In Line?

Nodding. Dozing. Syncope. It happens. Reclining in front of the TV. Seated on a long bus ride. Standing in line. Some of my best ideas occur in such moments of spontaneous blackout. Here, for example, is a winking-blinking parable from my unemployment compensation daze…

I step through the mirror. Ink a contract to do a loop with Alice.
Nice kid. Over eighteen. In fact, one way of looking at it, over 160. Anyway, we are independent actwhores just doing a job for a guy.
Both don drag. She helps me in the mirror apply mascara. I tie tight her cummerbund, straighten her bow tie. We exit the hotel bathroom. Move into the lights. The director, a fat mustachioed post-menopausal male named Dodgson, nods. The camera rolls:
We throw our voices each into the dummy of the other. I order myself – through Alice’s mouth – to bend over, grab ankles.
Alice ventriloquizes into my synching lips, “I’ve been such a bad little girl. Oh, Al – give it to me good!”
She worms the ten inch gel out of her tux pants. Throws the dress up over my back. Pushes aside thong. Inserts strapon like a thief in the night. Whimpers a redeye of vowels out my wobbly kisser.
“Suffer,” I throw a growl back up through her sneer, “bitch!”
After what seems at least an hour of our inversion, Alice pulls out, and I bark through her mouth for me to hobble around on my knees and stick the shitty thing down my throat. Money shot comes when I finally gag it out, vomiting onto the spats snapped across her patent leather high-tops.
Even though Alice is born in 1852, and supposedly about ten, the director seems to go for the Gay Nineties look. Continuity, anywho, not of paramount importance. Take the choice of thong over bloomers. No time for niceties, both actwhores paid less by the hour the longer we work; white night talking backwards; time spent to grace my butt with slick off-the-clock.
Closeup on Alice screwing a monocle into her socket, the better to contemplate obedience to my commanding myself to lap every last single chunk up off the leather.
Doesn’t get any better, so cigarette burns follow in scrabble letters THE END…

Catch myself leaning, nearly falling. Straighten. Blink furiously. Mumble an apology to the gent ahead. Don’t check for the check. Even if I found it lodged in a pocket, would be written in mirror letters, bounce jack rabbit high.
Decide to keep this to myself. Even when they don’t pay, dreams are work, and I don’t want doing that loop with Alice messing up this week’s job search. Some functionary suspect I’m an actwhore who maybe independently contracted – howsoeverbeit in another dimension of possibly dreamtime – he’ll dock my check faster than you can whine, “But it was all inside a mirror!”
To eschew further nods, I keep glancing around the packed waiting room, imagining the female jobless garbed in tuxedoes, further picturing what size strapons they might be hiding. Meanwhile smoothing down the crinoline I wore, in case they send me out on an interview. No need to get hired right away, not when over three months of benefits remain in my account.
Can hardly wait to finish up here today. Get my report okayed. Rush off to the library. Secure a free hour online. Cruise the net to see if I can find the loop, which I think was going to be called “Alice In Me;” or did fatso say “In Line?”

Willie Smith