Little Stripper Girl

 

Photo is from Flickr.com.  It is not a photo of the Little Stripper Girl.

Written May 26, 2006

In the morning, her friend knocks on her bedroom door, then chants a few “Good Morning, Pretty Girl!”s.

Eventually, there’s a few groans and a “Ohhhhh! Is it time to get up already?”.

Opening the door clad in pink pajama bottoms with huge brown teddy bears, she could pass for 15. Her friend notices that she’s wearing her black t-shirt with the word “Hustler” kind of splattered across the top near her neck, and remembers how she talked a customer out of that shirt last night. An expensive Teamsters jacket lies on the floor, a trophy from yet another customer.

As her friend hands her fresh, hot coffee with way too much cream and way too much sugar, just the way she likes it, she takes a sip, smiles, and looks over the cup with huge eyes, mumbling a “thank you”. She is sooo beautiful in the morning!!!

At Be Be’s in Oak Brook, she tries on jeans, jeans tight on that perfect little tush, jeans alive with glitter, glitter screaming at every man, woman, and dog, “Look at me!!! Look at me!!!”

And we all look!!!

And every man, woman, and dog loves her!!!

Facing away from her friend, she twists her toned body around, smiles, and lifts her top so the fit of her jeans may be seen. She asks her friend which jeans fit better.

Her friend notices the tightness of the fit, the curves of her dancer’s body, her flat tummy now exposed, and her big smile. Completely overcome, he can only gasp “Take both!”.

And she smiles!

With the speaker on the phone activated so her friend can hear, she asks her boyfriend if she can move back with him. There is no response, and the seconds drag on and on. Those beautiful eyes well up with tears…….. waiting…….. waiting…….. waiting for the guy to respond. Eventually her boyfriend says “I’ll think about it”.

As beautiful as she is, she must also endure the pain.

In the morning, just out of the shower, she’s a skinny kid fighting the knots in her long, highlighted hair. Her ribs easily visible, one marvels at how such a slender body can grow such luscious, fat breasts!

As she blow-drys her hair, the transformation is beginning. The long highlighted hair is now well-groomed, shiny, and foxy, ending in a tumble of banana curls on her back. One can only marvel at this creation!

The transformation continues in the car on the way to work. Slowly applying eye makeup, reaching into three different bags for the cosmetics her friend knows she does not need, she is no longer a woman-child. She is now a young woman-dancer, capable of relieving any man of his heart…..and his wallet!

As she places a choker loaded with rhinestones around her neck, her makeup now on, her long hair flowing past her shoulders in a rainbow of shades of gold and light brown, she turns to her friend with a big smile and asks “How do I look?”.

Her friend can only smile and look at her in awe, while his heart thanks her for being her.

Arriving at the club, she throws her arms around her friend just like a ten-year-old girl would do, kisses him on the cheek, and jumps out of the car with a reminder to pick her up at 7:30.

As her friend watches her walk away, he wonders how many, or how few, days remain before Mr. Wonderful invites her back, or a new Mr. Wonderful discovers her, or a dancer-girlfriend finally makes good on those promises to share an apartment.

And it’s all okay.

She looks wonderful this morning!

Life with the Little Stripper Girl

 

Photo is from Flickr.com and is not a photo of the Little Stripper Girl herself.

Written July 31, 2006

Late on a Saturday afternoon, a friend stops in at the nail salon to pick up the Little Stripper Girl.

A chemical smell permeates the air. A Korean at the other end of the shop stares blankly into space as she massages the calves of an overweight 50-ish American with short curly hair, dyed red. The hair style was chosen for ease of maintenance, not attractiveness.

Nearby, a young male Korean, mask on his face, focuses intently on the fingernails of an obese black woman, also 50-ish. Somehow perfect nails on the tips of her fingers will overcome the impact of the vision of her massive body.

In this salon of sexless customers, the Little Stripper Girl arises. Her jeans skirt barely covers her tight, young tush, allowing her toned legs to scream their athletic beauty. One cannot help but to stare at the creaminess of those legs. The staring then becomes mesmerization, one’s eyes glaze over, and she becomes a movie star, a goddess, a person so unobtainable that no mere human can ever commune with her!

