Prose Plastic Oscar (OC)

[BK38]

Plastic Oscar​

Futile, futile is the word that should have come to mind.

A nurse, a fire-woman, a dominatrix, a flight attendant; “Roxy” had been all of these things and none of them. She played out this charade, this masquerade, this sick pantomime for sick people every night. She didn’t have Daddy issues or broken home, no inner demons to calm, just pure unadulterated attention and adulation was her drug.

Carefully coordinated outfits, tailored to leave just enough to the imagination hung behind the cheap plywood door bearing her name. Faux-glamour, escapism for a night, a night free of judgment and the shitty 9 to 5 and the wife and kids back home; this was what she gave them. Them – the hordes, the masses of broken horny men with intimacy issues and a callousness that can only be brought about by continual rejection.

“I might go with Cherry lip-gloss tonight, the type that’s real shiny-like” Roxy was speaking to no one in particular, she was bouncing ideas. “Maybe gold…a gold outfit might be nice tonight – I’ll light up the stage.” She didn’t recognize that the exercise was immaterial, that no one cared what type of lipgloss she wore or what the color of her panties was. Futile, futile is the word that should have come to mind; she bounced around to bubble gum pop and twirled for her dressing room mirror. She pinched and pulled, tucked and tweezed; a whirlwind of peroxide and the short-lived.

“Roxy to the stage, Roxy to the stage, let’s give it up for Roooooxxxxxyyyy!” She passed through the plywood door and wobbled towards the curtain; leaving behind her own fantasy to become the lead role in others’. The curtains swept back and the lights hit her, shimmering and shimmying towards the stage. “Now that’s a fine piece of ass!” called a trucker with missing teeth and something that wasn’t stubble yet wasn’t a beard either. The words glanced off her and meant little; in fact, she enjoyed the objectification, the feeling of being a coveted Oscar statue. “I’m an E-gyp-tian Queen” Roxy murmured under her breath as the tacky middle-eastern music revved up and she began to swing and flex her curves.

Hoots and Woots and cat calls rang out. Unmentionables were shared between haggard men in dark corners over over-priced beer. Bills waved in the air and she pandered to her sycophantic minions, who just for a night, got to play King. Her fake-breasts strained against her acrylic and her nails hurt a little from too many coats of toxic sheen, her legs chaffed from too-tight clothes and a lack of wonder and dreams.

She didn’t care about her fake plastic extensions, her fake plastic smile, her fake plastic nails, her fake plastic tales; her fake plastic life.

Futile, futile is the word that should have come to mind.