Her profile reads “I dance for tips, downtown in Portland.” Most are looking for the next pair of lips to kiss between their legs. But I'd like to hold her hands behind her back as she bends over realizes I don't drip ink, or cash, and wimpers. A sugar-daddy? With tattoos? No, you might get an insurance salesman, or occasional sports equipment re-saler a single father or two to pay for your tired, old opinions. Or you might stop dancing, sell real-estate your creativity decaying inside a white, metal box like those bloodied tampons janitors were embarrassed-- ashamed-- to pick up in junior high bathrooms. She might move back in with her parents and fly like some silken night-robe flapping on a clothesline all day Friday, all day Saturday. Until lunch on Sunday, when she pulls it down. Or she'll flap that way for years, on a line in Portland. Until one day, one day, that man who won't hold her in the shadows will come with money, tattoos abounding and watch her dance with tears streaming into the sheath of her time-worn robe in afternoon sun.
MMXII A tattooed sugar-daddy seemed like two specific, yet vague, attributes to be searching for on a dating profile.