Free Friction by Joe Stretch Page B

their lives grated to shreds by drugs, men and age.
    Rebecca removes the green khaki skirt which has made her legs invisible all day. Her midriff, she knows, contains just enough definition. She is the girl next door. She is changing into matching underwear, a black contraption. She removes her faded day bra. It’s like the unblindfolding of a particularly sexy terrorist. Her breasts look like halogen lights under water.
    Rebecca runs a comb through her neat brown bob, thickens her eyelashes with mascara and steps into a pairof stilettos she purchased specifically for work. As she clops into the bar, the music razors her ears. She thinks it’s fucking shit; so do I, so would you. Crap chart dance with thick beats and inane lyrics sung with ridiculous conviction, usually by a black woman. She makes for the bar where she’s handed a gin and tonic. Inebriation is the stripper’s secret; they are all getting completely fucked. Pills are forbidden, because it makes them dance badly. They lose eroticism and then money. Some do them anyway. There’s coke in the back room if you can stomach the attention of the resident dealer. Most can, it’s the only way to endure the boredom and the incessant nudity.
    â€˜If you’re late again, you’re fired.’ Marcus takes the gin and tonic from Rebecca’s hand and places it on the bar. ‘And you’re dancing for Pete.’
    â€˜Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ says Rebecca, because Pete is a regular and a nutter, a lonely idiot, and now she has to go and show him her breasts – bring them up close to his misty eyes and his chapped lips. This is punishment. She was late and now she must dance for the dirty nutter. Fine. She swigs from her drink and sets off in Pete’s direction. The bar is half full. Shockingly shite and nicotine-yellow chandeliers hang like meat from the low, red ceiling. Disgusting curdling laughs rise above the music as men buy dances for one another. The Nude Factory caters for the old-fashioned wanker, little business is done here, customers count coppers for one final dance. Rebecca exchanges smiles with some of the other girls as she takes a seat next to Pete on a poorly upholstered banquette.
    â€˜Pete.’
    â€˜Oh hello, girly, thank you, I should say, thank you. Been slow for me, so slow so thank you.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜No no, it’s OK, girly. Drinky? Can I buy you a drinky?’
    He isn’t mad, Pete, just a bit lost. Another corduroyed, disorientated anybody that the city seems to secrete. On his cheeks, dirt and wiry grey hair gather around healed white scars. A look in his eye suggests abuse. Many forms of abuse.
    Marcus’s eyes are fixed on Rebecca; there’s no way of getting out of this. Marcus is a sack-happy twat. Never thinks twice. Resents the fact he’s forced to employ students. Feels they fail to maintain ideas of glamour and celebrity that ought to characterise a decent strip club. Rebecca removes the ‘Nude Token’ from Pete’s hand, places his arms down by his sides and pushes his back straight against the back of the seat.
    â€˜Oh, yes, Rebecca. Becky lovely jugs,’ mumbles Pete, a yellow cheese-like substance thickly coating his front teeth.
    Rebecca opens her ears briefly to register the tempo and tone of the song she must dance to. Having done so, she returns to the concentrated silence she’s perfected in the six months she’s worked here. She begins to sway and gyrate gently in front of the regular, the nutter, the lonely idiot. After exactly thirty seconds of moderate thrusting, swaying and stroking, she bends down and brings her face up close to his. This is misdirection. While Pete attempts to cope with the proximity of a youthful, seemingly aroused face, her hands are undoing her bra. Imagine his surprise as she rises to reveal breasts. Her breasts will be enjoyed by Pete for exactly a minute. She will support them, squeeze