Her see-through tight white top covers her slender upper body and fat, young breasts. As one’s eyes attempt to penetrate that top, a white strapless bra prevents her full beauty from being seen. The bra seems to glow and hover in space, almost a separate entity demanding one’s attention. Her highlighted hair is the crown on an innocent face with huge eyes. Somehow her own fresh aroma cuts through the chemicals, and even the air around her is beautiful. She is young, breathtaking sexuality in this den of the out-of-shape and the asexual!Now home, the friend is discussing with her their life together. He is not afraid of any emotions, as loud crying and slamming of doors does not affect him.But today is different.

Sitting erect at his desk, her back ramrod stiff, she stares at the flat panel monitor, supposedly preoccupied. Motionless except for her fingers clicking the mouse as she scrolls through Craigs List, her eyes well up with tears as she says softly without emotion:

“Okay, Mike, if that’s the way you want it.”

She stares sullenly at the monitor.

Her friend stares blankly at the wall, all too aware of the tears in those beautiful eyes, the tears which she hopes are not noticed.

Finally, a few words are exchanged:

“Honey, you know that I love you.”

“I love you too, Mike”

More seconds of quiet staring, then:

“Okay, honey, I’m sorry that I said what I said. You know how much I care about you!”

“I care about you too, Mike.”

More seconds pass as both feel the mood improve, then a big smile lights up her face as she says:

“Can we go get some cigarettes?”

She knows she can have anything she damn well pleases!!!

Comments About the Little Stripper Girl

 

Photo is of a girl in a thong from vultuk’s photostream on Flickr.com and is not a photo of the Little Stripper Girl herself.

Written August 1, 2006

My friend Anastasia says that the Little Stripper Girl’s face is so perfect that she ought to go to Hollywood and be in movies. My reply is that her body is as perfect as her face.

She is also sweet, strong, spirited, and very supportive. She is a wonderful human being.

2:00 AM With the Little Stripper Girl

Photo is from Flickr.com and is not a photo of the Little Stripper Girl herself.

Written September 4, 2006

Driving home from a date on a Saturday night at 12:15 AM, the phone rings.

It’s the Little Stripper Girl!

“Mike! You gotta get here quick! My best friend is real sick! You need to take us to get her medicine on Austin just off the Eisenhower!”

“But honey, can’t you take a cab or get someone to drive you?”

“No, Mike, get over here NOW!!!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll be right there!”

I realize that the sick girl is her very hot 24-year-old friend from Canada. I sure wouldn’t mind meeting her!

As I punch in the address into the car’s GPS system, I am glad to find that they’re only fifteen minutes away. I am disheartened to note that the address is a hotel on Mannheim Road.

Nothing good ever happens on Mannheim Road!!!

I pull up to the main entrance of the hotel, call the room, and people come flying out to the car, flinging open three doors of the sedan.

THREE DOORS???

I thought it would be the Little Stripper Girl and Miss Canada!

“Honey, who’s the guy?”

“Oh, he’s a friend. He knows where to get the medicine!”

So, as Fat Slummy in the back seat starts yelling out directions “Head south on Mannheim! Watch the cops in Stone Park! Get on the Eisenhower quick!” and as the Little Stripper Girl is yelling “Step on it!!! She’s sicker than hell!!!”, my heart plummets. I realize that this is a drug pickup!!!

Miss Canada is enduring heroin withdrawal. She is severely nauseated and has had watery diarrhea before sitting on the new leather of my new German sedan.

“Honey, I don’t want to do this. In Chicago, I heard they can crush cars picked up in drug arrests. I don’t want my new all-aluminum German top-of-the-line sedan to be a coffee table in some police commander’s office!”.

“MIKE!!! GET MOVING!!! THIS IS MY BEST FRIEND!!! THIS IS MY WIFE!!! SHE’S REALLY SICK!!! GET MOVING NOW!!! If you don’t drive us, she’s gonna take the Blue Line and walk through the ghetto at 2:00 AM to get her medicine!!! DO YOU WANNA KILL HER???!!!”

SHIT!!!

I fire up the beast and head south on Mannheim. Fat Slummy is assuring me that the car won’t be destroyed, just impounded for a $1,300 charge, and that the legal fees for a first-timer aren’t that bad.

Yeah, right!

