This thing right here
Is lettin all the ladies know
What guys talk about
You know
The finer things in life
Hahaha
Check it out
Sisqo, Thong Song
What lasting joys the man attend
Who has a polished female friend
Whurr, The Accomplished Female Friend
A thong for Juliet. Tonight we’ll be the black lacy bad girl under Dolce and Gabbana. We scrub on tides and oceans, tawny tin-o-tint, daub everywhere; catch knee backs humming to Fiddy on the stereo, reach our shoulder blades with roller stick. We bounce Juliet, wall to wall in this pea pod home for petit pois people. Pause before vanity, laying on spiderweb mascara, thin long and crunchy. We’re quick and careful Juliet, enamelling itchy eye shadow, green to match our dress my Juliet, above our glassy cams.
Jules, we stretch and stand stock still, posing while illusion dries. We touch up streaks and gaps and bare white blotches where the skin breaks through, till we’re perfect Juliet, and cooked all over.
We curl Juliet, we heat and fold rebellious twirls and clumps of flighty split fraught mane. We slip on our dress, sleek and lithe beneath razor wire curls, and remember granny from below, insects asleep on her head, in white hard chrysalides.
We stretch the lips my Juliet, the tasselled ends of our short short dress, rearranging the strategic trade off between butt and boob. We stretch our stockings long across our chequered sheets, inspect for snakes and ladders. Slink them on dark over beech wood bows of calf.
At last the boots Juliet. Givenchy leather beauties, black polished to a Martin Sheen, with heel thrust cruel arches to pale foot binding. Sweet penance Juliet, the price of perfection.
The finished we twirls in the mirror; hot, Balearic, succubine.
We slip into a cab babe, and the driver fixes us, a the stare he would give money; raunching our skirt up in the rear view mirror. We watch the streets go by, the oily mucky streets, the streets that hold us back, home places, slums. Watch them thin and fade to twinkle blinks. The night comes out to dance. We hit McDowells to meet our fine fair fettered friends.
The clubs are a game, with simple rules but hard and quick opponents. The girls dance, pretend not to notice the boys. The boys stare and pretend that dead can dance. He grabs us Juliet, tall bellicose brigand, in a uniform we recognise, striped shirt – silk, tired chords and lank blonde locks; all chins and wayward inclinations. We shake him off and weave away to hotter, richer climes; the tough shook bounty of real men. We find a prospect, well built, unshaved, a shuffling office ape. We slink up close, sweating the moist night to rust his metal. We move against him Juliet, toss our curls before us like a veil. But chinned man gropes us back, his fingers in our hair, his breath sharp stinging lush. We know him. We know him all smirking and sure, happy happy, he has one of those faces we can’t forget, we’ve seen him somewhere, caught him watching.
After this evening Juliet, we wake up wet. We wake up sweaty in a strange room under a strangers arm. Not nude, but naked, and our sweat Juliet, is some quick cooling aftersun, soothing the heat under our skin.
We roll closer Juliet. Press against the wheezing man bulk on the bed, and shuffle out our arm, in slight hard tugs. We lay there, wiping beads of sweat out from beneath our breasts, out from the pool collecting at our bellybutty. We swing Juliet, ever so slow, so that our feet hit the coarse hair of the carpet, so that the evening scatters moon patina on our darkened skin.
This rich man’s house is quiet Juliet, the bedroom all mahogany veneered Ikea, guarding neat black-wood-framed art. Juliet, we hug our knees close and cradle our chin between them, twin-tanned calf-soft sisters, bone hard underneath the skin. We unfold to our feet, and walk soft to the open looming wardrobe. Silent, we peel out a thick wool overcoat, climb into it, and lift our sodden hair from the small of our back and lay it outside the coat. We shift against the silk within to dry our sweaty back.
A little warmer Juliet, a little safer in the wool armoured coat, we edge our way into the moonlit hall, and start exploring. The floors are all slick wood, slung together even, tight and flat. Parquet black ice under our feet. The hall has four framed posters, shiny news anchors two to each wall, like a walk from the green room of a studio to the flare bright TV stage.
His kitchen is catalogue, all chromed fittings and noiseless sliding cabinets. His fridge is huge, blinking Goliath, packed with rotting chum. Not that we’d eat Juliet, not that we’d ever feed in the house of a stranger.
