The Studs Lonigan Trilogy - James T. Farrell [403]
Goddamn it! he silently spit at himself.
What he needed was something to make him forget such things. A burlesque show. The hottest ones were south of Van Buren. He crossed under the elevated structure, and on toward the cheap shows on South State Street.
VIII
The urinal smell of the ten-cent burlesque show made Studs feel as if he would become diseased or contaminated just by sitting in it. Four beefy women in narrow strips of colored cloth slowly rolled and twisted their abdomens to the tune of catching, tinny music. The music beat more swiftly, and the belly movements of the dancers quickened. Studs clenched his hands, leaned forward in his seat located at about the center of the small theatre. He watched closely while the women stood, legs spread, orgiastic ally shaking their wobbly bellies. Washed-out, painted whores. But they sure could shake that thing. His whole body seemed to narrow into one canal of desire.
“Take ‘em off,” a man cried.
With a final beat of the music, and a last lascivious twist, the girls trotted off the stage, their large breasts bouncing with each step.
A page-boy placed a sign at the right-hand corner of the stage.
SHIMMY CONTEST
A peroxide blonde, with purple tights and breast cloth, heavily skipped to the center of the stage. She began slowly, worked herself into rapid, shimmying twists, flung her head back in abandon, stood with her feet planted widely apart, her belly thrust forward. Sick with desire, wanting to see, and imagining the sight of the woman’s hidden flesh, Studs watched the rippling of muscles beneath the purple tights. The woman let go completely, and with a final crescendo of jazz drew wild applause from the male audience.
“Take ‘em off. Take ‘em off,” a man cried, and Studs joined others who took up the cry, stamped their feet, clapped.
The woman removed her breast cloth deftly, shielding her breasts almost with the same movement, robbing her audience of the desired sight. She coyly winked, turned about, projected her fat buttocks to her applauders, wriggled them, trotted off the stage.
Just enough to make a fellow want more. This one was stringy with legs like poles, black-haired, lousy-looking. And she shimmied in an annoying, jerky way. But there was hard bone and muscles behind those scarlet thighs, flesh and muscles and bones, meat to be laid against a guy. Come on, sister, shake it, shake it. Her breasts bounced. He wanted to see the rest.
Faster, sister, faster, baby, oh, sister, shake yourself. “Take ‘em off. Take ‘em off.”
Tough luck. Too quick in covering to let them see her boobs. Another blonde, shaking the same way, oh, Jesus Christ, he wanted a woman. One of these would be the trick if he could put a towel over their faces. Come on, sister, let it go, come on, sister. Jesus Christ, this was too much, that flesh wriggling beneath pink tights, faster, head flung back just as if she was taking it standing up, and oh, sister, stop it, stop it, this was too much.
“Take ‘em off. Take ‘em off.”
Studs relaxed in his seat. His hands unclenched. He sighed, wished he hadn’t come in. Glancing to his right, he saw, two seats away, a man’s hand running up the thigh of a young kid of eighteen or nineteen. Ugh!
He arose, crushed out to the aisle, walked to the exit. Dazed, sleepy, he walked back toward Van Buren Street, past barber shops, employment agencies, cheap and greasy restaurants, shows, shooting galleries, flop houses, with-out seeing them. Stray bums scurried past him. He was so disgusted with himself that he could almost vomit. He felt as if he could puke himself right up. Watching such lowdown broads, letting them send him off as if he was a sixteen-year-old punk who still had his cherry. How different Catherine was from them. She was decent. And look what she had and was giving up for him. And then his going to a dime girl show, and liking it, getting so hot. Ugh, but he had acted like a slimy bastard. Pride in his woman Catherine mounted in a rush of dizzy hot-blooded thoughts. Catherine so clean, where they were dirty. He was just a louse, unworthy of her.