The sordid truth

She wasn’t just any stripper. She stripped at only the best strip clubs in town. Or at least that’s what she told us. Not that she stripped all the time, of course, just when she the singing, dancing, modeling and acting contracts were running low.

She made over three grand a night, when she was stripping. That must stand for something, right? Again, so she told us. Time and time again.

During the day, I’d see her catch herself in a reflection, any reflection – mirror, glass, metallic paint on a car, puddle, and stop to preen herself – pouting, lips slightly parted as though ready to give some dirty, pervy old man a massive snog, or a heart attack. She’d turn dramatically, thrust her meagre breasts and buttocks out in opposite directions and do a part of her evening act. She’d open her wallet exposing her cash and a dog eared naked photo of herself that she’d been passing around to anyone who cared to see a skinny, small breasted woman pushing her bits against a metal pole.

She lived in a universe of her own creation. In her mind she was a movie star, and actress held in the highest esteem for her creative, film noir efforts. Impervious to our rolling eyes and bored sighs as she waxed on about her success at “work”.

She told me once that her burgeoning modeling career meant she had to have late night meetings with casting agents from around the world. To me, this meant she was stripping. This became pretty clear after one night she professed to be meeting the casting agents for Vidal Sassoon and she didn’t bother to wash her lank, greasy and slightly dandruffed hair. Apparently she got the gig and the shots were being shown in Germany.

She would tell ludicrous stories, with conviction, about how she would drink at exclusive bars, with the rich and famous clamoring to know her. She told us once that she drove Julian Lennon’s Rolls Royce into a lake on his property and he just laughed at her inability to drive, rather than punch her head in for ruining both his lake and his car.

Nowadays she’s in film, making movies. Her career as a catwalk model ended, shortly after it began, as did her photo-modeling career. I haven’t bothered to find out how the movie career  is going. I can only imagine. She’s likely to tell me that she’s rubbing shoulders with Cate Blanchett, when the reality is she’s likely rubbing other body parts belonging to a mustached bloke who’s stage name is Hugh G. Rection.


It's all a bit sordid and definitely deserved of a dirty, month old, found at the bottom of the rubbish bin, brown. Paper. Bag.