We settle Juliet, we settle on the sticky leather couch in the living room, before the high slung wide screen plasma, up on the wall above the fake French fireplace, with its fake French coal scuttle.
We flick through the static of the AM. Horror channel, God channel, How to use your Tivo channel. We settle on shopping, the red speaker in the top right corner blinking mute.
Hank Hankson, who works in Target off Santa Monica, who used to pay five bucks for a finger in the yard in fifth grade, he’s told us that these plasma screens, they only last three years, maybe five tops; before the picture burns in, or the gooey juices leak and have to be replaced. Maybe Juliet, that’s the point. Money rests impermanently.
Juliet, on the screen this host, with an airhostess tan and clear wet purple lipstick, he’s selling gem cut diamond rings for thirty nine ninety five. Act now and get his necklace absolutely free.
And the guy from the bar, Juliet he mounts the couch, creeks down behind us, spooning. He lips the nape of our neck, and wordless, slips a hand inside the coat and up our leg, and up inside us. And the guy on screen, he’s pulling out an earring set, matching gold lamé with discretely inset pearls. It all comes absolutely free.
We are so beautiful, in the mornings, in the hazy sun mornings, walking strange streets, back to the ninety nine cent stores. We hop a bus, it takes forever, but we don’t mind, we like the view; whispering through Encino, Fairfax, West Adams. Madre’s awake, cold coffee and cigarettes shuffling before her on the table, ruined leg out before her like a lamentation. She’s fat, and her face is fat, and her single eye is drained of colour. Juliet, one day we’ll look just like her.
“Well, have a good night?”, she asks. “I hope you did. I hope you had a great old time. ‘Cause Pookie and me, we were worried to death. You nearly killed us.”
We walk to the dishy sink, and look out over the wood walled back yard, and the brown scruff of the dog, curled up like dirt, asleep in purgatory.
Juliet is looking top totty today, TTT, yes we are. Jules sinks our teeth into this sweaty flesh, its glossy juices mucking our makeup. Jules watches us glutton in the mirror. We chew, chew, chew at the malty salty meat, suckle up the grease, slosh the hefty lumps of butchered gristle round our apple cheeks, and swallow down the filth. Coaksey’s all chub and grim stop eating eyes. He grabs our hair and spits into our mouth.
“Your such a pretty girl, don’t ruin it. Daddy knows your gonna sick that up. Sick it up for Daddy.”
We can taste our lipstick’s blueberry metal bite, it’s been laid on thick, and Juliet, oh Juliet, it’s rubbing off on the meat. Jules, our face in the mirror’s like a clowney face. Juliet, clown whore, Juliet, lady boy.
Makeup’s burger-wiped in ragged circles round our lips, dripped clean to glistening skin beneath. Juliet, we’re chugging greedily, pumping the meat inside, choking the buttery, fatty fat fat fat. Swallow Juliet swallow.
Body slam, he kneels above, we’re on the floor. Straw in his mouth, sipping syrup thick, his jaws chewing words. His fists in the air again. “Fat bitch. Stop fucking eating, you’ll be ugly, everybody’s watching. No one likes a fatty.” He says this, suckling, breathes syrup heavy through his chub chub cheeks. Yes Daddy, you are right of course.
Juliet, we’re finished, it’s all gone, real gone. The glisteny oil bloated chips, the calorific pulpy burger, lathered in salad-cream mayonnaise. On the floor we watch it slip away. We burp blood.
Juliet, we wipe our grease grim hands off on our cheeks, we stand up in this shitty burger bar, this lardy temple, in front of all these nobodies, and we smile smile smile.
Coakesy watches as we walk to the little girls room. Click click click. We walk Marilyn Monroe, because some like it hot. We swing Juliet, we swing and we sway,
We pop into a cubicle, a half doored steel walled crematorium.
“Yeah bitch puke.”
Juliet, he holds our hair up, sore tight to a neat pony tail. We kneel on stained tiles, we hug the bowl, slick with grubbed deposits. He rubs at our back, helping it come. He whispers “There there, sugertits.” Juliet, we lean in over these tides of septic burgery eruptions, and we purge Juliet, we purge!