Alex

We went to the building in Waverly where so many men go as a rite of passage when they turn 18. We went there because I had never seen tittys before. I was glad to go along, after all, I needed to get out of the dorms. We sat around for about an hour, laughing at the fat stripper, giggling at the assault of sex, Making jokes and telling stories. Earlier I had told them I wanted to have a conversation with a stripper. When there was about an hour until our departure, I decided to make good on my promise. From my seat twenty feet from the main stage, I spied the girl I would interview. A tall blonde, overly tan from fake baking,and trim from constant working out. A woman whose sole purpose at her job was to put effort into her appearance, and to fulfill the wet dreams of every piece of shit that walked into the club.With audacity that shocked my friends, I walked over to her, picked out a cigarette, handed it to her and said"Excuse me miss, can I offer you a cigarette?" She looked at me. She gave me a look that said so much. It said I'm tired, and I just want somebody to listen.She was a stripper at the infamous Shaker's.Her name was Alex."That's the nicest thing anybody has done for me all night." was her tired replyAmongst the perverted old men, and the pathetic little fucks who would be forever virgins, I had a conversation, with a scantily clad young lady, and it was one of the most interesting conversations I of my life.She had been a stripper for 18 months, twice the length of time required to have a child. She was 26 years old and went to Creighton, long ago, To be a dental lab technician. She wanted to make some money. She wanted to help some people. She wanted a job were she could be around rich doctors and laugh secretly at the Goth kids who came in for fangs who thought they were being clever.She left that behind. She wouldn't tell me how much she made, no or then, but I bet it was more here. It was the blood that bothered her. The pain of others. At least she had something to fall back on. She was sensitive, poetic, and glib.Her name was Alex.Yet she was a wild one, and wanted to spread her wild oats. She wanted to live as much as she could before her death. An odd way to do it, but mission accomplished. She lived life in the fast lane, and payed for it by rubbing up against old men for 35 dollars a song. She had to pretend she liked it. She had to pretend she was in love. She was beautiful, intelligent and crazy.Her name was Alex.She wanted to be a vet when she was a kid. Her favorite animals were dogs, she took gymnastics when she was growing up. She was from Lincoln. To god knows how many people a night, she was more than just 3 holes and a pair of tits, but do you think anybody there besides me thought that? Fuck no. To me, she was a genuine human being.Her name was Alex. She worked four nights a week, she exposed her most private parts to complete strangers. Parts most girls only show to their true love. These weren't just any strangers though. These strangers were the scum of the earth. Grossly over-weight, rarely showered, often wearing cowboy hats, foolishly thinking it made them look cool. The kind of people you would laugh at on the street. The kind of people I laugh at on the street. These people flocked to her place of employment, pretend the girl loved them and then they went home, and jerked off to her as they lay in their filthy beds.She was nothing but a sex object to so many perverts. They never knew it, butHer name was Alex.Does anybody else think of these girls as people? Does anybody else think of them as decent human beings with pasts, lives, feelings, emotions, and thoughts? Fuck no. They just think of them as watching live porn. Calling them filthy whores in their minds. The pervs think that they are just bags of meat with warm gooey holes. I've seen their faces when the girls present their gentiles. I've seen their expressions when they go for lap dances. All they think is "I'm getting this with no effort! This is like dating, but cheaper!" Worthless sacks of shit. Its not the ones that go once in a while and leave feeling guilty that bother me. Its the regulars. They piss me off. They never ask questions. They never pay attention. They don't know shit. But I know one thing,Her name was Alex.All around her, every 10 hour shift she worked, was sex. Sex to the left, sex to the right, sex in the bathrooms, sex on the walls, and sex in the eyes of the clientele. Everywhere. She was to good for this. She said it was a classy establishment, as far as strip clubs go, but I contend that she was to intelligent, she was too classy for this. Nobody else at the club knew this but She had seen "Once Upon a Time in Mexico", and her favorite actors were Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp. From a woman, that's nothing new. She blushed a little when she said it though. I think she a one point had a really deep crush on one or both of them. She was thoughtful, caring and bright.Her name was Alex.I looked into her eyes. I looked at no other part of her. The whole time I was absorbed by her take on life. She couldn't tell me her last name, for obvious reasons, she couldn't tell me her managers name, this I did not get, what she could tell me, was fascinating. Though in the end I still knew very little. I asked her, because I needed an explanation, how she could do this, how could she sell herself in this manner? I asked how she lives knowing that none of them know her name, but they damn sure know her tits. I asked her with a burning curiosity. Her eyes filled with sorrow. She opened her mouth to answer me, then her boss got on the mic, in between shouting about how hot these girls were and commanding us to buy porn, he announced the name of the next girl to perform.Her name was Alex.

