DRAMA'S WET DREAM: A MODERN PULP (#fridayflash)

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I worked the door at Toyland, a titty bar on Fillmore, and when I tell you that this broad was drama's wet dream, believe it. This kid had a story for everything.

And the funny thing? Her name was Drama -- at least that was her stripper name. I know, dumb moniker for a dancer but then, most of them weren't too bright.

The way I saw it, there were four kinds of strippers. 'Snowflake' was usually the pretty dope fiend who was so spaced, she'd barely make money for her next fix. 'Madison' was usually the cute freckled college kid, paying her way through school, and hoping her dad or boyfriend wouldn't trot in at any given moment. Then there were the ones I called 'Ivy' -- normally the hot moms -- who turned to the pole to feed their toddlers. If you did enough trolling, you just may find these cougars on a porn site or two. Lastly? 'Porsche' was the out-of-place minority gal who, in most cases, raked in more dough than all the ladies combined. But that was usually on nights Drama wasn't working. And yeah, you can just imagine, the other chicks hated Drama. And for good reason.

I started to watch the girl as soon as Dino hired her. Normally, he had a thing for chicks built like brick shithouses but Drama wasn't curvy at all. In fact, she always struck me as needing an extra sandwich. But still way sexy. She had that thing. Guys'll know what I mean. Body aside, she had a way with the lappers and always got them to pay more for a sweaty crotch grind than the other gals. It was almost beautiful to watch. Drama had them so wrapped that these briefcase bums didn't know what hit 'em. To this day, I always wondered how they explained the stain on their pants to the misses.

* * *

After a few months, Dino started to get complaints about his top-rated dancer. It turns out that Little Miss Drama was a thief of the watch and wallet order. Small time, but still, try explaining to a pissed wife why your wedding ring is missing.

I was ordered to confront her about it and, one night just before last call, I cornered Drama in the Champagne Room where it was just the two of us. After locking the door, I turned to her and smiled.

"What's the deal with the money you've been stealing?" I asked.

Halfway expecting this little chickadee to cry, I was kinda shocked when she asked me if I wanted a cut.

Fuck it, I called her bluff and said sure. I told her that it would buy my silence. Drama took a swig of whatever top-shelf hooch that was left behind from the cum stain that had just left. She dug deep into her large purse. I was expecting some green but she pulled out a pistol. What was I gonna do? She had me.

I told the rest of the joint that the bullet hole to my leg was compliments of a bar fight between two wannabe wiseguys. No cops were going to be called.Was I really gonna admit that I was taken by a 98 pound stripper? One named Drama no less? Nope. I'm taking this one to the grave.

And while I'm at it, I'll add a fifth kind of stripper to my list --' Drama' -- a dancer so fucking sexy she'd pick your pocket and you'd probably let her.

Did I mention I'm not working the door anymore?

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