Brenton Booth

by Horror Sleaze Trash on May 18, 2016


Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Writing of his has been published in many small press publications.



I flick through a newspaper sitting on my old sofa chair in my tiny tenth floor

apartment with the paint peeling walls and leaking taps. I notice an article on

banning photographs on the beach. Apparently a number of men have been

taking pictures of nude women sun baking . This is exactly why I so rarely read

newspapers, every week they dig up some crap like this, and the problem with

our societies is we go for quick solutions—rather than really addressing the

problems. If one country has problems with another: guns are drawn, and if

perverts are taking photos of nude women on the beach, cameras and flesh are

banned, and in this steady assembly line of loss with every passing year we have

less and less; the newspapers don’t care, because they’ve been kept in business

for so long by this stupidity. The way we are going, eventually the mere act of

pulling your pants down to take a dump in a toilet will be considered obscene

and banned.

I throw the newspaper in the garbage in disgust and put on some clothes and

head out.

A few minutes later I am on the main street of Kings Cross. It’s Saturday night.

Saturday night is the night you ‘don’t’ go to a bar or nightclub in Kings Cross.

They are always filled with wankers from the suburbs and clueless tourists.

Though the rest of the time it’s pretty good. It is Sydney’s red light district and

the last place left in Sydney where you can just be yourself: and the more

screwed up you are–the better you fit in.

I am headed for my favourite strip club. I notice a thin blonde hooker in a

corset who is really too old trying her best to convince a young English tourist to

go upstairs with her. She must be new to this, I have never seen her before; I

decide to have some fun. I stop and tap the tourist on the shoulder to get his

attention. “ It’s a great deal man. Just last week I went with her and got

something extra for free.”

“ Yea, what did she give you?”

“ An infection,” I said with the straightest face I could.

He walked away quickly and I continued on to the strip club.

I could hear the hooker telling what had happened to her pimp behind me in a

voice that could fill an ancient Greek amphitheatre.

They soon caught up with me. She had the need for blood in her eyes, though

he looked unsure of what he wanted to do.

The thing is I am 5’11 and weigh over 200 with a flat stomach, shaved head,

and mostly get around in singlets. I could pass for a boxer but can’t actually fight.

Though most people are too stupid to know the difference. “ Did you just ruin

this girls last job?” said her overweight dopey looking pimp. He reminded me of a

cartoon character and meant just about as much to me. I just looked him straight

in the eyes a moment without any special feelings then turned and continued

walking. That was the last I saw of them for the night.

I got to the strip club a few minutes later. The fat Lebanese doorman with the

terrible Japanese dragon sleeve was on. I always got a good price with him. “ 5

dollars,” I said

“ C’mon man, it’s Saturday night, I can’t let you in for that.”

“ I will go across the street then. They’ll let me in there.”

“ Alright 10 dollars.”

“ OK.”

I went in the lobby and paid and got a stamp from the dead looking cashier

then left the club and went to the liquor store across the street and bought a 6

pack of bourbon and coke and took them back with me.“ This OK,” I said to the

doorman with a cheeky grin. “ Yea,” he said in a frustrated tone. Those fuckers

wouldn’t be ripping me off with their overpriced watered down drinks tonight.

It was pretty busy inside. There were lots of middle-aged Chinese tourists

filling most of the seats. You quite often saw them here, men and women. They

would arrive on tours in little buses on the main strip. The doormen would

always swarm on them before they thought of a reason to say no, and charged

them all ridiculous entry fees. I noticed an empty row of seats and sat. The seats

reminded me of the ones I used to sit on in school, and were probably just as

useful. I cracked a can and waited, watching a cheap looking porno showing on a

TV mounted on the wall next to the small stage.

A few minutes later a girl came out. She had a face like tar but her body knew

no fault. She must have been 20. She was so high she was struggling to stand;

though she did her best and I couldn’t knock her for that.

All the girls that danced here were junkies anyway. They were the only girls

that would strip and do dildo shows for virtually nothing. I heard some laughing

and noticed 2 good looking girls and a guy walk in.

One of the girls asked if they could sit in the seats next to me. I said it was OK.

They were really excited. Cheering the junkie stripper on. They’d obviously

never been to a strip club before–probably just turned 18. “ Do you think she’s

sexy,” I said to the brunette closest to me.

“ No. How much did you pay to get in?”

“ 10 dollars.”

“ We paid nothing. I just showed the doorman my tits.”

“ Yea. Why don’t you show me your tits.”

“ You are so rude! I should–“

“ –-C’mon for fucks sake! We’re in a goddamned strip club.”

She smiled and lowered her bra and pulled her black singlet just above her

nipples. “ Is that it?”

She giggled and turned to her blonde friend who was sitting on the guys lap in

the next seat. They started whispering to each other. The blonde then looked at

me. “ You want to see mine?”

“ Sure.”

She pulled her shirt all the way up to her shoulders and undid her pink bra.

Those young pert tits just sat there like diamonds in a huge field of shit; they

were definitely the best thing I had seen in a long time. Her guy was watching the

show the whole time and didn’t seem to mind at all. It only lasted a few seconds

and she covered up and they all left very quickly without even a goodbye. Just my

luck! I thought.

It could have definitely gone better but this sure beat the Saturday night bars

or listening to my neighbour practicing scales on his saxophone. I’d take my time

finishing the cans then go to the 24-hour newsagent and read the latest poems in

the Atlantic and New Yorker, they were always good for a laugh, then go back to

my apartment and try to write something worthwhile: anything to beat the night.



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