Miss Quoted

“Self deprecation is the sincerest form of flattery: Charlton Heston, 1820.”

“Interesting,” she said. The song ended and the DJ began. “You want a dance, or what?”

I glanced at her lap, which was at eye level and hard to miss. She had on platform boots and a denim skirt whittled into a kind of frazzled garter belt. Her hair was black, metallic, and there were giant holes in her stockings — all artificial, of course.

“No,” I said. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Want a dance.”

She thought for a second, then squinted. “You want to give me a dance?”

“Sure,” I said. “At least, I’d like to take a shot, that is.”

“Fine,” she shrugged. “Ten Bucks.”

I paid and we silently exchanged places. As we waited for the next song I saw her hair was blue, not black.

The song, it turned out, was a familiar one…an anthem from sixth grade. Sixth grade was monumental for me, a mile marker on the road to adulthood. Sixth grade was pot. Sixth grade was Hamms. Sixth grade was divorce and crying in the shower a lot. Sixth grade was saying no to corduroy and haircuts and yes to Guns N’ Roses and getting drunk in parking lots a lot.

So naturally I shat when ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’ blew through the speakers and shook the shit off the walls. It was beautiful, phantasma-fucking-goric. But apparently I was the only one who thought so. As I mounted, she snapped her legs together and received me with a cool, contemptuous sigh. Oh please, her eyes said, this song sucks.

I was rusty at first — dry, mechanical. But then instinct kicked in and my hips began pumping and sloshing in a burst of salacious, liquid grace — like Axl in that video where he’s wearing a bandana on his head. It was a total transformation. I swaggered. I swayed. My spine became rubber. My joints disjointed. I slithered, man. I bewitched.

Slowly, helplessly, her knees fell apart and her body turned all gooey against my jeans. I wiggled to her ear and purred like a snake. There were moans of joy…definitely some heavy breathing. The room vibrated. Behind us, people cheered. A strobe light glanced in our direction, then froze. All the while, Axl mewled, she moaned, and I worked her body like a microphone stand.

When the song finished, she stood and said I was pretty good for a guy wearing sandals. I nodded, then flashed a smile that could melt an entire bullet train full of Japanese swords. “Every dog has a bidet,” I said. “Walt Disney, 95 AD.”

She nodded back. “I’m up after this next one,” she said. “But if you want, when I’m done, I could come back and return the favor.” She paused, then smiled. “Free of charge,” she said.

I started to answer, then the music started and a ballad by one of those Canadian hair bands pissed through the speakers, and the thought of talking made me sick.

“Well,” she said, “maybe I’ll see you by the stage.”

I pretended like I was deaf, then watched as she sulked toward a large black curtain across the room. She was half way there, when I had a change of heart and decided to validate her daily decision to not die. “Just remember…” I shouted to the back of her black/blue head.

She turned, adjusted her top, and cocked her head. “What’s that?” she said.

I lit up a cigarette, took a drag. “All the pole’s a stage,” I said.

Just then the music died and the DJ came to life. “Let’s hear it for Madame Curry,” he said. “Up next, The Duchess of Pork. After that, Miss Quoted. Miss Quoted to the dressing room, please.”

She glanced at the DJ, then back at me. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us blinked. The strobe flashed across our eyes. But we just stared at one another–frozen.

An entire minute passed before she pulled at her skirt and broke the spell. “William Shatner,” she said, “1599,” then turned and disappeared behind the stage.