I'm not an exciting man. If life were a movie, I'd be buried in the credits. If life were a play, I'd be an extra. If life were a book, I'd fit on one page.

Generic. Store brand. All and all, forgettable.

Plain. Simple. Ordinary. Such a dirty word, ordinary.

Brown hair. Brown eyes. Pale. Slight. Tall, though. And I carry it well.

I'm not one of those lanky fellows that trip all over themselves. I stroll

casually and calmly, as if I were actually close to the ground. Perhaps it's

my one point of dignity. Everyone has one.

Plain, nonetheless.

My interior is glasses, brown hair, and brown eyes, too. Fairly

intelligent, fairly caring, fairly everything. Mediocre. Normal. Another

dirty word.

Grenadine Urge was peppermint, cinnamon, heavy perfume, hot salsa, bright

light, loud music. Everything that flooded the senses, and more. That wasn't

her real name, though. Her fool parents had named her Mary Elders. A name as

plain, simple, and ordinary as I. Neither of us fit her.

No one called her Grenadine Urge except for me. It was my private, special

name for her that no one else knew. Everyone just called her Mary Elders.

Even at the club.

She wasn't a stripper. Strippers are slimy, coarse, repulsive women. Heavy

eye make-up. Hard skin. Wiry hair. Brittle, painful women. Grenadine didn't

hurt.

She wasn't a stripper, but she danced. She didn't shake her breasts or wrap

herself around some icy pole. She just moved. Languidly. Fluidly.

Beautifully. Masterfully.

No, naked isn't the right word. Naked means vulnerable, exposed, uncovered.

She was merely without clothes. Moving expertly. Soft hair. Moist skin.

Clear eyes. Comfortable. Yet so uncomfortable.

I didn't really watch her. Just listened to the music and sat there

thinking about how close she was to me. She always looked shameless, like

the whole world could've been watching her and it wouldn't have mattered.

Maybe she looked different when I wasn't watching. I don't know. Was hard

to look at her, though. Thought maybe she could see what I was thinking. It

was almost embarrassing. I wasn't thinking what all the other men were

thinking. Business executives and good husbands with their pants becoming

tighter around their crotches. An object. A thing. A moving blow-up doll.

That's what they thought she was. Men with children ogled her, forgetting

that someday their little pig-tailed daughters might be in her place. None

would grow to be as beautiful as Grenadine Urge, though.

I had two fantasies about Grenadine Urge, both had been perfected over

time. I could run them like movies in my head.

In my childhood, in high school, I had often dreamt of girls like Libby

Sellers or Marilyn Caine. Cute girls with nice smiles. I had thought of

bringing one home, and taking her to my room, where we'd sit on my bed with

my warm, flannel sheets. I'd slowly slip my shaky, clammy hand up the back

of her shirt and unfasten her training bra, then kiss her on the lips.

I never did this to Grenadine Urge. Not in my day dreams, not in my

subconscious. Certainly not in real life. Just as one unquestioningly knows

not to have sexual fantasies about Jesus Christ our Lord, I knew not to have

them about Grenadine Urge.

My first fantasy about Grenadine was simple. There was a dance. A fine,

medieval dance, with ladies in flowing gowns and men with feathers in their

caps. I'd be alone in the corner, a place not unfamiliar to me. She'd be at

the center of the room, surrounded by men. Attractive men. Wealthy men.

Intelligent men. Each one taller, stronger, and more sensual that the one

before. But she'd be bored. A frown on her pretty face. And I, in my corner,

would watch. Her eyes would brighten when she spotted me. Slowly, she

slipped from her men, and one longing step at a time, came to me. Soft

tendrils of golden blonde hair wiggled down her back and chest. Endless,

night shade eye lashes veiled her murky green eyes. Utter silence through

out.

Upon her approach, the dance would crumble away. The attractive men became

dust and mingled with the rest of the sediment from the medieval ball.

Nothing but the sky and stars would be left.

Yes, naked is the right word. For me. I would be naked. She would be

without clothes. And we'd float. No gravity. No air. Her lips would part and

her eyes would close. Chest heaved for breath. She grew pale. Went limp. And

we died. Together.

My second fantasy was very different. i didn't like it all too much, but it

was necessary.

It began where my work day ended. Leave work. Go to the club. Grenadine

Urge wasn't dancing, the sign said. Mary Elders was.

I'd sit, looking at the table. Hearing the music. Knowing Grenadine Urge

was near. And I felt her get nearer. Barely breathing. Not breathing. But

I'd look. She'd be there. Without clothes. Smiling like Libby Sellers and

Marilyn Caine. Only sweeter.

The business executives and good husbands vanished. It was only her and I

We went out back.

