From way up the block Carmen's was explosive. Each time the door opened, music hammered out and the crowd spilled outside. Curtained windows upstairs had continuous plays of light and shadow, which meant the rooms were occupied. On the front door was a newsprint picture of a plane crash and over it Madison had drawn the devil's eyes and a round howling mouth. I paused for a moment with my fingers on the handle listening to the pulse of music, knowing Madison was teasing the audience with her pelvis.
Inside I let my eyes adjust to the black light. There was a sudden jerk to my right. In the dark spot reached only by nipples of electronic light, a lap dancer, a new girl, was straddling a man who smiled leeringly at her, his white teeth glowing. She needed extra money and would let the men put their cocks inside of her. With his hands on her hips the man manipulated her body, up and down. She swayed back from him, as if he'd just said something rude.
Drag queens danced on the bar in miniskirts and floppy hats. Madison was dancing topless, wearing denim short-shorts. She had greased her body so it gleamed under the bluish light. The lap dancers wore garters and push-up bras, the men in rumpled business suits, some in cotton sweaters and polyester pants hiked over their bellies. There was a man in a devil mask with a bow tie that squirted water. A woman passed me with a huge extension wig and another in diamond-studded glasses. Lita, the early evening bartender, was grumpy, hated the jumpsuit Madison forced her to wear. She said a drunk man had pinched her tit and whenever she reached into the cooler for a frosted glass, it hurt.
I started washing the backed-up glasses, helped Lita pour beers, all the time watching Madison pulse her hips toward the ceiling. I was busy cracking beers, taking money. When I looked up again she was gone and I imagined her on the back stairs, getting a drink of water, putting on her white robe.
But then she was near me, leaning out of the stairwell shouting that she wanted to talk in the bathroom. I followed her. Everyone was drunker than usual and it was a relief to step out of the noise and laughter into the quiet. She locked the door, put down the toilet seat and sat. I hadn't noticed how red the walls were and how people had scratched things into the paint — the letters reminded me of little bones. . NIGGERS ARE BETTER LOVERS, PUSSY IS GOD. Someone knocked on the door, Madison ignored it. I noticed through her damp make-up that she looked tired. Pubic hair had gathered on the damp porcelain and someone had left her black bikini underwear rolled up in the corner.
She rubbed the track marks on her arms and tipped her head back, as if wanting the play of colored lights on the underside of her eyelids. I was amazed how she could go for days without sleep. How when she was hurt you could tell only by the movement of her hands. She had no one, so no restrictions either. She couldn't understand worrying about not having a boyfriend or a husband or a baby. Where was her weak spot? Did Pig teach her one person could love another blindly? Or had Pig disappointed her, shown how everyone who loves you needs to control you. Madison thinks that to devastate yourself is somehow life-affirming. I was reminded of a tar-covered cat, a pretty lizard that can shed multiple skins. She looked at me then.
“Susan's not here. Want to make some real money?”
I nodded. Madison stood, opened the door. We entered the noisy bar full of men's faces, numerous and similar as kidney beans. “It will be a relief,” she said. “Kneel down to it.”
FROM INSIDE SUSAN'S ROOM I COULD HEAR THE FISH TANKS bubbling and men's footfalls in the hall. The room had the glowing muted tones of a baroque painting, with its gold glass lamps and orange satin spread. The black garter belt and stockings were in the closet as Madison had said. I secured the garter over my hips and affixed each strap to the top of the stocking. I cracked the seal on the Wild Turkey and swigged directly from its lip, convincing myself I was waiting for my husband, who was coming up the stairs in his black banker shoes, locking up our house. His footsteps creaked on our wood floors, then padded on the carpeted stairs. He would talk to me while he undressed, say, “I think we should get some tulip bulbs for the garden.” I'd hear his hangers cling in the closet as he hung up his pants, then the rich smell of his body coming toward me.
There was a tentative knock, the kind a doctor makes to see if you've used the paper gown to cover up. I said, “Come in.” He was as old as my father, hair combed over his bald spot like a gym teacher, his features ragged and pointed like an eagle's. I started to pull off my clothes and he came over, sat on the other side of the bed and undressed. When I asked him what he wanted he said tersely, “To have sex.”
I heard him rip the condom package and that sticky elastic sound as he rolled it down. He turned toward me quickly and threw one leg over, burying his face in my neck. He forced his cock in and began a series of anxious little thrusts. There was a print of a princess with a pale pinched face above the bed. I noticed how his underarms stank and the ridiculous way he held his mouth pinched up like a rectum. Both his stench and his expression reminded me of the professor I had slept with in college.
The long hairs flapped from his bald head, swayed over my face. He warned me he was going to come and when he did his back arched and he moaned. Relaxing his body weight on top of me, he sucked air for a while, then rolled away, pulled his condom off and lobbed it into the trash can. While he was dressing he watched me with an expression of hate and lust. I leaned back against the headboard, watched him leave, felt the skin of my vagina tingle. I stared at the bulbous lamp on the nightstand, something seemed to be inside of the gold brass waiting to get out. It was an ugly lamp with a faux-suede shade. I thought of how the Nazis had made lamp shades out of people's skin.
The door opened again, slowly, as if the next man hoped to catch me fucking the first. This one was chubby with a little black beard.
“Put your butt up high,” he said, closing the door behind him. I got on all fours, cradled my head in my arms, and raised my ass. He unlatched his belt, then his fly, his pants rustled to the floor. Kneeling on the bed in back of me, “Up higher,” he said and pressed his cock in, dug his fingernails into my ass. After several long breathy strokes he said, “My brother is going to come in here and put his dick in your mouth, he'll pull your hair until his cock is in to the hilt and you'll moan.
“Moan,” he said, and I did. “We'll fuck you every day because you have a nice tight pussy and you liked to be fucked in the ass.” He pulled hard and told me he could kill me if he wanted, that nobody would care. I felt his loose tummy resting on my lower back like a rat. His pace accelerated and he made a sound like clearing his throat as he came. He tried to lean over me, to grab my tits, but I jumped away and went into the bathroom, wet a washcloth and wiped my pussy. I looked at the bright sink, the water gurgling in the toilet, the fringe of a towel hanging on a rack by the door. With my hands I pulled my hair straight back and looked into my eyes. I am still myself. I remembered after the abortion in college going to a blind shrink, how he held my hand, put his fingers around my wrist. “You're thin,” he said. “Is that a problem?” I liked how his one eye was yellowish and glowed like a moon. “You are a girl who has been lonely,” he said. “Why do you choose that dark path?”