Friday, March 5, 2010

What's your real name?

"I know that's not your real name," he says as I look for a lighter to light my cigarette. "What's your real name? Come on you can tell me."

"Listen," I say. "I know it's kind of special to get the real name of someone who entertains partially hidden behind a facade. The thing of it is that this facade creates a fantasy and that fantasy is both for you and for the woman providing it. When I am on your lap, I am not Patricia or Anna or Samantha or whatever my mother named me, I am not the name on the bills I have to pay, or the dry-cleaning I have to pick up, or the parking ticket I got last week. I am Nicole, the woman whose flesh is pressed against your flesh and who, for this moment, exists entirely to suspend reality. Does that make sense to you? To say my name eradicates all that. It casts this moment into reality. And let me tell you something, honey, I don't need to think about my dry-cleaning tonight."

"That's the best line of reasoning I have ever heard."

"You know us strippers. We should double as diplomats," I respond. "Can I have a light?"

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