nicky wire's legs
Christ is king!
yeah, i just hate having to condescend when im not getting paid for it
Post Whatever You Are Thinking At This Very Moment
- Thread starter virtually dead
- Start date
Light Housework
I value my own enjoyment the most.
You also hate to open your eyes when it doesn't flatter you.
nicky wire's legs
Christ is king!
so basically if you want me to 'like' your stuff, it's 50 bucks per 'like'
Light Housework
I value my own enjoyment the most.
Anyone can pretend to condescend like you do, by lifting up their nose. In reality, you're no taller.
nicky wire's legs
Christ is king!
haha i just love these earthy aphorisms these humble peasants are forever coming up with
nicky wire's legs
Christ is king!
i wonder if neil has children...
Light Housework
I value my own enjoyment the most.
Why don't you berate Morrissey some more for caring for his mother. Something you failed to do for your own.
nicky wire's legs
Christ is king!
Light Housework
I value my own enjoyment the most.
Enjoy your bootlickers. I'm done hoping you'd 'condescend' for free.
D
Deleted member 29235
Guest
Oh no, the Mumsnet thread is having a row. 
Thinking: if prayer is in order, I shall be genuflecting towards my Morrissey bust statue - wishing for another couple of new stories to miraculously appear...
Fingers crossed.
FWD.
Fingers crossed.
FWD.
nicky wire's legs
Christ is king!
grab a clue, lame-oOh no, the Mumsnet thread is having a row.
R
Respo
Guest
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon's blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
Light Housework
I value my own enjoyment the most.
Light Housework
I value my own enjoyment the most.
How are you enjoying the books you recently bought? Do they have enough personality for your taste?
Light Housework
I value my own enjoyment the most.
What I wrote today:
Hooking in Montreal, with Angie, and with Charlie:
Being a stripper doesn’t necessarily mean being a prostitute, but when Charlie hit me, I couldn’t smile at the job. Therefore, I couldn’t make money. I started going to a seedier strip club, on Decarie I guess the street was called. There, I did cocaine with other girls at one customer’s table. Later, I met a customer that called me a witch. My stage name was Samantha, so I was a little flattered, thinking of that old TV show, with the good natured witch called Samantha or Sabrina.
I ended up going to his home. His name was Gerry. He and I did cocaine there. I did a lot of it. He kept it in a candy dish on the coffee table. He only did it lightly. We fooled around, short of penetration. He paid me $100 for a couple of hours doing that. I kept the lights on at my and Charlie’s apartment with that money. The way we got that apartment was deceitful. Charlie had lived in it with a woman called Gail, but he’d battered her, even while she was pregnant with his child. He held her under the hot water tap, to give her pain, for instance. He said he did it because she had spoken to him in a bossy, ‘manly’ tone.
At the time they were living together, I didn’t know how it was between them. As far as I knew, they were just roommates. I’d had such a crush on Charlie, I was making anonymous calls to him, too shy to call as myself openly. We developed a tapping system for communicating. One day, I blurted out a sigh, and he discovered that I was female. Through this means of communication, though, I found out that Gail was moving to another province. That was my cue to ‘bump' into him. Somehow I managed to cross paths with him, and exchange numbers above board.
I called him up as myself openly, and was invited to come look at the apartment, because he was looking for a new roommate. The trick was though, that I’d have to pretend not to know him, to the landlord, and rent the apartment afresh, because he’d been evicted. Anything for Charlie, so that was what I did. I showed up clean cut and on my own, and rented it no problem. This was on Snowdon street I think it was called, near Decarie boulevard and Snowden metro station.
It was a big apartment. Charlie’s friends Mark and Sandy lived above us, and Denise, a neighbor beside us would bring Charlie her cooking. Everybody’s heart always bled for Charlie. I was just a scummy stripper, and Charlie was the hearth everyone wanted to warm themselves by. But at that point, he hadn’t yet had his paralyzing bicycle accident. After he had it, people’s guard would drop upon seeing this gorgeous, lion like blonde teddy bear, paralyzed from the solar plexus down, confined to a souped up wheelchair.
