The Birkin Bag of Pussies

This was not how Rat had envisioned the night going. Not at all. Rat gingerly pushed themself up to sit. Their head was spinning. It had been a gamble, climbing onto one of the garbage bins to reach the fire escape ladder, especially after however many drinks they’d downed early that night. But inebriation makes overestimating one’s ability easier. Not simply easier, it makes the improbable appear like the logical choice. Rat was athletic. One might even characterize them as agile on a good day. But they were also very easily distracted. It was a bitterly cold January night, and the bins had been slick, even after Rat brushed away the gray snow from the lids. Rat looked down at their hands. Fuck. They were scratched up and bloody. Rat looked around, trying to find a place they could wipe their hands off.

Their purse, which was in many ways the primary reason for their fall, had landed several yards away from Rat. They attempted to stand, then crumbled.

“Shit!” Rat cursed.

A sharp pain shot up from their left ankle. Rat poked at the ankle, trying to decipher whether or not it was broken.

“Fuck me.” Rat said, tearing up.

It took a moment for them to realize the commotion going on. It was 4 a.m. and dogs were barking. Rat’s gaze flickered up when they saw a light switch on in their apartment. Tiger was awake!

“Tiger!” Rat shouted. “Tiger! Tiger! Hey!”

Rat hoped with their entire being that Tiger would hear them. They searched the ground for something they could throw at the window. Rat had managed to knock over several garbage bins in their fall, and they were now surrounded by trash, but none of the rubbish appeared to be projectile worthy. But then, Rat spotted a tin tray. Rat felt around and noticed a pen beside them. The tray however, was just out of reach. Rat began crawling toward the tray, refusing to dwell upon the grossness of the situation. They needed to get Tiger’s attention.

Rat regretted not wearing adequate layers. They were in a thin sweatsuit with their stripper bikini underneath, and it was 20℉ outside. As they crawled, they felt their sweatpants dampening in the snow. Rat could see their breath creating little clouds in front of them as they panted with effort. Finally, they managed to grab the tray and began banging on it as loudly as possible as they called out for Tiger. Rat was going to piss off the neighbors, but they could worry about that later.

“Tiger! Help! Tiger!” Rat shouted, banging the pan.

The dogs began barking again, and Rat watched the lights flicker on in the rowhomes next door. At last, the window of Rat and Tiger’s apartment slid open and Tiger poked her head out.

“Rat?!” Tiger called out, unsure where Rat was.

“I’m down here!” Rat shouted, tears in their eyes.

“I see you! Hang on!” Tiger said, rushing out.

Rat lay back down, allowing the cold to seep into their throbbing bruises. They kept an eye on their purse, still a distance away. They hated being far from their valuables. If someone came around and took it, they would be powerless, and every single hard-earned dollar they’d made would be lost forever. Rat tried not to dwell upon that dire scenario. Tiger was coming. She would grab the purse and escort Rat to safety.

Rat heard the sound of rapid footsteps crunching through the snow. Tiger appeared wearing a long furry coat and Ugg boots. Rat felt tears trickling down their cheeks.

“Oh my Buddha, Rat. What did you do?” Tiger asked, concern creasing her brow.

“I dropped my purse.” Rat sniffled.

Tiger turned on her phone flashlight and searched the ground. Rat pointed to the purse, which had fallen on its side. Tiger grabbed the purse and scooped the fallen contents back inside.

“My phone and wallet fell too.”

“Do you know where?”

“Umm.” Rat paused, trying to remember, “I think over there, by the bins. I think I remember the phone bouncing off of the lid.”

Tiger cringed and tiptoed around the garbage toward the knocked over bins.

“Jeez, Rat. What were you doing?”

“I got locked out.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“My phone died, and I left my charger at home.” Rat replied, pitifully.

Tiger scanned the area, hoping to avoid coming in contact with the trash bags or any other contaminated bits. She shivered, more from disgust than from the temperature. Finally, her flashlight caught the reflection of Rat’s phone screen. The wallet was only a few feet away, lying next to a toppled almond milk box. Tiger used her forefinger and thumb to retrieve them, attempting to touch as little as possible. Then she returned to Rat.

“Can you stand?” She asked.

“Not on my own.” Rat whimpered.

“Put the purse on.” Tiger said, sighing.

Tiger squatted down and hooked her arms under Rat’s, and lifted them with a grunt. Rat pushed up with their good leg, and stood crookedly with Tiger’s help.

“You smell terrible.” Tiger remarked.

They hobbled around the building, up to the front of the brownstone. The neighborhood had quieted down. The dogs stopped barking. The only noise was a fading siren of an ambulance in the distance. Rat gingerly limped up the walkup with Tiger’s help, hopping from stair to stair, all the way up to the third floor where they lived. They had two floors to themselves, which at the time they signed their lease, had been a major selling point, but at that moment as Rat dragged themself up the final flight the apartment felt dauntingly enormous.

“I’m gonna have to help you shower, aren’t I?”

It was a rhetorical question. Clearly Rat needed help. In the apartment light, Rat’s bruises became more visible. They were dark blue with red around the edges. They had bumps and scratches everywhere. It was hard to determine where exactly to begin mending the damage. Tiger sighed, exhausted.

“Let’s wash you off.”

