Go ahead. You might as well take a good close look. See those clusters of itsy-bitsy
Scarlet-painted fingernails excavate a 'freckle;' it sprouts legs, grappling empty air in a bloodlust panic.
"Crabs. I'm crawling with the suckers. Helene's, I'll betcha—that Black bitch. I knew I should've never touched her gear. 'Wear mine,' she says. 'You be so sleek.' Sleek my mother's asshole; I'm infested!"
The candle set between Michelle's legs acts as a crematorium.
"Die, you filthy bastard, die!"
Its flame yawns up. A bug, in an orange blink, fries.
"I got this stuff: 'Not to be used by persons allergic to ragweed.' Now what the fuck is that supposed to mean? Ragweed makes me sneeze. So, if I pore this on my snatch, I'll die from sneezing?... HELENE, I SWEAR, IF THESE ARE YOURS, I'LL MAKE YOU ONE SAD NIGGER!... I suppose I'll have to shave what little 's left. Christ, I'll look like a nine-year-old down there."
The room is bare. Of the three rooms in her apartment, only the bedroom is furnished. Michelle is bare. Looking straight down, from the living room ceiling's naked light bulb, three prematurely gray hairs are visible in her otherwise blue-black mane. Her legs are good. Her breasts have turned-up noses. With remarkable dexterity, she cocks her left ankle behind her head to inspect herself further.
The walls resound with cat-calls (as she makes her other ankle follow suit), the floor beneath her ass become a stage.
Go ahead. You might as well take a good close look...
... cause that's all you're gonna get, you Goddamn creeps.
Drool, why don't ya? Go on, eat your hearts out.
Her crotch is now adorned by a pesky g-string. Its sequins catch the mirror-balled light and bounce it into a feeding frenzy of eyes. Beer is poured. Mouths go slurp and smack and lip-sync obscenities. The air repels itself. Michelle is outrageous.
Come on, guys, fork over. That's it. Slip a little green in mother's drawers.
"Hey, watch it, Buster!"
THWACK!—the elastic in her g-string strangles a dollar bill.—
"Great tits!" (this from a fledgling cowboy, his cheeks no more bewhiskered than a baby's bottom)
"Fuck me." (yearns a syphilitic, too drunk to see)
"How's about a smooch?" (pleads the cancer patient Mikey—bald beneath his cap, shy without a wig)
'Plug that bouncin' bunghole!" (nobody worth knowing)
Communally, their wants escape like pungent farts, repugnant—an audience unaware its open fly.
But Michelle-the-erotic-dancer has caught the eye of Michelle-reflected. Hoots and hollers deaden. Devo lyrics fade. The bar's unholy milieu merges into background...
Michelle confronts Michelle...
You really are something else.
Look at that sweet body.
Tight. No scars. No baby-fat. You won't find any stretch marks marring my belly.
...arches her back...
Michelle, you're one hot number; don't you forget it.
...rakes her shapely hips with adhesive nails...
...then shudders inexplicably.
The juke has gone mute. The customers, of a sudden, seem to ignore her... snigger among themselves... order more beer.
Michelle stoops to clear the platform of litter: a soggy napkin, her skimpy 'gear,' a discarded pair of empties, then toddles off backstage... where Bambi, in a cave-girl costume, awaits her turn.
"They tippin', Michelle?"
"Off tonight, I think. You feelin' okay?"
"Do you have crabs?"
"Huh? Me? No way!"
Bambi hooks a thumb inside fur-enveloped briefs, and sneaks a peak at her fifteen-year-old pubes.
"What do they look like, exactly?"
Michelle walks away.