I was never resentful that people were kind to him while only putting up with me because I was Charlie’s girl. It’s only now, when I look back, that I’m bitter about it. Anyway, so I got the apartment, and Charlie just kept living there, to the chagrin of the landlord. I eventually told Charlie it was me making those anonymous calls. I seduced him but he gave me rough sex, which isn’t my preference, the first time we had sex. I’d danced around, and that didn’t cut the mustard, so I showed him girly magazines, and that got him aroused, but, it was so rough, I didn’t enjoy it. However I was only trying to break the ice between us, and hoped that would help.
Next thing I knew, we were hanging out with my friend Janice, and they kept making out in front of me, Charlie and Janice. By the end of the evening, Charlie'd gone home ahead of me, and Janice and I wept at the sordidness of it all. I sullenly went home, and numbly went to bed. Charlie joined me of his own accord, and made love to me gently, but I didn’t feel it because I was emotionally numb, and figured it was pity sex.
My job, as a waitress at the time, was snatched from me. It was a fellow waitress, who convinced the boss to hire her daughter instead. But in the end, the bartender, who I kept in touch with, told me I’d been spared, that everyone’s cheque bounced. They’d closed down the enterprise without warning. However, rent was due before long, and I didn’t want Charlie worrying, so I opened the newspaper and looked at the classified ads to find work. There was only one option that stood out to me. “Go go dancers $500 - $800 per week” I think the agency was called All Stars, on Berri de Montigne, near the bus depot.
I gingerly peeked into the agency office, and saw a friendly looking man and a stripper who seemed happy enough. Next thing I knew, he was taking a picture of me in a bathing suit, and then I was hired to work at La Source Du Sexe, I think it was called, in Dorval, that night. I was to meet our driver at Guy metro station at 7 I think. But first, I used the agency’s tanning beds. I did well at the Source, finding it easy to get on the stage, punch in my songs on the jukebox, and dance 2 songs on my feet, then one thrashing around on a blanket.
At the Source, I doubled as a cocktail waitress. I did okay. The rent was paid, and I had money to buy luxuries like porcelain wall ornaments, and perfume. But I could sense that Charlie, I was cramping his style, so I took the agency up on a better paying gig in Oshawa, Ontario, to give Charlie a break. Every day, I’d call to check in, and Charlie’s friend Mark would answer, for 6 days straight. He gave me some lame excuse for Charlie not being around each time I called, so I figured that I could take a hint, and I got myself another week long gig there in Oshawa, and I called to deliver the good news that I’d be away for another week.
Mark answered as expected, but before I could say anything, he blurted out that he had some bad news, and that he and Charlie hadn’t wanted to spoil my work week, but now that it was over, he’d tell me the truth, that Charlie had been drinking heavily at a party one night, and fell off his bicycle in the St.Remi tunnel, hitting the guard rail, and the doctors said he’ll never walk again.
It didn’t sink in. I’d just bought knick knacks for the apartment that day lightheartedly, at a flea market a customer had taken me to, had had dinner at a couple’s house, was happy to stay in Oshawa for another week, giving Charlie however much space he wanted. The momentum kept the bad news from sinking in. I laid my head on the clean hotel pillow, but felt a little off. It was then I realized the gravity of what Mark had told me. “will never walk again”
It was too late to book travel that night back to Montreal, by any other means than taxi. I paid a driver a few hundred dollars to get me there asap. Mark drove me to the hospital in the morning, and that was when I met Charlie’s ex girlfriend Sharon. Another Sharon. And, we both had bought him the U2 album War.
What could I do? Just be stoic. Get used to cleaning urine and feces from his clothes, from the toilet seat, from the bathtub. Get used to Charlie having filthy fingers, from wheeling his chair around. Get used to the lingering smells of urine and feces, which never entirely get out of your clothes which you wash with his. Get used to infections because of the catheter up his urethra. Get used to mouth and finger sex. I just accepted it as well as I could.
