James isn't the (thedanseur) wrote in repose, @ 2017-11-18 21:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, holly robinson, rory brennan |
Holly + Rory: stripclub
Who: Holly R and Rory B
Where: The strip-joint on the edge of town
Warnings: TBA, probably language.
She felt weird. The kind of weird that kinked up in places inside her body, like chips of bone to grate against her elbows, her rib-cage, her hips, scrape-scrape-scrape and the discomfort of being stuck. Holly? Hated being boxed in anywhere, it gave her the sensation of hairs crawling upward on the back of her neck and right now, in the little room at the back of the club where the girls stripped out of regular clothes and shucked skins the way Holly did behind a locked door in her room, she felt boxed in. Trapped. It wasn't the door. The door was shut but she was the one who shut it, and the chair rammed under the handle, that was precautionary. It might be a strip-club, but it wasn't a help yourself buffet and Holly could see in the glass of the cracked little mirror that actually? Cool and effortless wasn't working great on her right now.
Holly inhabited her act. It was fun and it was easy and she made the cash off the guys who expected you dead in the eyes and cocking a hip on cue. She sucked at dancing. She wasn't elegance and she couldn't curl around a pole and do dramatics, she had rhythm and exuberance and that was kind of it. Sum total of an act right there, a step up but only an itty-bitty one from standing on stage like a beauty queen without a sash. She peeled off the final item of her own clothes - over-the-knee knit socks striped in autumnal reds and umbers and purples, the colors of the art supplies in the store in town - and left on the fishnets underneath. There was a snag, but fuck it. Anyone coming to a strip-joint in the aftermath of a rabies outbreak when there was something in the air that made her skin crawl, was probably looking for trashy anyway.
She tried it in the mirror. A split-second and it was stupid, like, ridiculous-stupid, to try at work when Holly? Kind of worried over getting stuck. But she tried. The reach for pink hair and a street-girl's anonymous smile was automatic now, she was kind of getting up the courage to try out something a leetle more difficult but pink hair and the smile would do it. It would smooth out the wrinkled undersurface of her skin, it would twitch all that skitter-nervousness back into place. She smoothed glitter down the length of her throat and she smiled into the glass looking for pink and the dimple that didn't belong in her chin.
Nada. Nothing. Zip. She saw her own eyes blot dark in the glass and her face wash pale under spackled sparkle and cherry-flavored gloss. Because the ironic thing was, for all Holly loved her own skin and inhabited it in highlighter-colored underwear, fishnets and heels? Knowing she could escape was the reason she enjoyed it so much. But the music was pounding, and the bar was fuller than it would be when the post-rabies crowd slimmed down into boredom and her money shoebox under the bed in Clary House was getting emptier than Holly actually liked it.
She peeled out of the little room, gliding with elegance she hadn't borrowed so much as stolen from older and wiser girls, and the chaos of curls and wild-glitter streaked limbs made it to the stage and off again for the duration of the three songs that would get at least one guy going enough to tip good.