Thursday, October 13, 2005

Gina Part One

She tells me her name is Brandi but I know she's lying. A good relationship can never start off so artificially so I get right to the point.

"What's your real name?" I ask.

Brandi fixes a deep gaze into my eyes--and doesn't let go.

Techno music drones incessantly while pulsing colors swirl around us; Brandi's face flashes like a Christmas tree.

Red.
Green.
Blue.
Darkness.



"It's Gina," she finally says, still staring into my eyes.
"Is it really Gina?" I ask.
"Yes. And that's not short for anything. It's not Regina. Just Gina. I hate when guys think it's Regina."

Gina has that Goth look without being Goth. Naturally jet black hair hangs to the edge of black mascara outlining her sparkling green eyes. Alabaster white skin accentuates the darkness, and is highlighted by sensuous crimson lips.

Gina's eyes flicker with the reflection of the spinning mirror balls above the stage. I break from our trance and look at the others. They smile, but their eyes don't flicker. They don't do anything at all. Their pupils are lifeless Milk Duds. And still they smile.

"You're not like the others," I say to Gina.
But before she can respond I continue.
"Everyone else is so fake. You're the most real thing I've ever seen in here."
Gina smiles but doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. And now I don't want to leave this place.

This place being Rachel's, an "upscale" gentleman's club in Orlando. But that's just an expensive term for strip club. I've been coming here every week courtesy of my boss at work, Tom. He e-mails me about coming for lunch whenever he's in the mood. But it has to be secret. Tom doesn't want the others to know what kind of debaucherous lifestyle he leads. As if the wild parties he throws at his house which end in naked people in his pool and sex in the bathrooms doesn't already send that message. And there was that half-naked, drunk intern bouncing off everyone's lap at the Super Bowl party. He could have gotten into a lot of trouble for that one.

Tom always makes me wait in the parking lot for him, while he lingers a good 5 minutes behind. "Can't be obvious," he says. But he doesn't fool anyone. Lunch shouldn't take two and a half hours and we return to the snickers of our co-workers. How was "lunch?" John will ask with a goofy grin.

For me, going to Rachel's means indulging in their incredible buffet for $10. It's a 4 star restaurant with topless girls dancing about. But there's nothing sexy for me about stuffing barbecue ribs into my mouth, and I pay little attention to the show. Tom is busy stuffing dollar bills into the G-strings of girls half his age. I get up and go for seconds on lunch. And thirds. And there's that scrumptious strawberry pastry for dessert. As much as I want. When I return with dessert there's usually a topless girl at my table making Tom laugh. Her arms draped around his neck. The girl usually has basketballs where her breasts should be. I've never liked fake boobs. It literally feels like squeezing a rubber ball, and I don't get any pleasure out of that. In fact most of the girls at Rachel's are fake, and not just in their boobs.

Every few weeks Tom finds a new girl to flirt with, to try and convince to meet up for dinner some time. Some of these girls will take his phone number...and never call. Some will call on a weekday morning, when they know he's at work, and leave a message on his cell. Tom will frantically return their calls over and over...and over. But they'll never pick up. It's just a tease. These girls may be fake, but they're not stupid.

Tom will easily spend $50 during lunch. It's $10 a lap dance, and he always gets more than a couple. Me, I can get out of there with just the $10 for lunch. I'm not interested in plastic girls. With their plastic boobs and their plastic personalities.

And then one day Tom takes the day off but still calls me to go to Rachel's. He'll pick me up at the office. But don't tell anyone, he says, it's our secret.

And on this day Tom can drink all the alcohol he wants. After all, he's not working. But I am. And now he's too drunk to drive me back to the office and I can't drive a stick. And he's got three plastic bunnies surrounding him, all of them saying how happy they are to meet us. All of them drinking overpriced ######### that Tom has bought for them.

"Just call work and tell them you had to run some errands," he says. "Tell them you're taking half a vacation day. But don't put it down on the time sheet, if you know what I mean." I feel dishonest about doing this. I worry about what the others at work will think. They're not stupid and they'll figure it out. I worry. I worry. I worry.

And then I see Gina.

And she comes over and sits next to me. She doesn't look at Tom. Not even a glance. It's just me.

And she's not like the others.

And now I don't want to leave this place.

4 Comments:

Blogger c.rooney said...

This is amazing.

True story?

9:33 PM  
Blogger exley said...

Of course. And there's more to it.

9:37 PM  
Blogger Stefanie said...

Hee hee.

11:54 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

am eagerly awaiting Part two.

10:18 AM  

Post a Comment

<< Home