Grind

"Grind"

Every city has a place that the ladies of polite society pretend does not exist. A place they pretend their husbands and boyfriends do not go when they are out with the boys. Whether surrounded by warehouses or down by the tracks, there is always that place made up of cheap beer, faded brass, and menstrual-red velvet, where women with no shame and nothing to lose extort dollars from those husbands and boyfriends with smiles, wiles and unspoken promises never kept.

Sharon should know. She had seen more than her share.

Closing her locker, she stepped up to the mirror in the small, sweltering room. She looked as young as her age, still unquestionably pretty. Her impossibly short skirt clung to her hips, and her smallish but perfectly shaped breasts defiantly pushed against the tight halter-top. Running her hands through her short blond bob, she stared into her mirrored eyes, and saw all the hard years on the road, all of the things that eyes that young should never have seen.

Music dully thudded through the walls.

"Give it up for Dena," the DJ was saying, as the music wound down. A scattered, half hearted applause followed Dena through the flimsy curtain, an obvious veteran on the cusp, looking nearly as tired and faded as the worn dollar bills clutched in her hand. The two women looked at one another for a moment, each seeing themselves in the other.

"Now give it up for Charlene on her first night here," the DJ went on. "Charlene!"

Sharon's music started to play.

"Good luck, sweetie," Dena said with a bittersweet smile. "Knock 'em dead."

"Thanks," Sharon said, wearing the same smile.

A moment later, "Charlene" slid through the curtains, enticing, predatory. Her body pulsed and writhed with her music, commanding the wandering attention of the half-drunk men in the audience and at the rail. She enjoyed dancing. She knew what her body did to men.

She had learned early enough what it did to her father.

Like magic, dollar bills began appearing on the rail.

Sharon let her mind drift, as she often did, seeming to take her body to autopilot. She scanned the faces in the crowd as she crawled, panther-like across the stage. The same faces in every town. Red-faced farmers. Unshaven factory workers. The bleary eyed husbands wishing they didn't have to go home to their fat, bitchy wives. Was she in Omaha? Kansas City? They blurred together, the places, the faces, like---

Everything froze. Time ground to a halt. The music stopped.

He was there, at the rail. Drunk and unshaven, leering at her, holding a dollar bill in his yellowed teeth.

He didn't recognize her.

But, oh god, she knew him.

***

Winter in north Texas was cold and miserable.

Sharon huddled in her thin coat, soaked through with rain. Her long brown hair hung lifelessly across her shoulders like a drowned thing. She hoped that her "work" clothes and shoes were safe in their plastic bag in her pack. She wasn't entirely sure why she was standing on the side of the highway at midnight, trying to catch a ride. She had worked at "The Dancing Pony" for two weeks and liked it. But when something in her said it was time to move on, she moved on, a couple hundred in her pocket. How long had she been doing this, she wondered? She didn't really know. Every couple of weeks it was a new town, a new strip club. All blending together.

A loud horn startled her out of her reverie. A trucker had stopped to give her a ride.

The cab smelled of stale tobacco and unwashed underwear. The driver was a cookie cutter "truck driver", complete with worn cover-alls and faded red cap.

"Where you headed," he asked in a gruff voice, small, piggish eyes looking her over.

Something about him made her want to puke. Part of her wanted to get out, but it was so cold and so late. She had been around enough gruff types to be able to take care of herself. Her right hand slid into her jacket pocket and clenched the brass knuckles she carried. From her experience a broken nose usually stopped any romantic interest rather nicely. "North," She said, staying as close to her door as possible.

"Alrighty," he said, and began to put the truck in gear. He paused and pulled a thermos from behind his seat. "I just made some coffee. Might not taste the greatest, but it's hot." He smiled and held it out to her. Sharon tentatively took the thermos, waiting until he had put the truck into gear and started down the highway before pouring a small cup. She offered it to him. "Why, thanks, little lady," he said, quickly downing the steaming liquid and making a face as he handed the cup back. "Yep, just as I said, tastes like shit, but does the trick." He winked at her and returned his attention to the road, humming some country western tune.

Sharon took the cup back and poured herself a decent amount. As promised it tasted horrible. But, it was hot and did help to stave off the damp chill of her clothes. She felt herself relax a bit and settled into her seat for the long ride.

Consciousness came back in a deafening rush of screams and pain.

Her screams.

Her pain.

He was on her.

He was in her.

Pounding in and out of her like a freight train, breath foul and drool dripping across her face as he pounded in and out and in and out…

She screamed and thrashed, reached for the jacket pocket and brass knuckles that weren't there. She tried to bite at his hand as he covered her mouth. He hammered his fist into the side of her face and stars went nova in her eyes as oblivion returned with a sigh.

***

Music was playing.

Her music. She has lost time somewhere.

She was still dancing, still plying her trade, despite the flashback. He was still there before her, foul and leering. Where had his dollar gone? Looking down, she saw it tucked into her halter, still wet with his saliva. Mercifully the music ground to a halt.

Sharon hit the curtain at a run, light applause following her.

"Give it up for Charlene, everyone," the bored DJ recited, "as she comes back fully nude for your enjoyment. Keep those dollars working, guys, and ask any of these lovely ladies for a private dance in our back room."

