by Erin Starr Moonfish Pitts
I had to pee so fucking bad. I was parked in front of the condo. On the phone I was told to go to the second story, the one with the light on in the window. I sat in my car and went over the things I would say while feeling the pressure weighing down my bladder. I forgot to go before I left.
I thought about how I would go in, shake my ass and collect the money. It was my first audition and my palms dripped with sweat and my heart thumped. As my pinky started to tingle I thought “fuck, I have to do this. I came this far and I need the money.”
The night was warm and above the second story condo stars hovered in the black sky. With enormous pressure in my bladder that could no longer be tolerated, I felt a stream of warmness flood down my legs and soak into the seat.
I sat hot and panicky in my car parked outside the second story that had a light on in the window. I kept a bag of clothes in my back seat. When you don’t know where you’ll lay your head each night, you prepare for whatever. I dug through the bag and found a short black skirt. Quickly I put it on and threw my soaked underwear and pants into a plastic grocery bag. It wasn’t too late, I could still do this, I thought. All I have to do is go up there and show them what I can do.
“Come in” barked a voice from behind the door. It opened to a studio where two portly, greasy men sat. “Come in and make yourself comfortable” the older man said to me.
I sat awkwardly on a futon that was positioned against the windowed wall while the grey beard talked to me and sipped his glass of whiskey. “We’re looking for someone who wants to work; someone who wants to earn some real cash” and he pulled from his pocket a wad of money. Both men looked like they weighed three hundred pounds each and had a similar countenance; the younger of the two sat with his belly protruding passed where his grey, stained t-shirt could cover. They looked me up and down, asked me to “do a little twirl”, and asked me how long I had been in the industry.
“What I’m looking for is someone who can get my son hard,” he said after a brief silence.
Sitting on a wooden chair with his hands fallen between his knees, and two eyes that looked in opposing directions, the son chuckled to himself.
“Do you think you can do that?” the old man asked.
“Um, yes, I can do that” I said with my voice shaking. I got up and walked over to the leviathan and began rocking my hips side to side while I stood between his legs. I rubbed his thighs and danced on his lap, flowing as best I could to the silence in the room.
I lifted up my skirt and presented my bald, bare backside to him, rubbing it near his crotch but hitting mostly his belly that stuck out further than anything else. After a few minutes I stopped, turned around and asked “how was that?”
“Congratulations” the old man said, “you managed to get my son hard” and I looked down to see a small bump pressing into the sweatpants he was wearing.
“Just one thing, next time, wear something sexy under your skirt, then you can tease and take it off slowly. It adds to the excitement.”
Later, as I drove through the night I replayed the whole situation over and over in my mind. I couldn’t help but wonder if they could smell the piss that was dried to my legs while I danced.
About the Author
Erin Starr Moonfish Pitts (she/her) lives in the Pacific Northwest with her partner and mastiff. She writes unfiltered realism that centers form. Her writing is based of lived experiences.