- Vol. 05
- Chapter 08
Body paint sticks in your cracks and creases for days. No matter how hard you scrub there’s always a telltale glitter lurking by a tear duct or in the hollow of a clavicle.
I’m the entertainment - booked on a ‘look don’t touch’ basis but the guests are all well-oiled by the time I am unveiled and I’m never certain if it is my stillness, my silence
that so inflames them - or just the magpie attraction to gold. They cannot resist. Some think I invite their pinches as I stand before them clothed in little more than pan stick -
they never see the alchemy involved, how I am transformed, every iota of my concentration turned inward to shut out their drunken antics and mean words.
Soon, they will flail on the dance floor, harangue the DJ, or spread-eagle in a corner, snoring, caked in vomit or huddle in pairs in toilet cubicles, while I collect
my pay (crisp clean notes), then wipe away the worst of it with Pond’s cream and paper towels, soap and rub and scour until the real me emerges from the carapace - shiny, cleansed.
But still, the reminder: a speck on my cheekbone, a flake caught in my bed sheets that will linger there for weeks.