My mistake though, was being willing to give Charlie my heart on a silver platter. I did that because I felt sorry for him. It only left me open to abuse, like a doormat, making the excuse that I’d be crazy too, if I’d had such a drastic accident. One day, after making us both breakfast, Charlie reached out and slapped my face hard. I just looked at him, waiting for an explanation. None came, so I resumed eating. He slapped me again, and laughed.
I couldn’t smile after that, at work, and that was when I started working at seedier clubs, where I met Angie, a stripper and prostitute, who showed me how to do the latter. She had a young son, and a husband who had a Guinness World Record size penis they showed me. Angie took me downtown, where we got ourselves picked up by a man in a cowboy hat. He drove us to his apartment in NDG, and he gave us cocaine. He favored me, because I had a body that was tight at the time, while Angie looked like she’d had a kid.
He plied me with cocaine, while Angie slipped out. I stayed there until the John had to shower for work. He was insatiable. As we parted, I asked for one more hit. He impatiently said no, that I had to leave and he had to go to work. A few days later, he called, and I rejected his invitation to do it all again, because I was no longer hooked. Cocaine only ever hooked me while I was on it, not after I come down. Also, it had felt very cold of him to cut me off icily that morning. That was a turn off.
Angie and I would next go to a club in Iberville, Quebec, where there was a lascivious manager at the time, who pushed cocaine on Angie and I.
To be continued…
Hooking in Montreal, with Angie, and with Charlie:
Being a stripper doesn’t necessarily mean being a prostitute, but when Charlie hit me, I couldn’t smile at the job. Therefore, I couldn’t make money. I started going to a seedier strip club, on Decarie I guess the street was called. There, I did cocaine with other girls at one customer’s table. Later, I met a customer that called me a witch. My stage name was Samantha, so I was a little flattered, thinking of that old TV show, with the good natured witch called Samantha or Sabrina.
I ended up going to his home. His name was Gerry. He and I did cocaine there. I did a lot of it. He kept it in a candy dish on the coffee table. He only did it lightly. We fooled around, short of penetration. He paid me $100 for a couple of hours doing that. I kept the lights on at my and Charlie’s apartment with that money. The way we got that apartment was deceitful. Charlie had lived in it with a woman called Gail, but he’d battered her, even while she was pregnant with his child. He held her under the hot water tap, to give her pain, for instance. He said he did it because she had spoken to him in a bossy, ‘manly’ tone.
At the time they were living together, I didn’t know how it was between them. As far as I knew, they were just roommates. I’d had such a crush on Charlie, I was making anonymous calls to him, too shy to call as myself openly. We developed a tapping system for communicating. One day, I blurted out a sigh, and he discovered that I was female. Through this means of communication, though, I found out that Gail was moving to another province. That was my cue to ‘bump' into him. Somehow I managed to cross paths with him, and exchange numbers above board.
I called him up as myself openly, and was invited to come look at the apartment, because he was looking for a new roommate. The trick was though, that I’d have to pretend not to know him, to the landlord, and rent the apartment afresh, because he’d been evicted. Anything for Charlie, so that was what I did. I showed up clean cut and on my own, and rented it no problem. This was on Snowdon street I think it was called, near Decarie boulevard and Snowden metro station.
It was a big apartment. Charlie’s friends Mark and Sandy lived above us, and Denise, a neighbor beside us would bring Charlie her cooking. Everybody’s heart always bled for Charlie. I was just a scummy stripper, and Charlie was the hearth everyone wanted to warm themselves by. But at that point, he hadn’t yet had his paralyzing bicycle accident. After he had it, people’s guard would drop upon seeing this gorgeous, lion like blonde teddy bear, paralyzed from the solar plexus down, confined to a souped up wheelchair.
I was never resentful that people were kind to him while only putting up with me because I was Charlie’s girl. It’s only now, when I look back, that I’m bitter about it. Anyway, so I got the apartment, and Charlie just kept living there, to the chagrin of the landlord. I eventually told Charlie it was me making those anonymous calls. I seduced him but he gave me rough sex, which isn’t my preference, the first time we had sex. I’d danced around, and that didn’t cut the mustard, so I showed him girly magazines, and that got him aroused, but, it was so rough, I didn’t enjoy it. However I was only trying to break the ice between us, and hoped that would help.
