What you grinning at, monkey boy? I sigh imperceptibly and close my gilded eyelids without a sign.

Why is it that men of a certain age with pale, knobby, varicose-bedeviled legs insist on wearing shorts, socks, and sandals whenever and wherever they vacation? Or the loud shirts, catcalling insulting inanities or tawdry one-liners. “I’m With Stupid à” or “ I Traded My Wife for a Golfcart” or “I’m Not a Gynecologist, But I’m Happy to Take a Look.” Or the parrot prints? I never did get parrot prints.

So here I am, my afternoon just starting, and I’m standing on my marble pedestal surreptitiously viewing the sea of knobby knees and stupid shirts and slackjawed faces welling in the lobby of the biggest casino complex on the Strip, the Abu Simbel. And I am wearing nothing but an exaggerated bandage, a pharaonic crown, and a layer of golden paint, looking much like a stacked version of an Oscar statuette at a nudists’ costume ball.

When I started this job a few months back, I used to keep my eyes tightly shut, not so much out of modesty (I’m quite used to being stared at, believe me), but to block out the popeyed tourist freak show. Over time, just to ease the monotony of blindness, I’ve learned that by just opening them the slightest bit, I can survey the mobs of knobs and shirts and gobs at will. Without notice. I’ve become a living mirror.

Most of the time, however, I’m content to stand in darkness going through The Ray Charles’ Songbook in my head. I just love Ray’s music. I’ll start my three-hour shift with “Georgia on My Mind” and work my way on until I’m distracted by some idiot or released for my break. We “living statues” get a break every forty minutes or so, given our complete immobility. And three hours–well, it’s not thanks to any stupid ass generosity on the part of management. Those pricks discovered that no matter how carefully gilded we were, and regardless of the paint’s composition, we all developed horrible rashes if exposed to it for more than a couple of hours. So, it’s forty minutes on, and twenty off for transport and a break for three hours a day, five days a week. Pays the rent, as they say. “Let the Good Times Roll.”

Back off, Bozo! Christ! Is that kim chee I’m breathing? Where the fuck is security? If you so much as touch me, I’ll sue you for assault—I don’t care about house rules regarding our cherished “guests.” Kim chee. Fuck.

But I mustn’t budge. This gig was tough enough to get: all those pervs conducting “interviews.” More like practicing their x-ray vision. Keep your fantasies in your pants, I’d think to myself. They’ll last longer. The work is steady, to say the least.

And I’m on my own, like I’ve never been in my life. Especially after that douche, Darren, finally split with all our money and the sectional sofa. Left me the pair of mean-ass Siamese cats, thoughtful sonofabitch. “Crying Time.”

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Ever since puberty, I’ve been stunning—literally. Jaw-dropping, stumbling, stammering, salivating stunning. My physical beauty immobilizes men so absolutely that they’re usually impotent when it finally comes down to it. Not much of an asset, really. Sure, there were exceptions, like Darren, who was usually so fucked up he could have been screwing a streetlamp for all he knew. Thanks for nothing, Darren. “I Don’t Need No Doctor.”

So. Here I am in “Sin City,” sexier than the sexiest showgirl, and I can’t even get laid, unless it’s by some derelict druggy or a blind man. God, I love you, Ray. Oh, yeah. And by my fan base—in their dreams. A couple of weeks ago—I can’t remember exactly—but I’m out enjoying a cigarette, leaning in the shade of the north wall by the dumpster during my break. It’s over a hundred degrees, and I’m there, all golden, in my Abu Simbel “Cast the Spell” terrycloth robe. Perfect desert ambience: the dumpster, the parking lot, the snaky radiating heat, all thanks to the no-smoking policy management enforced for the employee lounge, which was crappy enough anyway. All I want is a little peace and my nicotine fix. So I’m out soaking up the silence and the searing heat. And from nowhere, this “guest” comes sidling up. This weasel comes gliding up to me—me in my robe and my paint and my fucking crown—and he offers me five grand to visit him later in his “suite.” How romantic. Doesn’t even ask my name. Small talk, why bother?

