January 11, 2008
Sunshine’s Kiss


Her real name was Sunshine; I don’t recall her stripper name. It would be hard to top “Sunshine,” so she probably chose something banal like “Nancy,” or “Drew,” or “Amy.” Sunshine had the blue-black hair of Dita Von Teese, pale skin and a large tattoo of a sunflower on one of her deltoids. Her body had that kind of compact curviness that demanded visceral notice. Her breasts were fake, I think, but they had neither the aerodynamic nature of hard Swedish furniture that some fake boobs have, nor the undulating smushiness that other implants have. Sunshine’s boobs were at neither end of the fake boob spectrum; they might have been the only thing about her that defied polarity.

Sunshine carried herself with a kind of insouciant sensuality. She took your prurient interest in her for granted. It was less that she knew everyone wanted to fuck her and that she was proud of it; rather, it felt like your desire for her like a natural law, like gravity, like the conservation of mass. Things that were inherently inescapable and therefore had to be accepted, even if she spent private moments dreaming of flying, or pointing her finger at a solid object and seeing it shimmer and dissolve into nothingness, merely because she willed it.

Like me, and like my friends Rita and Rica, Sunshine was a Scorpio. Astrology holds very little weight for me; I can’t imagine that I have that much in common with everyone else born in November simply because we were all born in November. But my friends Rita and Rica both put a lot of weight on the specialness that is being a Scorpio. The year that we all worked together, they put together a Scorpio strippers’ birthday party, just us special special Scorpio girls, so we could celebrate our Scorpioness and all the splendors attendant thereof.

Like most strippery gatherings, this one fell apart quicker than it was put together. The night we were to meet, we found out that the restaurant we were planning on going to was closed, and a couple of us got lost, and no one had cell phones, and it ended up being me and Rita wandering around mid-town Gotham looking for a place to get a gin and tonic, goddammit. I was sad less because I felt my Scorpio self cheated than because I was looking forward to seeing Sunshine outside of our subterranean strip bar. I wanted to see what she was like in real life, out of the Lucite shoes and away from the flashing lights.

Sunshine had a reserved glamour. She couldn’t be touched, and she made you want to touch her, but you couldn’t, and so you wanted to touch her more. It was a tantalizing Catch-22. I remember walking out of the subway just in time to see Sunshine exit a very flashy, very shiny black BMW sedan. She smiled and waved and said, “Yeah, my driver is such a wayward slut,” and then she laughed and disappeared down the FlashDancer rabbit hole.

She never explained the car. We knew only the vaguest details about her: she grew up on a commune, hence “Sunshine”; she went to NYU; she was a film student. When I once, spurred on by envy, suggested wrongly that she went to school on daddy’s money, Sunshine slammed me, hard and quickly. “I pay for everything myself,” she said, “I work hard and get no help.”

I knew how she felt and experienced a blast of hot shame at my presumption.

The upshot was that Sunshine was one of those women who seemed to exist on a different and much more sharply voluptuous plane than mine. I wanted desperately to join her on hers and leave mine behind, but there was something, some force-field or another keeping me in mine and her in hers, never the twain to meet. Would that I could only touch her.

One night I showed up at Flash with my newly pierced tongue. A tongue piercing in the late ‘90s was pretty much standard stripper issue, as was the belly piercing and the Vamp nail polish. I got mine and I turned up at work the next day with my bottle of Listerine and a post in my mouth that felt the size of those little pencils they give you when you play mini-golf and my tongue, which seemed to be four feet wide and carpeted in shag.

I worked the night, swiveling my ungainly tongue and new stud in and out of my mouth inexpertly. My tongue, which unless I had a cut on it I’d never really thought about, seemed to dominate my world. It was larger than life and twice as important. At the end of the night, I was looking forward to going home and putting my tongue to bed.

Exiting the club, the black night wrapped around me, and all the other girls straggling out, counting their money, like a velvet stole. I heard a voice behind me,

“CeCe, I heard you got your tongue pierced.” It was Sunshine, tripping up to me, her mouth smiling and her eyes going all sparky. I told her I had.

“Well,” she said and paused, with her narrowed eyes, she looked like she was summing me up. “It’s a rule I have that I have to try out all of my girl friend’s new tongue piercings. Have you kissed anyone yet?” I told her I had not.

“Good,” she said and dropped her strip gear on the pavement. She put her arms around me and pulled my body to hers. One of her hands snaked up the back of my head and wrapped itself into my hair like a bat. She drew my lips to hers and then unbelievably, inconceivably, unfathomably, she pressed my lips open with her tongue and drew small circles around it, around the piercing, and around the suddenly cavernous space of my mouth. She tasted like Marlboros and Jack Daniels.

All the time she kissed me, I had two thoughts warring in my brain. Holy shit, I thought, Sunshine is kissing me right on Broadway. And at the same time I thought, now I’m really going to have to Listerine. I could barely enjoy it, and then the kiss was over. She let go, she stepped back and she said, “Nice. I approve.” She went off into the night.

We never kissed again. We never got closer. That kiss did not vault me past the force field. In fact, the kiss barely registered, what with my sheer excitement/terror in the face of being in the face of sunshine. It was just one kiss, out loud, bright and shiny in the night.


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