Next thing I knew, we were hanging out with my friend Janice, and they kept making out in front of me, Charlie and Janice. By the end of the evening, Charlie'd gone home ahead of me, and Janice and I wept at the sordidness of it all. I sullenly went home, and numbly went to bed. Charlie joined me of his own accord, and made love to me gently, but I didn’t feel it because I was emotionally numb, and figured it was pity sex.
My job, as a waitress at the time, was snatched from me. It was a fellow waitress, who convinced the boss to hire her daughter instead. But in the end, the bartender, who I kept in touch with, told me I’d been spared, that everyone’s cheque bounced. They’d closed down the enterprise without warning. However, rent was due before long, and I didn’t want Charlie worrying, so I opened the newspaper and looked at the classified ads to find work. There was only one option that stood out to me. “Go go dancers $500 - $800 per week” I think the agency was called All Stars, on Berri de Montigne, near the bus depot.
I gingerly peeked into the agency office, and saw a friendly looking man and a stripper who seemed happy enough. Next thing I knew, he was taking a picture of me in a bathing suit, and then I was hired to work at La Source Du Sexe, I think it was called, in Dorval, that night. I was to meet our driver at Guy metro station at 7 I think. But first, I used the agency’s tanning beds. I did well at the Source, finding it easy to get on the stage, punch in my songs on the jukebox, and dance 2 songs on my feet, then one thrashing around on a blanket.
At the Source, I doubled as a cocktail waitress. I did okay. The rent was paid, and I had money to buy luxuries like porcelain wall ornaments, and perfume. But I could sense that Charlie, I was cramping his style, so I took the agency up on a better paying gig in Oshawa, Ontario, to give Charlie a break. Every day, I’d call to check in, and Charlie’s friend Mark would answer, for 6 days straight. He gave me some lame excuse for Charlie not being around each time I called, so I figured that I could take a hint, and I got myself another week long gig there in Oshawa, and I called to deliver the good news that I’d be away for another week.
Mark answered as expected, but before I could say anything, he blurted out that he had some bad news, and that he and Charlie hadn’t wanted to spoil my work week, but now that it was over, he’d tell me the truth, that Charlie had been drinking heavily at a party one night, and fell off his bicycle in the St.Remi tunnel, hitting the guard rail, and the doctors said he’ll never walk again.
It didn’t sink in. I’d just bought knick knacks for the apartment that day lightheartedly, at a flea market a customer had taken me to, had had dinner at a couple’s house, was happy to stay in Oshawa for another week, giving Charlie however much space he wanted. The momentum kept the bad news from sinking in. I laid my head on the clean hotel pillow, but felt a little off. It was then I realized the gravity of what Mark had told me. “will never walk again”
It was too late to book travel that night back to Montreal, by any other means than taxi. I paid a driver a few hundred dollars to get me there asap. Mark drove me to the hospital in the morning, and that was when I met Charlie’s ex girlfriend Sharon. Another Sharon. And, we both had bought him the U2 album War.
What could I do? Just be stoic. Get used to cleaning urine and feces from his clothes, from the toilet seat, from the bathtub. Get used to Charlie having filthy fingers, from wheeling his chair around. Get used to the lingering smells of urine and feces, which never entirely get out of your clothes which you wash with his. Get used to infections because of the catheter up his urethra. Get used to mouth and finger sex. I just accepted it as well as I could.
My mistake though, was being willing to give Charlie my heart on a silver platter. I did that because I felt sorry for him. It only left me open to abuse, like a doormat, making the excuse that I’d be crazy too, if I’d had such a drastic accident. One day, after making us both breakfast, Charlie reached out and slapped my face hard. I just looked at him, waiting for an explanation. None came, so I resumed eating. He slapped me again, and laughed.
I couldn’t smile after that, at work, and that was when I started working at seedier clubs, where I met Angie, a stripper and prostitute, who showed me how to do the latter. She had a young son, and a husband who had a Guinness World Record size penis they showed me. Angie took me downtown, where we got ourselves picked up by a man in a cowboy hat. He drove us to his apartment in NDG, and he gave us cocaine. He favored me, because I had a body that was tight at the time, while Angie looked like she’d had a kid.
