{free your skin.}

enter the bar. in a new setting it's hard to tell where to place yourself at first. glance at the bar, too small. not crowded, but interspersed with old men. it seems the possibility that one of them will talk to me is too high for comfort. can't risk it. a deuce at the far end of the "dining area" looks safely secluded. i smell of coconuts. and my breasts keep inching out the top of my dress every move i make. my mom calls this "spill-over." it is a navy blue dress, buttoning down the front, with tiny, white polka dots. it would make me look like a schoolmarm, where it not so very tight and short. i am forced to wear both an undershirt and additional skirt underneath. the shirt, which is somehow assisting in the undesirable amount of cleavage, is black. the skirt, reminiscent of swimsuit material, is a ridiculously bright floral design. my tights are black, overlapped by olive green knee socks, portraying two small penguins, a mama and babe, hugging the tops of my calves. black sneakers with a silver stripe down the side bear one black lace, the other, kelly green. my hair is down and mostly over my face. a long, knitted maroon scarf falls from my neck. and the usual pseudo-hounds tooth coat lies lazy on the chair. dangling chain earrings are more than i am used to. my giant tweed bag sits on the floor by my side. as i sit at the table, and the band horns cheer on the televised sports team, i stare at the life sized papermache person standing before me.

it strikes a pose, as though it's leaning against an invisible ledge. asymmetrical nipples blatantly stab under the stiff wife-beater clinging to the cardboard body, making the fabric look wet and sticky. a puffy, plastic heart broach adorns the left breast, as a string of immobile clam shells comes to rest in the valley of the chest. a watch is worn on each thick wrist, while plaster hands sag, looking as though they were poured into yellow dish gloves. daisy dukes, with the waist line of a five-year-old, rise high on the long, boyish legs, leading to bulky, white cotton socks. small, orange, off-brand converse with black laces awkwardly fit the dwarfish disproportionate feet. the being stands on a tanned box, with bits of sand and sea shells glued to its surface.

additional black sneakers hang from the left shoulder, the left arm akimbo. what appears to be a scarf, separates the neck from the chin. much like an old woman might carry her cranium. the face is an entity all it's own. a jaw line is basically nonexistent. and the caterpillar puffed mouth protrudes haphazardly below the gargantuan nose with its gaping nostrils. the nose is so large in fact, that the sunglasses resting upon the bridge stand out several inches, the frames resembling drinking straws. i am grateful for the presence of sunglasses, for fear of looking into the eyes of such a mongoloid concoction. a crisp, plaid cap sets clumsily on the head, while, what i assume are spiral metal shavings, play the part of "hair." there are no ears.

the entire body looks wet, as though it were just wrought from some unfortunate hobo underworld. the creation of someone desiring something to love. for what was attempted to be the youth of this it, it appears very old. bent thick and wrinkled in all the wrong places. i imagine the human hands forming a once freshly sticky wet paper body. smoothing out the paper skin. the nonexistent genitalia. trying so hard to make it look so real. working to mimic the soft immaculate intricacies of the human body.

they serve no whiskey here. but apparently have good cheeseburger. i am not hungry. i order a stella artois. and the old man waiter, who seemed so cordial at the door, is now stern and unresponsive. the drink is $4.28. seriously? "are you fucking kidding me?" i whisper to myself. i had better get to keep the glass. with it's gold rim. it begins to smell like an old woman.