husband who had a younger woman; she was curious and out to get a little of her own. I could play this game all day long.

And I did; it was called my job.

"Hiya," I said, summoning my best friendly smile, "I brought you a fresh drink. On the house."

The woman quirked an eyebrow, smiled. She accepted the glass.

"Thank you." She said. She had a rich voice, an audiobook reader voice, the kind that sent little trills down your spine. I felt like she was maybe a bit nervous, definitely out of place. Didn't know what to do or who to talk to. I could see why Mary had ignored her; this was the type that probably wouldn't tip very well unless you figured out how to pick that lock. But if you did... Anyways, I had a few minutes and I always liked a puzzle. I sat down across from her.

"Now darlin'," Putting on my best Florida southern girl voice, "What brings a lady like yourself into a gin joint like this?"

She shrugged, a half-embarrassed, half-it's-too-complicated-to-easily-explain gesture. Her lips pursed in a little smile. They were great lips, set around a wide mouth. She was actually quite beautiful, long necked and poised, with that hard-fought physique that I'd always thought was sexy on older people that took good care of themselves.

"Just a whim." She said. I grinned.

"A whim?" I said. "What kind of whim, if you don't mind me askin'?"

"I don't mind." She said. When she looked at you, she had that direct gaze that cut right into your face- maybe she wasn't a trophy wife after all. Or not ONLY a trophy wife. She had something of the bearing of a CEO, a politician maybe. She looked around. "I've never been in... a place like this. I thought I'd try it."

"You never came with your husband?" I said, cutting my eyes to the ring.

"Ex-Husband." She said, softly. "Very recently so."

"A tale as old as time." I said. "Sorry, darlin'."

"Don't be." She said.

"Okay," I said, grinning, "I won't. Listen, I have to run around again, but we've got another couple girls coming in soon so I'll be able to pay some real attention to you, if you stick around. Maybe we can have some fun. Okay?"

"Okay." She said, and I flounced away, checking in one of the mirrors to see if she was watching me go- aaaaand she was. Had an eye for girls, then, but was used to hiding it. I was thinking either Trish or Danni; they'd both eat this one up. Which one she would like depends on if she liked boyish girls or girlie girls. I'm right in the middle, myself, so that doesn't help.

I had a little bounce in my step as I went to grab the rest of my tables- virgins were always fun. Anything, really, to distract me from this dead-fucking-end job and my cocksucker boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend? Maybe. Maybe not. It depends on how much energy I had. He was good at backrubs, and I'd had worse in the sack.

I've had better, too, though. This whole train of thought made me tired and I couldn't afford to be tired, not four hours into a twelve hour shift, so I applied myself to the slightly less wearying task of making strip-club patrons happy. Which is not as easy as you might think, being as how our entire business model is built around NOT giving them what they want.

I fended off the usual advances from the usual guys who thought a 'tress in a place like this would be so overwhelmingly flattered to be paid attention to that she would immediately drag him in the back, find a handy closet, and fuck him silly. It was ridiculous, but then again, sometimes it worked. I suddenly remembered that I had met Derek that way. Oh my god-andthe guy before him...

I needed to get out of this fucking job.

Rog and Mike did the usual goddamn cock-up thing they usually did, which is leave a nearly full club to two servers for half the night, and then panic and call in an extra girl on top of the two that were already coming in. So in the space of ten minutes or so I went from absolutely crushed to having hardly anything to do. Fucking typical- and with rent due this week. Well- back rent. I was considerably behind. Because Derek didn't fucking work.

I forced myself not to think about money. Or about college loans. On a degree I did not have. In something I had no interest in doing.

I took a ten minute break and just stood there in the break room, staring at the ceiling. They'd offered to cut me, once they realized they had too many 'tresses on the floor, but I had no interest in dealing with the Derek situation just yet. And besides, even if my tables just got quartered, money was still money.

Suddenly I remembered the woman in 6 and swore softly to myself. Goddamn it, she was probably gone. I'd completely forgotten about her. I hurried upstairs and yep; sure enough, gone.

Goddamn it. I was certain I could have gotten her cracked, and made myself a nice tip while I was at it. Oh, wait- no. Not gone. Just gone to the bathroom. I felt an absurd sense of relief. I caught her before her table.