| Page: 1 | Rating: Unrated [0] |
Horrible Harmonics In The Nuclear Age 1
| Good [+1]Toggle ReplyLink» Choda_Bean replied on Mon Jun 20, 2005 @ 12:27am |
 Coolness: 220685 | CIVIL WARS AND SILVER POLLS.
Saturday morning began like any other. A dry mouth from too many rum and cokes and third rate b-horror movies the night before and I was still pretty shaken up from watching a documentary on the Liberian civil war; the third in less than twenty five years. Raw unnerving images of the human mammal at his lowest tier of depravity were still burned into my pliable brain. The air was rank and sticky. There was no hot water again so I decided to skip the shower and tea and head straight for the white Russians to steel my nerves for the task ahead. I was to take a cab down to the two nearest strip bars: Diamonds bar on dundas and Idunno’s on Dixie, to wrap my mind around what exactly it is that draws the apparent dregs of society along with the higher class criminals (politicians and business men included) together as one crowd of drunken savages baying at the metaphorical moon. I was led to Diamonds the weekend before by my overmedicated acquaintance from my 9 to 5 job. He had been snorting cocaine and drinking heavily since noon on that particular eve. He assured me I would get sucked off or at least manually relieved and I was not disappointed. My memory of the place was fogged at best. Myself not being one to shy away from the occasional rail and snifter of whiskey and that evening had been no exception. Seeing it tipsy in the sunshine on this day gave me a sense of excitement muddled with anxiety. A one-story box of a building. No signs, no lights and yet directly off a main artery of the cities infrastructure. Ignorant passer-bys would never even bat an eye. You see, few people if any keep their wits about them when entering a titty bar. The underlying psychology of these establishments in the minds of men is to reassure ourselves that we are the top of the food chain. Feeding these drug addicted hookers with grimy bills from our paychecks that they would be able to earn had they not lacked the upper body strength and ancient hunter genetics handed down to us through so many eons of Darwinian evolution. This, I found out, is hardly the case. I approached the door and stepped into the entranceway. Dark and filled with what smelled like cheap perfume mixed with sweat and…JESUS CHRIST! Scientists have searched for ni on a century and a half for the missing link in the hominid chain of apes to humans but, I have seen him! He’s working the door at Diamonds twat bar on Dundas Street on Saturdays! I could barely make out the features of his face due to the altitude. Six ten if he was a foot. Of course my present state of sobriety did nothing to better my situation and the size of this under evolved beast was daunting to say the least. “Get a hold of yourself.” I thought. “Remember what john said, you are a professional simply there to do an honest report and gain some insight into the necessity of these establishments.” I pondered the horrible scene that would evolve had I attempted to explain to the mammoth that I was there to secretly question the dancers, take some notes and analyze this whole pulsing dive while getting drunker than my grandfather on his deathbed and perhaps even sampling some of the girls and spreading my bastard seed around this town a little. Never mind that. Show him your Medicare card and enter. As soon as I stepped into the main room I was immediately handed a Heineken out of a huge metal cooler of ice from a dark haired woman and told it was $5.25. The suction begins. There are no clocks in strip clubs. No windows. No information line to the outside world. The lights are dim and the music loud. Pulsing irrelevant noise designed by an “artist” who no-one can put a finger on because it really makes no difference what the song is about or who sings it, just so long as it is always there and always keeping your mind from contemplating leaving. It instantly became apparent to me that these rooms were not the subconscious stage set of all men’s power fantasies but a cold, well greased machine set up in a vacuum with no other purpose other than to collect our money by exploiting this notion. But who am I to complain. I have spent much effort, energy and money enjoying this same intoxicating atmosphere. My newly gained knowledge left me with no regrets of times well collected. I took a seat as far out of the doorman’s view range as possible. This fucker could see in the dark as sure as he could smell my apprehension at the door. You don’t spend your weekends toiling in a place like this without developing a sense for spotting the ones who could be trouble. The out-liers, as it were, and I stand out like an Arab in the white house. My tight jeans and converse shoes didn’t match with the oily shark like appearance of the rest of the mob but no one seemed to care. It took less than a minute for a stunning topless blonde waitress to offer me another drink. I wasn’t even past the neck of my door prize but I ordered two more anyway. I was in. Now to get down to business. I made eye contact with several of the workers. Trying in my thickening drunken fog to sit up straight and telepathically connect with the simple minds of these soulless wenches. Obviously numb from the neck down and some baring palm shaped bruises from spankings just a little to rough to be foreplay. That one over there probably laughed it off. Told herself that it’s going to be okay. Where else can a nineteen year old earn 60 dollars to shut off her conscious and gyrate on a reeking drunken slob for less than nine minutes? McDonalds? To hell with that headache. This is where the real money is. All ethics aside tonight. A tall stripper with a heavy accent I probably misjudged as Russian approached my table and asked in fractured English: “ I can hustle you?” “ Good Christ ” I said knowing full well my incomprehensible drunken slur” they didn’t waste any time at all training you did they?” She looked at me puzzled and asked for a drence; I think. I assumed she meant dance but my waltzing shoes were 600 km’s east and this was no time for two stepping with checkaslovakian pipe buffers. I was drinking heavily now and knew there wasn’t much time before I couldn’t speak clearly enough to conduct a question and answer session. I could feel the vibrations getting hectic. Every drink matching a horrible harmonic and amplifying it ten fold into a feeling that this job wasn’t working out as planned. Finally a young Latino looking dancer strolled over to me and sat down. I offered her a conversation without the ridiculous