I feel as if there’s a beacon on the car screaming “Calling all cops!!! Calling all cops!!!” An expensive car in a slummy area with three almost-children and an adult male at 2:00 AM. Man, do we look out of place!!!

Then three squads light up and accelerate fast towards me from behind. I start screaming

“We’re fucked!!! We’re fucked!!!”

assuming that we must be loaded with illicit drugs or at least the veins of Fat Slummy and Miss Canada are so loaded with drugs that the cops can just look at us and tell!

But the cops home in on the car just two cars behind me! We get away free.

Fat Slummy has made his call to his connection and we whiz down the Eisenhower in what seems to be just seconds, exiting north on Austin to the pickup point. Fat Slummy calls again, and now the connection says he’s got nothing!

Dammit, Slummy, the reason you’re here is that you can deliver!!!

Miss Canada is yelling in agony! She wants her medicine NOW!!!

What’s a mother to do?

Fat Slummy orders that we head east on a side street known for drug pickups. The street is crawling with people at 2:00 AM – slender black dudes loaded with tattoos, fat black chicks sitting on the hoods of cars. All are staring at us, yelling comments, gesturing, and smiling. For reasons I still don’t understand, this crowd is very friendly!

A car loaded with black guys talking to their friends blocks the street in front of us. Miss Canada needs her medicine and is yelling at me to lean on the horn and get these guys out of the way.

Yeah, right! I’m gonna tell a carload of black guys in their own neighborhood to get out of my way at 2:00 AM!

The crowd eventually gets the car to move, and we cruise down this side street with Miss Canada and Fat Slummy yelling out the windows “BLOWS!!! BLOWS!!!”

I think of what amateurs we are and I think of the cold crispness of a Maggie deal.

Maggie had the professional contacts. She was told where to wait in a near-west suburb. The contact would watch from at least a block away as she approached. After surveying the land, the contact would pull ahead of Maggie and Maggie would know to follow. After making a series of random turns so as to reveal any followers, the contact would stop, then, in a split second, wadded hundred dollar bills would fly into the contact’s window and the crack would fly into Maggie’s window.

The contacts were a black family bonded by blood, generally cousins. No one ever squealed, the terror of the industry. However, their clients were scum, and would set them up just to save their own asses.

So I’m driving down a side street at 2:00 AM with almost-children yelling for “blows”. If any cop sees us, he’ll know what’s up!

Finally, a young. good-looking black guy yells at us and says he can help. Dammit, Miss Canada knows him from a pickup two years ago. He tells us to wait in the street while he gets the medicine.

Yeah, right.

Sitting here we’re an alarm calling the cops.

After my complaining, our new friend shows us into a parking spot in a dark alley. I back in. A wall is behind me. A wrecked car is on either side of me. If unfriendlies pull in front of me, I have no escape route, and I don’t like it.

The dark alley is full of black dudes, all friendly. But I can’t be sure all will be friendly. We wait for minutes for our order to be filled, and I don’t like it.

A youngster, about 14, on a bike, leans against my passenger door so as to hit on the Little Stripper Girl. I’m yelling at him to not dent my goddamn aluminum doors. He’s yelling at me that he needs another $5 so he can get a $10 bag.

Why is this my problem?

Finally, our medicine arrives. The cost is $80. My almost-children only have $70. I toss in $10 so we can get the hell out of there!

With the medicine in hand, a calmness fills the vehicle. The occupants think that they’ve upset me, and now want to make amends. They insist that I go with them to their hotel room. I tell them I need gas and will be back later. I just wanna get home!

They call me at the gas station and again insist I return, so I cave in.

Entering the cheap room, I am greeted with Fat Slummy showing me how cool he is by lighting up his crack pipe. The pipe has old chore, and the room fills with the foul smell of burning the putrid residue of old rocks.

A well-built, clean-cut 19-year-old kid from Canada is passed out on the bed, having received his first IV medicine from the love of his life, Miss Canada.

You need a new girlfriend, buddy!

Miss Canada is passed out on a chair, full of her new medicine. She has not aged well. Once a young hottie, she is now overweight and pasty.

In this room filled with the smoke of Marlboro 100’s, Newport Lights, and the foul stench of old chore, stands my Honey, the Little Stripper Girl. Somehow the smoke and stench avoid her. She is looking fresh and innocent.

