From dust to dust

 

I see the dust rise in the red lights each time the stripper stomps her foot.

I think maybe I’m drunk.

But only two beers?

A man is not supposed to look at the dust when he comes to a place like this, but I do.

Sure, I’m as horny at the next guy – and as frustrated – otherwise I wouldn’t be in this place. But each time the stripper raises dust, I stare at it, not her, thinking dark thoughts about life and death, and what the priests used to tell me about where I might end up – dust to dust, and how the nuns used to scold me about potential blindness if I did again what they knew I did when I was home alone.

I keep thinking these girls stir us up in a broth of death, and that the dust is what is left of those who came before us, those lusting men ignited by their own frustrated passions, and I keep thinking I ought to find a stall in the men’s room to relieve myself before I burn up, too. But I’m scared I might go blind and stay where I am.

Sometimes, I glance at the other men, as the dropped jaws and the drooling tongues and wait for them to burst into flame, too. But they don’t or won’t, or need to wait for some particular moment when the dancer looks at them in a certain way, and they go out of control and explode.

I figure if I stare at the dust and not at the girl, I might keep from exploding.

But I know better.

I ache too much for too little and know that sooner or later if I drink enough, I’ll turn to dust or go blind, or both.

And worse, I see the dancer grinning at me as if she’s waiting for that moment, too.