sexual innuendos and a chance to voice all the woes and hardships of her present employment. She accepted; her eyes reflecting caution and uncertainty learned through years of working the floor and arriving in a new country with a language she could barely speak. I told her I was researching the sex trade for my thesis. I was an avid journalist in training from Dawson College. She nodded her head in understanding but I didn’t let my guard slip. These pole pumpers would understand the unified field theory for $20 a song and I was onto her like white on rice. I began the prodding. She introduced herself as Marteia from Paraguay originally and she was often asked to perform duties that were outside the range of services that they are trained to carry out. “Training?” I said, “They really do train you people?” Marteia says that once the owner of the club hires a girl, they are taught how to approach men and talk to them to soften their hearts and egg on their sympathy. Basically how to bleed them. She said she had never been assaulted by a patron but had a friend who had accepted an offer by a man during a lap dance to come back to his hotel room as he was staying in town on business. She gladly complied when the man offered to pay her in excess of 500$ for her ill-begotten trade. He brought her to the room and proceeded to mercilessly beat her until she no longer resembled a youthful beauty but a swollen blackened visage of the grotesque. They never exercised the demon and she definitely did not see that 500 dollars. Facts of this story I cannot claim as truth but she seemed to sadden at its telling adding a sense of a repressed memory. Although it might have been another trick learned to them by the whore mongering managers to lighten my heart and wallet. Clearly this is not a career for the timid. It comes with much baggage and bad dreams at night and there is no pension plan in this warehouse. Marteia also claimed to make enough to support herself, a child, an apartment in Toronto, which is not as easily affordable as one would assume. She also drove a 2004 ford mustang to the various clubs and bars she worked on different nights of the week. I pressed her about her sexual relationships outside of the clubs and she became obviously irritated. “Shit. I should have phrased that better.” I thought. The alcohol in my veins was coursing strong now and I desperately needed a cigarette. Marteia informed me that she had to get ready to dance. I could see easily that I had struck a raw nerve inside her somewhere with my poorly stated question about her obvious failed attempts to find a partner who would accept the line of work she had chosen and some degraded part of me derived satisfaction from that. I felt superior and suddenly recognized the early stirrings of an erection. She thanked me for the drink and I thanked her for her time, which was apparently valuable. I felt the rage slowly begin to boil. The room seemed smaller and the faces of the people were becoming pinched and distorted. I imagined a bar full of gargoyles writhing around a sacrificial pillar spattered with semen and blood and clumps of matted crimson hair, howling and clawing at the young virgin offerings that were being thrown out to them one by one by one while that horrible throbbing music drove the whole scene into what resembled a feeding frenzy of sharks. One more attempt I assured myself. I made eye contact with my Russian friend from earlier on. She came and sat down and I didn’t offer a drink. I felt disgusted and abused by this whole escapade. I asked her how frequently she was asked for sex a little to frankly. I immediately understood the mounting confusion in her dull eyes. The comrade spoke and understood little English depending solely on her knockout looks, which had so far gotten her everything most hard working suckers still could not afford. This added to my irritation and I half yelled, “SEX! HOW OFTEN DO THEY ASK FOR SEX? FOR MONEY!?” She didn’t enjoy being accosted and got up to leave the table. Or so I thought. She headed straight over to Tiny the gatekeeper. Mother of god here it comes. I felt the tension that was about to ensue and could do nothing but sit and drink and sweat while the bloated bastard stormed over to the table eager to prove to himself and the hookers alike that he was an all male heterosexual. I was pulled to my feet and dragged to the door in one swooping motion while I yelled at him to fuck off. I was just talking to her that’s all. Outside into the night I went, bottle of beer still in hand although drained. I collected myself and yelled back at the closed door “FUCKERS! I PAY YOUR SALARIES!”, the statement apparently originating from some early altercation with a policeman from the old mountain town of my origin. My head suddenly wandered off to the people dieing in civil wars in Liberia and all over this rotting shithole of a planet we live on. All the western worlds strife and suffering and squabbling over irrelevancies and stupidities while children starve to death cold and uneducated to the marching beat of powers that regulate our very thoughts like lambs to the slaughter, and here I stood with a torn shirt, an empty bottle of beer and desperately trying to hide my erection on Dundas street in Ontario on a balmy Saturday night. The evening was old and stale and the humidity was as oppressing as it had been when I walked into Diamonds before sundown almost 3 hours earlier. I suddenly lacked motivation and a drive to continue this assignment. There was no need to visit IDUNNO’S on Dixie. I then understood what I would find there and in an instant I felt like I needed a shower very badly. Wesley lepore June 12 2005. Mississauga, Ontario wesleylepore@hotmail.com |
| Good [+1]Toggle ReplyLink» jas_nasty replied on Fri Jul 1, 2005 @ 5:26am |
 Coolness: 57205 | "Pulsing irrelevant noise designed by an “artist” who no-one can put a finger on because it really makes no difference what the song is about or who sings it, just so long as it is always there and always keeping your mind from contemplating leaving."
ha ha i love that. interesting. i've been in a strip club like those- the silver dollar i think it was called.... i was so unimpressed, i wanted a show and good music like in a movie. kreggz was a dj in a strip club......crazy stories. |
| Good [+1]Toggle ReplyLink» basdini replied on Fri Jul 1, 2005 @ 10:59am |
 Coolness: 145915 | strip club djing is bad for the soul...
you just get to see this panorama of suffering and depravity.... |
Horrible Harmonics In The Nuclear Age 1
| Page: 1 |
[ Top Of Page ] |
Post A Reply |
You must be logged in to post a reply.
[ Top Of Page ] |
