The ping-pong show

Dear mom: please do not read.

Our toes glow feet up under the rainbow of lights over our driver’s head. The world whips by, us gripping on to not crash into open air. The tuck-tuck pulls up to a non-descript building. We’ve made it to the ping-pong show.

A tree of money greets us in the seedy black hole of a bar. A woman in a department store set of plain black undies shakes her shoulders with lazy ease between four unused stripper poles.

We sit colosseum style in sniffers’ row round the car-sized stage. We cover our table with my black bandana, picture of a mountain I climbed months ago face up under the gin, tonic, jack, and coke. A performer’s face moves, dimples out and eyebrows up, a plan for our table cover in her eyes.

The first woman rips an orange ribbon from her twat, an easy ten, fifteen feet long, making a police scene of the stage. The next, a row of false flowers. Another, a string of razor blades, pulling softly without a drop of blood.

Still one more comes, a bottle of water in one hand, Pepsi in the other. First the water goes up the twat, then a twirl, and a refill back to the bottle. A grab for the Pepsi: same magician’s trick.

Finally, the bowl of balls comes out. Up the vagina and tossed back out, rim shots and holes in one. She darts her eyes at us and a labia-lifted ball soars our way, bouncing on our tablecloth, a playful gesture to not classy up the place.

At some point a female customer shoots out her seat towards the noise of three Brits’ inoffensive jeers. She smacks him and shouts Disgusting Pig before a big wrapped penis appears.

Two girls scissor kick until the full frontal missionary quiets the patrons. They fuck in all positions but windmill, just before the lights signal the end of the show. Our angry blond on the wrong side of her Eat Pray Problems beats us to the door.

Hand on a performer’s shoulder, she puts on a high school counselor purr and whispers loud enough for all to hear, “Does this make you happy?”

From the woman she gets an eye dart and no reply. We offer annoyed headshakes and the giant smiles of fanboys. “You’re a babe, and we loved it,” is all we have to say.