He plied me with cocaine, while Angie slipped out. I stayed there until the John had to shower for work. He was insatiable. As we parted, I asked for one more hit. He impatiently said no, that I had to leave and he had to go to work. A few days later, he called, and I rejected his invitation to do it all again, because I was no longer hooked. Cocaine only ever hooked me while I was on it, not after I come down. Also, it had felt very cold of him to cut me off icily that morning. That was a turn off.
Angie and I would next go to a club in Iberville, Quebec, where there was a lascivious manager at the time, who pushed cocaine on Angie and I.
To be continued…
nicky wire's legs
Christ is king!
i have rediscovered the joys of ebay! around ten years ago i used to buy marni stuff off of ebay all the time. there was at that time this great seller mushroom-city from tokyo who had all kinds of great new and vintage marni stuff (sadly i havent seen her around) that i used to buy from all the time. i started when i lived with my grandma and i remember using her email and thinking nothing of it until she discovered that i bought a $500 marni piece of cloth that acted as a top and was a bit aghast saying it was "drastic" (it baffles me now that i couldnt have predicted her reaction) and saying that i should go buy clothes from sears and again getting mad when i said i couldnt because sears was irrelevant to the times (we lived, at that time, in a small doukhobor town where nothing fashionable was ever worn, making my attitude all the more funny). anyway, ebay is still the best place to buy vintage marni stuff (though not as good as it once was). i was delighted to find this coat (for super cheap) that i had wanted to buy years ago but had missed out on. im not sure if ill buy it or not. it's too small for me but it would be an incentive to lose weight and marni coats are oversized anyway so i can usually stuff myself into them one way or another. also, total wrong colour, but i would like it to be known that i dont even care. it's so great, the collar, the low waist (im a big fan of low waists), everything. marni is EXACTLY what i need in my life right now.
Light Housework
I value my own enjoyment the most.
What I wrote today:
Angie and I would next go to a club in Iberville, Quebec, where there was a lascivious manager at the time, who pushed cocaine on Angie and I.
To be continued…
At the club in Iberville, there was a blonde petite man doling out cocaine to Angie, who begged for it. He was urging me to take some too, and he gave me a glass of my favorite liqueur, Grand Marnier. He was a snake in the grass, it would turn out. I didn’t trust his vibe to begin with, but I went along with Angie and humored him. After all, he was the boss.
Soon after, the manager had followed me into the discotheque next door, and I felt a distinctly predatory vibe coming from him toward specifically myself. I began to feel tired at the same time he was zeroing in on me, so I ran towards my motel room, that I shared with Angie. I ran, in my high heels, through the snow, got into my and Angie’s room, locked the door behind me, thinking that that had been a close call, and went straight to bed.
Next thing I knew, I came to, propped up on my knees, getting pumped by the manager doggie style. I was too shocked to do anything about it. He quickly finished off. Angie must have let him in, in return for more cocaine. Obviously, the manager had spiked my drink. I never spoke to Angie again.
I went back to that club a few more times, but under a different manager. The one who raped me had been fired, for what, I don’t know. I never made a formal complaint. My life was too full of strife to think of going to the police, for instance. It would have been my word against his, and I didn’t even know at the time, that that would have been considered rape. I know it is classified as rape nowadays, but that was in 1984 or so, and I hadn’t heard anyone talking about rape, so it wasn’t part of my vocabulary. I was just rolling with the punches.
The new manager was a very kind, upstanding man. I remember him picking me up from Charlie’s new social housing apartment once, how I could sense him doing a double take, when he saw that my significant other was confined to a wheelchair. He exuded warmth and trustworthiness. He was usually smiling, when we made eye contact. He never offered me booze or drugs.
