Towels for tips.
It was a modest existence, 
but entertaining, 
to say the very least.

Club life releases the beast...
Carnality.

The Lady's Room
was more like a lion's den.
A cage for malevolence, 
cattiness
to masquerade itself
in heavy perfume
designer costume
flawless coif
intricately designed claws
that could effortlessly remove 
prowling jealous eyes from their sockets
stealing confidence from competitors like pick-pockets

They came here to stand in my mirror
pretending to powder their noses, 
Out tipping. Striking poses.
Eliminating opposition.
Loudly divulging secrets across stalls
I sold tampons, lip gloss, weed, roses, 
mints, gum, and condoms in lockets, 
clocking duckets in buckets
pretending not to really be there
and not to care, but cleaning the floor
as the least of them fall on to it

covetous greed
painfully desirous
competition
to win the affinity
of the lionized male
who hunts for felines
who dare go toe to toe to win
a night of sublime good times

Cat fights are bloody
creating wounds that cut deep into the soul
where the heart pumps worthiness
a measurable source of a temporary life
that is defeated by the union of 
Mother Nature and Father Time
whose hands are mighty, 
not to be placated by vanity

They followed her into my office
A pride of lions
boasting, primping, preying
eliminating

She could have been any one of them, 
frolicking about this diamond-studded jungle
where the meek die in the dust
She was just a cub. Nervous.
A little girl in The Lady's Room of a club
unprepared for this warfare, 
that was but a primal circus of lust.

I found her sobbing and vomiting 
into the toilet
squatting before it
in the stall reserved for the handicapped
She couldn't understand how I knew
that she was pregnant
but confessed it
through tears of regret

I put the 'out of order' sign on 
The Lady's Room door
Consoled her in discourse
preparing her for this course
a testament, I said, to the wonderment
of motherhood, 
a gift for which
catty pussy holds no merit 
Wiping her tears away, 
convincing her that she could bear it
I picked her up off the floor
and sent her home
to prepare for her war

It was a modest existence.
Towels for tips.

But every once in a while
I gave them more.

Jessica Holter