It's another from the series of my so-called strip life. Part three this time of the Twisteds, when stripping ain't so pretty at all.
Don't want to feel lost? Read part 1, the Toe Twisted, here and part 2, the Brahman, here. Or if you're feeling intrepid, just come on into the Champagne Room...we have a seat for you right over here....
I had a regular named Michael, a lawyer of some financial flavor—tax, bankruptcy, something. An odd little man nattily dressed in Liberty of London ties, bespoke-styled suits and wing tips, he looked a lot like Richard Dreyfuss, if Richard Dreyfuss were a diminutive lawyer and not a Hollywood actor.
Michael was a bit kinky. He saw me as kinky, too; perhaps he saw in me that which I did not yet know of myself—though as he saw me as a Domme, he didn’t exactly get it right. My more natural place is beneath the fisted glove, not within it.
He told me about having a friend whom he would dominate by tying up, inserting various buzzy toys and then reading either Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl” or the children’s book “Mr. Penguin’s Picnic.” He also, completely unrelated to his kink, had a stuffed mouse that he took all over the world and snapped pictures of. The mouse at Cheops. The mouse at the Eiffel Tower. The Mouse at the Hanging Gardens of Babylon.
I liked Michael well enough that I actually spent some time with him outside of FlashDancers. We didn’t date, but I went with him to a tattoo convention here in Gotham, and I brought him to my tattooist, Darren at Rising Dragon, to consult about the tiger tattoo that Michael wanted to get on his back.
Michael liked me to pull his hair when I danced for him, to get fancifully Dommey on his diminutive ass. Sometimes he would have both me and my friend Susie dance for him together, and I would take the upper hand with her, bending her over, slapping her cupcake ass, pulling her hair to make her body taut with my grip’s downward pressure.
When I danced for him, his little slug pink tongue would stick out between his lips, which, quite frankly, I hated. But he was a good customer, he was very good to me, and he gave me one of the best gifts I ever got from a customer—a special edition of Fargo complete with a snowdome depicting a body in the chipper, pregnant Marge pointing her gun at the monosyllabic Swede, and little drops of blood swirling the flakes of plastic snow.
I bring up Michael to illustrate that it’s not the kink that made the Twisteds Twisted. Michael was kinky; he was not twisted. He had no desire to make anybody, namely me, feel badly about herself. He just came to Flash to get a bit of his naughty on, spend some money, and leave happy.
This last Twisted in my tales of three Twisteds, I think, is the worst. It was a toss-up for me, initially, to parse out which memory was more painful—the previous one of the Brahman whose ejaculate raped my shoulder blades—or this one whose memory I will relate now. But I’m going with this one because he made me change.
He had power over me. He won, in a way, and for that I will never either forget nor will I forgive him.
This Twisted was a tall, skulking man. Stoop-shouldered and furtive, he had the unpleasant mien of a mongoose or a badger, yet he also carried himself with the full assurance of great, fat, rolling wads of cash. He lived with the invisible shield that only tremendous amounts of money can bring a person. The Brahman might have had the pedigree, but the Feeder had the money.
The Feeder was known to the Champagne hosts of Flash. When they approached you about the Feeder, they did so with the attitude of apology. Their hands wrung before their belts, their eyes darted to and from the floor, their shoulders shrugged with something like shame that they made their money from people like the Feeder.
They let you know that you were not obligated to go with the Feeder; they let you know ahead of time that it was just that bad.
They also let you know that you could expect to make $400 an hour.
The Feeder had a very consistent pattern. The Feeder took a thin girl and a thick girl to the champagne room. There he would have the thin girl measure the thick girl with a tape measure, which he brought with him. He would have the thin girl feed the thick girl candy bars and protein drinks, which he brought with him in copious supplies. He would have the thin girl grasp in her hands the thick girl’s thighs, her belly, her upper arms, her ass, and he would have the thin girl shake them.
He would have the thin girl tell the thick girl that she was fat. That she needed to lose weight. That her flesh was gross and disgusting.
And then he would have the thin girl feed the thick girl big gulps of protein shake, big bites of candy bar.
The Feeder got off on the psychodrama that we girls do to ourselves. His fetish was watching one woman heap the abuse on another that nearly every woman I know has done in the privacy of her own head, imprisoned as she believes she is in her own too faulty flesh.
The thin girl the Feeder took to the champagne room was this Canadian chick named Isabella. The thick girl was me.
Isabella was this skinny flat blonde who would do anything for cash. I know of more than one man who fucked Isabella in the Champagne Room. Obsessed with money, Isabella was shamefree—not only would she do anything for the money, but all she could talk about was her money and the businesses, real estate and other investments she bought with it. Her stock portfolio was sweet.
She also had these teeth that pointed in towards her uvula, as if to facilitate the head she gave on Flash premises, her head nestled discretely in the customer’s lap, his jacket over it in a lame gesture of gentility.
I didn’t like Isabella much before she was the thin girl in my thick girl psychodrama; I liked her even less afterwards.
The scene with the Feeder went more or less the way that I had been apprised. He gave orders to Isabella—I was seen but not heard. He didn’t address me. I was just the fat body.
“Give her more shake,” he told Isabella.
I don’t like protein shakes, I told Isabella. They make me ill.
“She doesn’t like shakes,” Isabella dutifully told the Feeder.
“Give her more candy,” he said flatly. And then, “Show me how fat she is.”
And Isabella took my juicy thighs in her hands and jostled them up and down, she cupped my womanly ass cheeks and squoze them together.
“See how fat you are,” she said to me in her Quebecoise accent. “You are fat.” She turned to the Feeder. “See? She’s so fat,” she said and smiled.
And this went on for fifty minutes. Fifty minutes of being addressed as an object. Fifty minutes of my body being dissected, measured, hefted, weighed, lifted, jostled and abused. Fifty minutes of Milky Way bars crammed into my mouth. Fifty minutes of my suffering disbelief that I would do this for money.
Fifty of the longest minutes of my life. Fifty minutes shoving all of my shame into a shortened hour—the shame of my too-ample girlflesh, the shame of eating and repenting, the shame of my own self-abuse, the shame of doing this for my living, the shame of believing I was beautiful, the shame that I was reduced to this, the shame that I had expanded to that, the shame of my jiggling, the shame of my caring, the shame of life.
At the end of it, I left numb and $400 richer. After nearly an hour of abuse, I found it hard to go on stage, to take my clothes off, to play the CeeCee game. I think I sat and had a drink or four. I don’t usually drink. I think I did that night. I hurt.
And here’s the real kicker. When I first walked into the Champagne Room, the Feeder told me how the scene would play out. I was given yet another out by him, and yet I agreed to it, I agreed to it all.
“You know,” he said, “lots of girls actually lose weight after doing this. Lots of girls find that after this they want to get thin.”
I just smiled at him, having no idea what was going to be in store for me.
And the thing is, he was right. After that, I did lose weight. After that I got thin. And fuck him for it.
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