Her room was pretty. There were no black teddies, or things with straps and

clips. No leather. White fur. Fake, of course. Pink shirts. Slippers even.

Soft lighting.

She'd reach into the drawer of her vanity and remove a lovely knife.

The handle was frosted metal, with little hearts carved into it. Three of

them. The blade wiggled, like her hair, the came to a delicious point that

shone like a star.

Sea water eyes took me in. So deep I didn't notice what the pale, rich

hands were doing. Salty water leaked from her eyes. The wiggled blade had

weaved itself through her belly button.

Warm, liquid ecstasy oozed from her stomach.

From my pocket I pulled a knife not half so delicate and enchanting as

hers. Plain. Simple. Ordinary. It glittered from her glow.

There was no muscle on her body. Dance as she did, only soft, smooth, plush

flesh covered her thin bones. Assumed it was soft, smooth, and plush. Never

in my wildest dreams did my fingers ever sink into it.

Up the back of her calf I ran my blade. Beads. Droplets. Bubbles. A thin

trail of hot, ruby blood. It didn't run. Didn't pour. Didn't stream. Just

sat there. Hardening. I flicked it off. With a tissue.

Then I watched. Her lips went blue. He hand turns to porcelain. The room

even grew cold. And I still watched. Her hair grew. Then stopped. Mine

continued. Brown at first. Then gray. To the floor. She stiffened. Creased.

Crinkled. Whitened. I watched.

The skin thinned. Around the slit in her calf, she greened and collapsed.

Her stomach rotted. My mustache grew so thick her scent didn't reach me. Her

skin snapped. Broke. Bone peered through.

The tendrils fell. One by one. Onto my beard on the floor. She was so close to me.

I watched until there was nothing. The bones went to dust like the attractive men at the dance. Even the teeth were powder before I left her.

No one should be allowed to find any piece of her to keep for themselves.

I never liked that one as much. I hated her clothes less and bleeding and rotting. I loved her gasping for breath and floating. With me. It was pure. Natural. Glorious.

Guilt trailed me with the thought of the wiggled dagger in her belly button. I was like those men that watched her dance. I cried. My pants tight across my crotch. Not pure. Not natural. Not glorious.

I tried not to think of her decaying in her dressing room, or to think about my glistening knife tearing the flesh on her calf. It crept in.

Medieval dances and starry skies were all but forgotten. Gooey spheres of blood and tearing skin took their place.

I stopped looking at the table when Grenadine Urge danced. I didn't look into her swamp eyes, either. I watched her stomach, waiting for it to cave in. I watched her legs, waiting for the backs of them to crack open. I would be found out. I knew I would.

Grenadine Urge was my religion and I had sinned. I needed absolution. I needed to apologize. As her body stopped its fluid motion, I knew I needed to see her. To talk to her. Make things right.

My fist hit her dressing room door. It opened. And I was in.

This wasn't right. Grenadine Urge had allowed someone as plain and boring as me into her room. Not right at all.

No fake white fur. No pink T-shirts. Certainly no slippers. Lacy things.

Black. Rough. Feathers. I had seen it all on stage before, but I had thought there was less of it. That maybe she hid it.

She sat at a vanity, smoking a cigarette. I watched her skin yellow and her lungs blacken.

She spoke to me. I don't know what she said. I could only concentrate n her hand, with the burning ashes in it. It wasn't soft. Not pale. Hardly delicate. Chapped. Cracked. Old.

I followed the hand up a muscular arm. Where had the muscles come from? Not smooth at all.

The arm rolled up into a neck, lined with age. The neck led to a face.

The hair was fake. Brown naturally. Not golden. Brown like mine. Ordinary.

The eyes were coated in make-up. The sea green pools I had so often stared into in my fantasies were actually brown. Like mine. Normal.

The lips were chapped. Like the hands. Puffy. Lined from years of pulling them together to inhale on cigarettes.

I went back to her hair. It had appeared so blonde. So shining. So glorious on stage. Coarse. Wiry. Split. Painful.

She was a stripper. Plain. Simple. Normal. Ordinary. Such dirty, dirty

words.

My fingers stayed on the surface, not sinking in. Her neck was hard and bumpy. Rough. Scratchy. My hands were shaky and clammy. Her lips parted. Her eyes closed. Her chest heaved for breath. She grew pale. Went limp.

And she died. Not both of us together as I had dreamt. Gasping out lasts, without clothes in space. Just her alone. And I had touched her.

I was no longer an extra in this play. I was the star. The star.

I didn't wait for her to decay. It didn't matter if someone wanted to keep a piece of her for themselves. She wasn't cinnamon. She wasn't peppermint.

She was glasses. Brown eyes. Brown hair.