In the dining room, Roylene
had pushed a table to one side and lined it with liquor. A girl wearing men's
pin-striped trousers and a matching man's vest with no shirt but a push-up bra
supporting impressive breasts, sat apart from the rest, eyeing me.
“You dance?” she asked
finally.
“Not well,” I
responded.
Coco and the others
giggled. Coco explained that the girl wanted to know if I was a stripper. A
former exotic dancer herself, Roylene had invited some cronies to perform at
her house for a percentage of their tips. This led them into whispered obscene
chatter - interrupted by howls of laughter - about how white girls called a
man's penis his “cock.” To them, Coco said, cock meant “pussy.”
The pretty girl in the
man's vest now slithered into a corner, where she began to strip, pelvis gently
undulating for the benefit of a frail old man in a baseball cap and a younger
man wearing a cowboy hat. The one in the cowboy hat stuck some bills in her
waistband. As we left, a woman in a red leather bra and a painted-on black
leather skirt poured herself a drink at the table, singing to herself in a
bluesy voice about how she was just a victim of the ghetto, headed nowhere.
“Sing it, Beverly!”
Roylene cried.
“I am singing it.”
The woman lifted her glass. “'Cause I sure as hell ain't goin' fuckin'
nowhere.”
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