“Accepting tips” is forbidden to us statues, according to the Abu Simbel employee handbook. And I just can’t see taking money from a creep, even if it would go a long way toward paying for those dentals for Kilo and Krystal at Vegas Valley Veterinary, lousy crooks. A trick every now and then—it doesn’t usually end up very well, especially for freelancers. I could give him Mona’s number, but he’s weirding me out. Dude, ever hear of personal space? I’m weighing my options here.

But the stoat arches his body even closer, and whispers, “After your shift. As you are on the pedestal: cold, quiet, still. Perfect. Easy enough?”

Jeez. I exhale slowly and judgmentally in his direction. Five grand is a lot in my world, and Mr. Hard-on obviously has too much money for his own good. Under any other circumstances, I’d be glad to relieve him of this burden. The jerk probably thinks I’m actually considering his enticing offer. And the sorry bastard, to his credit, probably has the right idea. If he saw me as I really am—the sheen, the rose petals, the caramel, the honeyed dream–he’d be as limp as the rest of them. Besides, I’ve got to maintain my professional standards, and if my boss ever found out (I’ve heard you can’t trust housekeeping), I’d be back slopping omelets. And I’d rather be watching Darren shoot up on the sofa with the cats than ever wait tables again.

So I open my baby blues real wide and yawn, the raw fissure of my mouth against the metallic patina, organic and obscene. He draws back, obviously alarmed at the contrast, the living crack in the vase of perfection.

Do other living statues have to deal with this crap? Hold on, Romeo. I’m still thinking here. I mean, do women blast their boobs at the Honor Guard at Arlington? What woman would actually flash her fupa at the Queen’s Guard at Buckingham? Do women ever fantasize about immobility? What’s wrong with people?

I flick my not-quite-extinguished cigarette onto a growing pile of butts and turn toward the employee entrance. Asshole wants silence, he can have it.

Absently humming “Hit the Road, Jack,” I walk past the musty-smelling laundry baskets, past the kitchen doors to “King Tut’s All-You-Can-Eat-Twenty-Four-Hour-Lobster Buffet—Tables as Long as the Nile.” The stale food smell always makes me gag. God, I hate restaurants. Finally, I get to the locker room, where I hang my robe and feel the dry chill of air conditioning surround me. After admiring myself briefly in the mirror and touching up my paint in a few spots, I mount my chariot and wait for my team of “Nubian slaves” to pull me back into the lobby. Levon and Tarik are great guys, but have to double as bell hops—all while wearing heavy headdresses and skirted loincloths. So on the shit scale of jobs, I think they’d give theirs a nine.

“Thanks, guys. How’re the tips today? Any rollers?”

They shake their heads and shoulder the yoke, carefully pulling me through the double doors and into the lobby, the crowd parting as the loudspeakers announce, “Make way for Nefertiri, Goddess of Love. The Embodiment of Eternal Beauty.” My “slaves” help me dismount and guide me to the pedestal, where they steady me as I step up onto the small column  I lean imperceptibly against the plexiglass backrest, and barely close my eyes. Nice knees. Another forty minutes, another break, another cigarette—hopefully dirtbag free. “You Don’t Know Me.” Breaks my heart every time I think of it.

Some might wonder why such a spectacularly-endowed specimen of femininity would settle for this kind of work. Sure, it’s fine for others to wonder why I’m not skating around in nothing but cheesy amulets and gauze as “Cleopatra on Ice,” or heading the lineup strutting about with half an ostrich on my head in “Giza, Girls, Girls!!!.” (more like, “Look, Geezers—Girls!”) Yeah, sure. Dream on. But as Darren once lovingly pointed out, I have all the grace of a circus bear. And he was absolutely right, the bastard. So much for my vocational skills. Other than paralyzing men on a regular basis, I did, however, discover that I was very, very good at one thing: standing perfectly still. An entropy artist. The perfect object.

So, go ahead, you leering rubes in your parrot shirts and sandals. Admire my cheekbones, my neck, my tits, my waist, my mons, my thighs, my splendiferous shining all. The wonders of the world, you bet.

