#28 Beast on the Street

by Jenna Reedy

Cheap. He only calls a cat when he knows she’s in heat. Slimy. He’d touched the bottom of his table; something sticky resides. Removing his hands from below, he places them on the table, keeping his gaze towards the stage. She gyrates. That whore. Why do I come to these places?

Later, reclining backwards, he sits and waits. He calls. She comes. Dancing, hips barely hugged by lace, tits hanging as if upside-down – too high to be natural. She’s unnatural, he thinks remembering not to touch.

It’s not his normal girl, but he’ll settle. There’s a mark above her belly button. It looks like shit, but he lets her finish. Placing a twenty in her panties, he stares towards her face below eyelashes, pleading. Towering above, she feels desperation; hesitant she leaves. Bitch.

He leaves. Unable to find gratification in misty rooms shrouded in shifting blue light, he begs the moon on the street. Howling like a wolf he cries for satisfaction. A war horn beseeching his enemy, hoping she’ll surrender.

Shuffling across the alley, rounding his back, avoiding drops from air conditioners. Creeping towards the window, enough to catch a glimpse, he peers through cracks, knowing she’s working.

Passing drinks, flirting, she slings behind the bar. He’s the tom, banished on the corner, calling a cat that no longer scratches his back. She called herself a feminist. He remembers her a feline, cruel, unloving, calling in the heat. Disappearing, strutting from the wild, removed from feral wanting.