I was crouched down at the edge of the stage. Really crunched up with my knees pressed against my tits. I was leaning towards a man with silver white hair and pale foggy blue eyes, like a dead fish. He had deep white lines in his tan skin from decades of expressions. I was trying to listen to what he was trying to tell me. He stuffed $3 into my G-string and told me I was a goddess.
I thanked him and he kept talking. If the night wasn’t so goddamn slow, I would have moved along. He meant that I was literally a goddess. A goddess from another planet. He knew because he was also from another planet. And he told me he knows that I know that he’s from another planet because, well, I’m also from another planet. “I know,” I told him. It was like the homeless guy on the street who holds the cardboard, “The end is near,” sign took a relaxing night off to go to a titty bar. He could be right though. He’s not the first person to accuse me of being a Martian or a goddess.
I didn’t catch everything he said. Something else crazy, like Jesus loves me or something. I’m not sure if he and I are from the same planet or two separate other planets that are not Earth. It’s a shame that the music is so loud when someone is freely sharing the secrets of the universe.
My song ended and I left the stage $3 richer.
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