 

 

 

 

Nefertiri in Vegas

 

What you grinning at, monkey boy? I sigh imperceptibly and close my gilded eyelids without a sign.

Why is it that men of a certain age with pale, knobby, varicose-bedeviled legs insist on wearing shorts, socks, and sandals whenever and wherever they vacation? Or the loud shirts, catcalling insulting inanities or tawdry one-liners. “I’m With Stupid à” or “ I Traded My Wife for a Golfcart” or “I’m Not a Gynecologist, But I’m Happy to Take a Look.” Or the parrot prints? I never did get parrot prints.

So here I am, my afternoon just starting, and I’m standing on my marble pedestal surreptitiously viewing the sea of knobby knees and stupid shirts and slackjawed faces welling in the lobby of the biggest casino complex on the Strip, the Abu Simbel. And I am wearing nothing but an exaggerated bandage, a pharaonic crown, and a layer of golden paint, looking much like a stacked version of an Oscar statuette at a nudists’ costume ball.

When I started this job a few months back, I used to keep my eyes tightly shut, not so much out of modesty (I’m quite used to being stared at, believe me), but to block out the popeyed tourist freak show. Over time, just to ease the monotony of blindness, I’ve learned that by just opening them the slightest bit, I can survey the mobs of knobs and shirts and gobs at will. Without notice. I’ve become a living mirror.

Most of the time, however, I’m content to stand in darkness going through The Ray Charles’ Songbook in my head. I just love Ray’s music. I’ll start my three-hour shift with “Georgia on My Mind” and work my way on until I’m distracted by some idiot or released for my break. We “living statues” get a break every forty minutes or so, given our complete immobility. And three hours–well, it’s not thanks to any stupid ass generosity on the part of management. Those pricks discovered that no matter how carefully gilded we were, and regardless of the paint’s composition, we all developed horrible rashes if exposed to it for more than a couple of hours. So, it’s forty minutes on, and twenty off for transport and a break for three hours a day, five days a week. Pays the rent, as they say. “Let the Good Times Roll.”

Back off, Bozo! Christ! Is that kim chee I’m breathing? Where the fuck is security? If you so much as touch me, I’ll sue you for assault—I don’t care about house rules regarding our cherished “guests.” Kim chee. Fuck.

But I mustn’t budge. This gig was tough enough to get: all those pervs conducting “interviews.” More like practicing their x-ray vision. Keep your fantasies in your pants, I’d think to myself. They’ll last longer. The work is steady, to say the least.

And I’m on my own, like I’ve never been in my life. Especially after that douche, Darren, finally split with all our money and the sectional sofa. Left me the pair of mean-ass Siamese cats, thoughtful sonofabitch. “Crying Time.”

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Ever since puberty, I’ve been stunning—literally. Jaw-dropping, stumbling, stammering, salivating stunning. My physical beauty immobilizes men so absolutely that they’re usually impotent when it finally comes down to it. Not much of an asset, really. Sure, there were exceptions, like Darren, who was usually so fucked up he could have been screwing a streetlamp for all he knew. Thanks for nothing, Darren. “I Don’t Need No Doctor.”

So. Here I am in “Sin City,” sexier than the sexiest showgirl, and I can’t even get laid, unless it’s by some derelict druggy or a blind man. God, I love you, Ray. Oh, yeah. And by my fan base—in their dreams. A couple of weeks ago—I can’t remember exactly—but I’m out enjoying a cigarette, leaning in the shade of the north wall by the dumpster during my break. It’s over a hundred degrees, and I’m there, all golden, in my Abu Simbel “Cast the Spell” terrycloth robe. Perfect desert ambience: the dumpster, the parking lot, the snaky radiating heat, all thanks to the no-smoking policy management enforced for the employee lounge, which was crappy enough anyway. All I want is a little peace and my nicotine fix. So I’m out soaking up the silence and the searing heat. And from nowhere, this “guest” comes sidling up. This weasel comes gliding up to me—me in my robe and my paint and my fucking crown—and he offers me five grand to visit him later in his “suite.” How romantic. Doesn’t even ask my name. Small talk, why bother?