Tiger started the shower and allowed the water to warm. In the winter, it took extra time, and there was always the worry the pipes might burst. Rat and Tiger kept the faucet dripping to prevent such a disaster. Rat sat on the toilet and peeled their wet, blood-stained sweatsuit off. Underneath they still had on their bikini. It had been disgusting before, after a night of rolling around on stage, but now it was damp with dirty snow water. Rat unlaced their bikini and waited until they could see steam rising from the shower. Tiger steadied Rat and guided them over to the shower.

“You need me to scrub you down?” Tiger asked.

“Nah, I think I’m okay. I’ll just lean against the wall.” Rat replied, stubbornly.

Rat hated being helpless. There was nothing worse than depending on another person, especially for something that required being naked. Of course, their entire career depended upon being naked and asking for things. And yet, being incapacitated, Rat felt sheepish. They didn’t want to be looked at while they were in such a vulnerable state. They allowed the water to flow over their body, absorbing the warmth. They looked down, taking inventory of the damage. Their ankle had nearly doubled in size. Rat wanted to reach down and touch it, but they worried they wouldn’t be able to stand back up again. Rat couldn’t remember the last time they’d sprained something. They were pretty sure their ankle wasn’t broken, but there was a chance it was partially fractured. Maybe the adrenaline was numbing the pain, and it was only a matter of time before it would catch up to them? If that was the case, Rat was screwed. It would take months to heal, and months before they could dance again. Rat shut their eyes and prayed for a sprain. Just a nasty sprain that would heal in a few weeks with proper rest and treatment.

Earlier that night, Rat was at the Starlight Lounge. Rat popped into the dressing room for a quick hygiene break. They shut their eyes and allowed their body to relax for the first time that night. Rat had popped a Modafinil tablet and chased it with a shot of cognac from Beverly. Upper plus downer was always a risky move, but to adequately perform their job, they needed to be both acutely aware and capable of negotiation while simultaneously conveying an easy, breezy bimbo front. The men didn’t need to know that Rat was paying as close attention as they were. And they were paying attention to every single detail. Rat coughed, turning red in the face. Beverly came up behind them and firmly patted their back, as if she was burping a baby.

“Don’t die on me!” Beverly said, barking out a laugh.

They were in the locker room, taking a break from walking the floor. It was a busy Thursday night, and the club was bustling with patrons, the majority of whom had migrated over after a U2 show at M&T. Rat retrieved a bag of baby wipes from their purse and bent over in front of one of the mirrors, teetering a bit in their eight inch heels. They pulled apart their ass cheeks and inspected their genitals, making sure there weren’t any errant pieces of toilet paper stuck in their holes.

“You’re good, girl.” Beverly confirmed as she stepped in to reapply lipstick.

“Thanks, just making sure.” Rat replied.

Rat used the baby wipe to diligently clean their anus. Civilians seldom considered proper anal hygiene. Throughout the day, gravity takes its course, and we all experience a bit of leakage. It’s nothing major, but when one’s job involves rubbing one’s genital region against strangers, one starts considering the logistics of executing this without incurring yeast infections, or worse. Rat was prone to yeasties. It came with the job, but it was never ideal, and it often meant having to take an extended break to recover. Rat stuck their baby-wipe-wrapped index finger into their anus and twisted it around, then repeated several times until the wipe came out clean. It was an almost erotic cleaning process. The purpose was to enable certain erotic services, but it was the sensation that was erotically ingrained in Rat’s mind. Beverly watched with a combination of intrigue and disgust on her face.

“I’ve got an ass eater waiting for me.” Rat replied to Beverly’s questioning look.

“Ahhh.” Beverly replied, “You sure he’s clean?”

“I think so.” Rat replied.

It was always a gamble, allowing fluid contact. He could have mouth herpes, but Rat hadn’t observed any bumps or scarring around his mouth. Not that one needed to be symptomatic to spread herpes. He could be carrying a full viral load and Rat might not know until months later. It was a risk Rat was willing to take at the price point he was offering.

“Be careful, babe.” Beverly said, as she left the locker room.

Rat was careful. Or perhaps, they would describe themself as a “calculated risk taker”. Life was all about risk. Risk was unavoidable. Simply living another day was a risk. Catastrophe was always a possibility, so why live fretting over what might happen? Plus, Rat enjoyed getting rimmed. It was calming for them in the way that a massage might be for another person. It was a delicate, lubricated, anal massage, and Rat was looking forward to it. Rat grabbed their purse and strode out to the VIP lounge where their customer was waiting for them. He was a plump black man in a slightly wrinkled blue button up shirt with pink pinstripes, tucked into navy blue slacks. He smiled as he saw Rat returning.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.” Rat said, as they took a seat beside him

“Not at all.” He replied, sipping from a bottle of nonalcoholic beer, “I’d wait all night just to spend an hour with you, m’lady.”

Rat smiled politely. An effusively complimentary customer was a good customer to have if they were spending, and luckily he was spending. He’d purchased a fifteen minute champagne room to start, but Rat sensed he was simply leading with caution. Black men tended to be cautious to begin, but they were willing to spend once you’d earned their trust, which was relatable. Visiting the strip club was not a cheap experience. It was an exercise in indulgence. Rat considered their time to be a luxury as valuable as the most elusive Birkin bag-- they were the Birkin bag of pussies, if you will.

“May I?” He asked, hovering a hand over Rat’s thigh.

“Of course, Darryl,” Rat replied.