Once, I went from the club issued motel room, one morning, to a field, to suntan. I thought it’d be safe at 11 AM to do that, but I must have stayed too long, because, though it looked nice that night, soon I was blistering all over, and then peeling white strips of epidermis. The next club I worked at must have noticed. They fired me, before the my shift even started. I’d been exercising in the empty club. Maybe they thought I was working out too fanatically. Another stripper threatened to quit if they didn’t rehire me, but it was too late. I’d been hired somewhere else.
Maybe I’d been fired because a customer had taken me to his apartment, and I guess, seeing me in the daylight filtering in through the windows, he saw the white strips of skin and blisters from the terrible sunburn I had going on. He metamorphosed from eager to get me alone, to fearful of catching some disease. He acted like a customer that’s found out that the seller was out to scam him. He’d told me in advance, that he’d pay for my taxi back to the club, but now, he refused. He probably would have refused me a glass of water if I’d asked, at that point. Maybe he knew the club management and put in a bad word.
The next club I went to, was managed by a fellow exercise fan. He showed me some calisthenic moves. A cheerful and wholesome young man who was maybe half oriental. I remember the song Black Cars would play whenever one of two black girls was on stage. What is that singer’s name, Gino Vanelli?
After the gig was over at that club, I went to the used car dealership next door, and bought a brown Chevy Nova (like what mum had owned), for $400. I drove ‘home' to Charlie’s place, without a driver’s license, wanting to share my wad of cash with him. I remember buying us chicken dinners on Sherbrooke street in NDG a few times, and telling him not to count on me buying us dinner in future, because I knew I wasn’t always able to ‘dance', as we called it. Sometimes I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. There were times I would hide in the washroom and cry. Decades later, Charlie would tell me that he always held it against me for telling him not to count on me buying dinner in the future. He’d thought that I’d meant that I didn’t want to spend my money on him.
I ended up driving the car for 2 months, without license plates, until it died on me. I bought a new battery and starter for it, but it still died. I did end up taking driving lessons and getting my license. The last time I drove was 1989. Charlie’s van, which was altered to be driven using only hands, for Charlie. More about that later.
Charlie ended up, before long, chasing me around the block, from Hutcheson street, to Avenue Parc, which was a busy street. I was in my pajamas. Better than naked, which he’d done, back on Decarie. This time, his face was like a red gargoyle’s. He was furious, and of course I ended up back in the battered women’s shelter, with my car. I remember a staff member there, a humble, friendly and warm person, giving me some cash to get gas. Guylaine. Off the record. She was in the alley, where my car had stalled for lack of gas, or, so I thought. It turned out, it had truly died.
Charlie once went with me to scout out Johns. I only remember us scoring one. An oriental man, who had missionary style sexual intercourse with me on the concrete of a parking garage, and spoke of wanting to take me to Disneyland. That was the only time Charlie was involved with me prostituting myself. He did pressure me to make money though. I’ll never forget that time. Weeks of him chronically calling me ‘bitch', etc., because I’d borrowed money from him, that I’d thought he’d given to me, and I wasn’t working. This happened in Calgary.
To be continued…
Angie and I would next go to a club in Iberville, Quebec, where there was a lascivious manager at the time, who pushed cocaine on Angie and I.
To be continued…
At the club in Iberville, there was a blonde petite man doling out cocaine to Angie, who begged for it. He was urging me to take some too, and he gave me a glass of my favorite liqueur, Grand Marnier. He was a snake in the grass, it would turn out. I didn’t trust his vibe to begin with, but I went along with Angie and humored him. After all, he was the boss.
Soon after, the manager had followed me into the discotheque next door, and I felt a distinctly predatory vibe coming from him toward specifically myself. I began to feel tired at the same time he was zeroing in on me, so I ran towards my motel room, that I shared with Angie. I ran, in my high heels, through the snow, got into my and Angie’s room, locked the door behind me, thinking that that had been a close call, and went straight to bed.
Next thing I knew, I came to, propped up on my knees, getting pumped by the manager doggie style. I was too shocked to do anything about it. He quickly finished off. Angie must have let him in, in return for more cocaine. Obviously, the manager had spiked my drink. I never spoke to Angie again.