“Accepting tips” is forbidden to us statues, according to the Abu Simbel employee handbook. And I just can’t see taking money from a creep, even if it would go a long way toward paying for those dentals for Kilo and Krystal at Vegas Valley Veterinary, lousy crooks. A trick every now and then—it doesn’t usually end up very well, especially for freelancers. I could give him Mona’s number, but he’s weirding me out. Dude, ever hear of personal space? I’m weighing my options here.

But the stoat arches his body even closer, and whispers, “After your shift. As you are on the pedestal: cold, quiet, still. Perfect. Easy enough?”

Jeez. I exhale slowly and judgmentally in his direction. Five grand is a lot in my world, and Mr. Hard-on obviously has too much money for his own good. Under any other circumstances, I’d be glad to relieve him of this burden. The jerk probably thinks I’m actually considering his enticing offer. And the sorry bastard, to his credit, probably has the right idea. If he saw me as I really am—the sheen, the rose petals, the caramel, the honeyed dream–he’d be as limp as the rest of them. Besides, I’ve got to maintain my professional standards, and if my boss ever found out (I’ve heard you can’t trust housekeeping), I’d be back slopping omelets. And I’d rather be watching Darren shoot up on the sofa with the cats than ever wait tables again.

So I open my baby blues real wide and yawn, the raw fissure of my mouth against the metallic patina, organic and obscene. He draws back, obviously alarmed at the contrast, the living crack in the vase of perfection.

Do other living statues have to deal with this crap? Hold on, Romeo. I’m still thinking here. I mean, do women blast their boobs at the Honor Guard at Arlington? What woman would actually flash her fupa at the Queen’s Guard at Buckingham? Do women ever fantasize about immobility? What’s wrong with people?

I flick my not-quite-extinguished cigarette onto a growing pile of butts and turn toward the employee entrance. Asshole wants silence, he can have it.

Absently humming “Hit the Road, Jack,” I walk past the musty-smelling laundry baskets, past the kitchen doors to “King Tut’s All-You-Can-Eat-Twenty-Four-Hour-Lobster Buffet—Tables as Long as the Nile.” The stale food smell always makes me gag. God, I hate restaurants. Finally, I get to the locker room, where I hang my robe and feel the dry chill of air conditioning surround me. After admiring myself briefly in the mirror and touching up my paint in a few spots, I mount my chariot and wait for my team of “Nubian slaves” to pull me back into the lobby. Levon and Tarik are great guys, but have to double as bell hops—all while wearing heavy headdresses and skirted loincloths. So on the shit scale of jobs, I think they’d give theirs a nine.

“Thanks, guys. How’re the tips today? Any rollers?”

They shake their heads and shoulder the yoke, carefully pulling me through the double doors and into the lobby, the crowd parting as the loudspeakers announce, “Make way for Nefertiri, Goddess of Love. The Embodiment of Eternal Beauty.” My “slaves” help me dismount and guide me to the pedestal, where they steady me as I step up onto the small column  I lean imperceptibly against the plexiglass backrest, and barely close my eyes. Nice knees. Another forty minutes, another break, another cigarette—hopefully dirtbag free. “You Don’t Know Me.” Breaks my heart every time I think of it.

Some might wonder why such a spectacularly-endowed specimen of femininity would settle for this kind of work. Sure, it’s fine for others to wonder why I’m not skating around in nothing but cheesy amulets and gauze as “Cleopatra on Ice,” or heading the lineup strutting about with half an ostrich on my head in “Giza, Girls, Girls!!!.” (more like, “Look, Geezers—Girls!”) Yeah, sure. Dream on. But as Darren once lovingly pointed out, I have all the grace of a circus bear. And he was absolutely right, the bastard. So much for my vocational skills. Other than paralyzing men on a regular basis, I did, however, discover that I was very, very good at one thing: standing perfectly still. An entropy artist. The perfect object.

So, go ahead, you leering rubes in your parrot shirts and sandals. Admire my cheekbones, my neck, my tits, my waist, my mons, my thighs, my splendiferous shining all. The wonders of the world, you bet.