Wish

I wish I could tell you all that I'm writing this from the ass-hole of the world. I wish I could tell you I was in a dangerous place where crime and drug addiction run like "Flock of Seagulls." I wish I could tell you my present location reaffirms my belief in the greatness of life and the joy of existence. I wish I could tell you that I was excited to be where I am and that my veins are filled to maximum occupancy with piss, vinegar and testosterone. But I can't.I'm in Lincoln, Nebraska.Day to Day life here is so boring I could slit my wrists out of shear unadulterated tedium.I really could.Lincoln isn't dark, scary or cool enough to be the ass-hole of the world. "Ass-hole of the world" entails feelings of pride, distinction or shame. Anything but boredom and loathing. That, my friends. Is a cocktail I hate drinking. Lincoln is, at best, an ingrown hair on the scrotum of America. Annoying, but hardly noticeable. Omaha is more entertaining than Lincoln, and Omaha sucks. Imagine, if you will, Omaha, without balls. That's exactly what Lincoln is. Omaha with its blood sucked out by the vampire of small population and republicans.Lincoln is merely Omaha Lite. In fact, in my day to day existence, that is what I shall be referring to it as, so just consider that a heads up.Omaha has the "Old Market", Lincoln has the (extremely anemic) "Haymarket." Which half the size and an eighth the fun. Omaha has the Henry Doorly Zoo, Lincoln has the Folsom Children's zoo. Which is home to such rare and exotic creatures as the "cow" and the "dog." Careful there Mr. Chapo, you don't wanna blow the budget, do you?A city isn't worth living in until it has a dark underbelly, its a fact. A festering cess pool of human corruption hiding just underneath all the fancy "tourist brochures" and "public knowledge" is what makes life worth living.You can't have good without evil, you can't have fun without Lincoln.AND I'M STUCK HERE!I recently was in contact with a city with an underbelly as black as Ernie Chambers, Portland, Oregon. I was talking to a guy who worked at Powell's, a book store so big, I get a hard-on just thinking about it, and he informed me of the dark-side of the jewel of the pacific northwest.Street kids. Orgy clubs. Massive unemployment.These things get drunk and Fuji each other. They give birth to a bastard child. His name is "Good Journalism."Good journalism is a reflection of life, and life is not pretty all the time, but Lincoln tries really hard to make it seem that way. This wouldn't bother me so much if it wasn't succeeding so fucking well.Life in Lincoln isn't really life at all.Portland is a place where you have to watch your back and you can learn not to take life for granted. There's always something going on and you can get lost amongst the thriving masses of humanity. These things are proof of life. Proof I need desperately. I think I'm dead. Or worse yet, a background character in my own life.A homeless guy could come up to you at any given time and slit your throat for some heroin. After he was done, he'd write a poem about it. Irony, if that's not living, I don't know what is.I'll tell you what it isn't living, a city with a population of 225,000. Where the most exciting thing is the football team. People out here have to play with themselves just to relieve the sexual tension caused by the lack of football. This city has got more problems then a teenage hooker, unfortunately, they aren't the good kind of problems seen in New York, Detroit, or Cleveland. The only consolation I can draw is that that population number is very swiftly dropping, and there are reasons for that.Lincoln is manufactured, dull, sterile. A eunuch of a city really. The only drug anybody does out here is weed. (Not that I do, mind you) but weed isn't even really a drug when you get down to it. Its an herb.Now cocaine, that's a drug with some hilarious repercussions. There's never a dull moment when there a crack head around.Ever wriggle your fingers in the face of someone on crack? They freak out, they scream, or on occasion, dance. Its funnier then the idea of J. Lo making a good movie. Do that to some stoned fucker and he just says, in a really winy voice, "Stop it."Stoners can't defend themselves. And neither can anyone who thinks this city is good.winy, is really the best term for Lincoln. Everyday here is a long drawn out battle to stay entertained. Classes can only kill so much time. With the rest of the day, I stare, and then I search for something to excite the ol' bacon battering ram. God forbid I get some. Since I lost my computer, that becomes an interesting challenge."Hey Bill, can I use your computer?""Sure""Okay, now, step outside for 2 minutes...Exactly."I bet your thinking I'm being ungrateful. That I'm being a snotty little brat who is biting the hand that feeds him. Well, in some respects, you are right.This may sound odd, but I know what I'm talking about. I've had it far to good for far to long. I'm soft, weak, and Lincoln only enforces these things.I NEED the corruption and the darkness (and not the band, though I do love the hell out of them) if I'm ever going to fix the afore mentioned problem.In other respects your wrong, and you suck!Oh God, now you've done it, I just depressed myself. I'm gonna go for a walk. Think about what I just wrote, if any of you sorry little shit lickers even have the cranial capacity to. Which I doubt.After all, if you were smart you wouldn't be reading this, now would you?