You're going to carry that weight.

(twenty one and nearly invincible)

(this is a blog of words)

This Too is for the Good

There is a Reason for Everything, Except for When There Isn't

Theme Credit

Anyone’s artist

It was an old fashioned nightclub with a cluttered few at tables with their drinks and cigarettes. Mostly there were men still dressed in their suits of the day and reeking of self-importance. Amid the tables and the haze was a stage with a long runway leading out to the center. Quiet music played in the background while the men drank their whiskey and their bourbon and muttered to each other about trivial things.

When the girl appeared on stage, she piqued their interest. She was dressed in a long ruby evening gown with a matching shade of lipstick and heels. In fluid movements it seemed as if she was gliding across the stage until she approached the microphone and began to sing. Her voice left them all in a daze.

Later on when the dress came off, revealing bits of skin covered by a red bikini, the men pulled out their wallets.

On man leaned in to the other,

"I’d like to know the artist who paints a pretty picture such as that" he nodded up to the nearly naked girl and her impossible curves.

"I’d like to know how much it costs to get that pretty picture underneath me" the other said.

The first man grunted in agreement, and leaned back to stare a bit more. There was a glimmer on her skin, as if it were pure cream and sugar. The way her thighs came together in such a perfect V made him actually tremble with excitement and this time he let his arousal take over.

She danced this way and that, knowing how to draw the men in, knowing how to bend to put them in a daze. From her spot on the stage she watched them squirm, even caught a few trying to sneak their hands under the table. She always laughed to herself, wondering if they had wives at home to clean the cum stains from their work clothes.

The first man was watching her again, and he caught this sort of glimmer in her eye. He began to wonder why a woman such as her would make her living baring her body on the stage. He searched her image harder, looking for some sort of vacancy, some sort of emptiness within her that she maybe had to fill. She was not an artist, he thought. Someone or something must have made her this way.

But still, the more he looked, the more opaque she became. She was what she was, a pretty girl on a stage, no more weak or empty than anyone else. She was somebody’s daughter.

"Filthy fucking whore," he muttered, suddenly disgusted. He threw his chair back and stood up, walking away without another look at his friend, who’d busied his hands under the table a long time ago. Once outside the club, he hailed a taxi and took his lingering anger home with him.

From her spot on the stage, the girl had seen everything, and wondered what had sparked the change. She chalked it up as yet another ego overgrown.

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    A poem I seem posted…
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