I went back to that club a few more times, but under a different manager. The one who raped me had been fired, for what, I don’t know. I never made a formal complaint. My life was too full of strife to think of going to the police, for instance. It would have been my word against his, and I didn’t even know at the time, that that would have been considered rape. I know it is classified as rape nowadays, but that was in 1984 or so, and I hadn’t heard anyone talking about rape, so it wasn’t part of my vocabulary. I was just rolling with the punches.
The new manager was a very kind, upstanding man. I remember him picking me up from Charlie’s new social housing apartment once, how I could sense him doing a double take, when he saw that my significant other was confined to a wheelchair. He exuded warmth and trustworthiness. He was usually smiling, when we made eye contact. He never offered me booze or drugs.
Once, I went from the club issued motel room, one morning, to a field, to suntan. I thought it’d be safe at 11 AM to do that, but I must have stayed too long, because, though it looked nice that night, soon I was blistering all over, and then peeling white strips of epidermis. The next club I worked at must have noticed. They fired me, before the my shift even started. I’d been exercising in the empty club. Maybe they thought I was working out too fanatically. Another stripper threatened to quit if they didn’t rehire me, but it was too late. I’d been hired somewhere else.
Maybe I’d been fired because a customer had taken me to his apartment, and I guess, seeing me in the daylight filtering in through the windows, he saw the white strips of skin and blisters from the terrible sunburn I had going on. He metamorphosed from eager to get me alone, to fearful of catching some disease. He acted like a customer that’s found out that the seller was out to scam him. He’d told me in advance, that he’d pay for my taxi back to the club, but now, he refused. He probably would have refused me a glass of water if I’d asked, at that point. Maybe he knew the club management and put in a bad word.
The next club I went to, was managed by a fellow exercise fan. He showed me some calisthenic moves. A cheerful and wholesome young man who was maybe half oriental. I remember the song Black Cars would play whenever one of two black girls was on stage. What is that singer’s name, Gino Vanelli?
After the gig was over at that club, I went to the used car dealership next door, and bought a brown Chevy Nova (like what mum had owned), for $400. I drove ‘home' to Charlie’s place, without a driver’s license, wanting to share my wad of cash with him. I remember buying us chicken dinners on Sherbrooke street in NDG a few times, and telling him not to count on me buying us dinner in future, because I knew I wasn’t always able to ‘dance', as we called it. Sometimes I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. There were times I would hide in the washroom and cry. Decades later, Charlie would tell me that he always held it against me for telling him not to count on me buying dinner in the future. He’d thought that I’d meant that I didn’t want to spend my money on him.
I ended up driving the car for 2 months, without license plates, until it died on me. I bought a new battery and starter for it, but it still died. I did end up taking driving lessons and getting my license. The last time I drove was 1989. Charlie’s van, which was altered to be driven using only hands, for Charlie. More about that later.
Charlie ended up, before long, chasing me around the block, from Hutcheson street, to Avenue Parc, which was a busy street. I was in my pajamas. Better than naked, which he’d done, back on Decarie. This time, his face was like a red gargoyle’s. He was furious, and of course I ended up back in the battered women’s shelter, with my car. I remember a staff member there, a humble, friendly and warm person, giving me some cash to get gas. Guylaine. Off the record. She was in the alley, where my car had stalled for lack of gas, or, so I thought. It turned out, it had truly died.
Charlie once went with me to scout out Johns. I only remember us scoring one. An oriental man, who had missionary style sexual intercourse with me on the concrete of a parking garage, and spoke of wanting to take me to Disneyland. That was the only time Charlie was involved with me prostituting myself. He did pressure me to make money though. I’ll never forget that time. Weeks of him chronically calling me ‘bitch', etc., because I’d borrowed money from him, that I’d thought he’d given to me, and I wasn’t working. This happened in Calgary.
To be continued…
Peppermint
Well-Known Member
What, they 'gave him double' just so he could give you the extra? Haha, that old trick
Well, he sounds rather sweet (if a bit too determined for my taste). But if you're not interested, think you're going to have to be very, very busy writing that novel. With HUGE important deadlines looming, obviously.Similar threads
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