“Mike, take me home with you!”

“Why, Honey, these are your friends. Why do you want to be with me on a Saturday night?”

“I’m tired, Mike, I wanna go home.”

I know somethings up, but I ask no more questions. We get in the car. Now alone with her, I ask:

“Honey, why are you coming home with me?”

“Mike, if I stayed there, I might get involved in that shit. I don’t even wanna take a chance!”

At that moment I was so proud of her! I love her so much!

At 3:30 AM, my little honey is hungry, so we stop at a Steak and Shake. Three bisexual young girls’ eyes pop out when they see my little honey. One was damn cute too!

Finally, at 4:30 AM, my little honey is in her room, her tiny tummy full. The flickering light of the TV shows her white down comforter pulled up to her chin. Her pretty, young freshly manicured hands hold the comforter. Her new Mario Tricoci highlighting looks like a crown of beautiful gold colors over her perfect young face.

She calls me to her room.

“Mike, I love you.”

Her comment fills me with emotion.  On the streets since age 14, she has been addicted to injected heroin, meth, and crack.  She’s been fighting successfully to put her own life back together.  I am so proud of her!

In response, I can only mumble:

“I love you too, Honey.”

I really did love her.

I still do love her.

A Little Blue Tonight

 

Photo is from Flickr.com and is not a photo of the woman about whom the story is written.

Written September 6, 2006

My friend is of exquisite beauty.

She’s one of those girls who make you gasp when you see her. She is a divinity, a true goddess on Earth!

She is lean and toned and incredibly sexy. Her face is perfect! People say she ought to be a model or in movies.

But no more.

As she pulls up and hops out of her car, I note that her eyes seem too big for her face. What happened to her perfect grooming?

As she walks to the car, she seems to be a walking skeleton. My Honey, what’s going on?

We’ve always had a relaxed and loving relationship. Tonight, as she hops into the passenger seat, she is wired, jumpy, moving jerkily.

Her eyes are huge because her face is so skinny. But there’s no love, no connection in those eyes.

After dinner, I am able to once again make a little connection like we once had, but she will not tell me anything of her troubles.

This morning, at 6:45 AM, she calls and needs $100 to get her car towed.

Honey, is the money really going to buy crystal meth?

Her new look has shaken me to my core.

I’m trying to get her to move in with me and recover. I fear that, once again as with all of my friends, I’m the one who desires the recovery, not them.

But I’d do anything for this chick. She’s really fabulous and does have a soaring intelligence, but the her life has been racked with crack, inhaled heroin, and now crystal meth.

She once was incredibly supportive of me, night after night, when I really needed it.

To the jaded amongst us, I don’t have sex with these destroyed women who live with me. They’re just too fragile emotionally.

I think of how perfect these women would be without their vices.

Then I wonder about you and me.

How wonderful would we be without our vices?

Is That My Baby?

 Photos are from Flickr.com and are not photos of the Little Stripper Girl herself.

Written December 5, 2006

Is that the Little Stripper Girl?

I look at the photo, and maybe it is!

She’s’s naked, sitting back on her heels on a bed, her back to the camera.

She’s more slender than I remember.  Her lines are now more straight, without all the curves she once had.  Can this be my honey?

The hair is too short, and is now an unexciting medium brown.  It was once down to mid-back, a rainbow of shades of gold, a beautiful golden crown atop an exquisite woman-child!  Is this my baby?

My buddy found the photo in a Craigs List ad, thought it was the Little Stripper Girl, and called.  She hung up on him.  He thinks it’s her!

I read the ad and see the $200 rate.  My heart sinks, as a rate that low for a gorgeous young hottie signifies desperation.  It means I need crystal meth, I need it now, and get over here!

A desperation rate means she’s not screening.  Her client may turn out to be a cop, or someone vicious.  Sooner or later, it will be. 

So I call.

“Honey, this is Mike.  Is this my honey?”

She acts as if she recognizes me, but I don’t recognize the voice.  Is she disguising it?

“Honey, you know I love you and that you can tell me anything.  How’s your life really going?”

She hesitates, chokes up, begins to cry, then hangs up.

Damn, is that her?

I send her a text message telling her that I love her and that she can always count on me.

I receive no reply.

Was that her?