Sharon stood in front of the mirror, watching herself shiver and quake in the hot room, a dozen contradictory thoughts racing through her mind.

Dena walked up, placed and hand on Sharon's shoulders and squeezed. "It's OK, doll," she said in motherly tones. "Everyone's nervous the first time out." Sharon nodded dully as Dena gave her another squeeze and went into the bar.

"He's here," she whispered to herself in a frightened voice.

"He's here," she whispered again, this time in realization.

She closed her eyes as the cacophony within threatened to overwhelm her.

Her music started to thump. The DJ beckoned her to appear.

Her eyes slowly opened with a predatory gleam.

"He's here."

Stripping away her clothes with slow intent, Sharon returned to the stage.

The music immediately possessed her, as every man's eyes followed her lithe body around the stage. She became every man's sultry secretary, sexy neighbor, or teenage daughter.

On hands and knees she crawled towards him, licking her lips. He reeked of beer and a cheap cigar. His small, piggish eyes raked across her body, another dollar in those stinking teeth. She rose to hands and knees and with a sudden jerk ripped the dollar away. Other men laughed as his face reddened and he spit the other half of the dollar onto the stage.

Sharon writhed and groaned with the music before him, leaning down and brushing her breasts across his scraggily beard, feeling his hot, putrid breath upon her skin. She crouched in front of him, showing him everything she possessed. He was breathing heavily as his eyes traveled down to her treasure and back to her eyes.

She smiled and winked at him. He reached down and rubbed his crotch as he winked back, not recognize the 17 year old girl he had drugged and raped two years ago.

As the music ran down he clapped and obscenely licked his lips as she left the stage.

Backstage, as Sharon slowly dressed, a feeling of calm resolve flooding over her.

Borrowing a black feathered boa from Dena's locker, she went onto the floor, and headed strait for her prey.

"Hey, Daddy," she cooed, coming up behind him and wrapping the boa around his neck. "How about a private dance?" Leaning down and licking his ear, she whispered, "On the house."

"Hell yeah," he breathed, stumbling to his feet as Sharon led him across the floor like a dog on a leash.

Dena leaned against a pole near the private booths, wraithlike in a veil of cigarette smoke, watching Sharon approach with her john in tow. She was about to take a drag when her gaze fell first to the boa, then up to the girl's face where their eyes met and locked. Her hand stopped an inch from her lips, cigarette forgotten, as Sharon's cold, determined gaze held Dena hostage until she rounded the corner into the booth.

After a long moment, Dena crushed her cigarette into an ashtray and crossed the floor to the DJ's booth. The fat, bored DJ was announcing the next dancer and starting her music. He nodded to Dena as she slipped in, then returned to reading his newspaper, ignoring the small rack of video monitors behind him.

Small cameras in the booths fed each monitor.

Dena lit another cigarette and watched.

Sharon sat the john down on a short stool, his back against the wall. As the next dancer's music began to play, she slowly pulled off her halter-top and sat on his lap. She began to twist and grind, all smiles and seduction. She reached down and stroked his obvious erection through his over-alls as she bumped and ground into his crotch.

The man's foul breath came in gasps and heaves as Sharon worked her body against his.

She let her arms fall across his shoulders as she pressed her breasts into his face. "You like this, baby," she asked, as her nimble fingers tied a slipknot in the boa, just above his neck.

"Fuck yeah," he grunted, biting at her nipples. She winced at the pain as she reached up and quickly tied the free end of the boa to a coat hook on the wall above.

"You'll love this part," she said sweetly, turning to push her ass into his face, then down to his lap, pounding and pounding as the music pulsed. He was close to coming, slapping her ass harder and harder as the music came towards a crescendo.

She hammered her ass into his crotch again and again and again…

As the music peaked Sharon reached down and jerked the stool out from under him and hammered into his lap again.

His neck snapped with an audible pop just as the music died. His body convulsed under her weight as the audience inattentively applauded the last dancer. She quickly turned and untied the boa, taking a moment to stare into his bulging, surprised eyes before spitting in his face. After sliding into her top and straitening her hair, she left the booth and casually walked to the dressing room.

Inside she quickly changed into street clothes and emptied the contents of her locker into a small bag. She knew she had to be gone before someone started asking questions. There, she had everything.

The boa lay in a heap on the floor. She picked it up, shoved it into Dena's locker and turned to leave.

She froze.

Dena was leaning against the exit door, blowing a small ring of smoke.

Sharon watched the older woman like a lion in a cage.

She knew.

Dena raised her cigarette and took another drag.

Sharon's world focused down to the tip of the cigarette, glowing crimson as the tobacco burned with an audible crackle. Dena slowly exhaled and dropped the cigarette, crushing it beneath her heel.

"I won't ask why you did it," Dena said at last. She took a step back from the door and pushed it open.

"I'm sure you had a good reason."

Sharon could only nod.

Dena nodded back with a bittersweet smile.

"Good luck, sweetie."

Sharon slipped through the door and ran into the night.

Dena watched her go until she was out of sight, then slowly closed the door.