Money's Worth

When I go to a strip club, I don't think about sex.
Steve jerked off once.
I kept looking over, because it looked like he wasn't having fun.
He told me to stop, because he couldn't finish.
Instead, I looked at the girl in front of me.
Her hips were a few inches below my eyes.
Her ankles were three feet apart.
In the mirror behind her, I could see the fold of skin around her hyperextended elbow.
In the mirror behind me, she's checking her technique.
I know she doesn't want to be here.
She wouldn't be here if it weren't for the sweaty ones in my hand.
And his. And his. Theirs, too.
I catch her glance and won't let go.
Does she dress in the dark?
Does she feel like she owns her body anymore?
Or will she sell it dollar by dollar, until there's nothing left?
How long could it take, to sell it all?
Which part do I get?
Most men want her cold-stiffed nipples.
Maybe her pussy...
For my dollars, I want her eyes.
I want to see what she's seen.
Wedding rings, greek sweatshirts,
tobacco-stained teeth, bald spots.
She doesn't think about sex, either.