By Alexander Taylor
Why I Strip
I don’t strip for fun. Not anymore.
No, Marc Lewis. I strip for you.
I am no pawn in your game, sir. Forcing your students to cavort sadly under the penetrating gaze of forty-odd students on a Monday morning. Barely a free hand to cover their blushed expressions as they hit all the beats to My Chemical Romance’s “The Black Parade”, voted last year by FHM magazine as the “least danceable song, possibly ever, Jesus Christ I forgot how bad this was, definitely ever.”
No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you sir; but I bite my thumb, sir, you little bitch.
You want me to throw both hands to the air and twist my delicate form to the strains of Dean Martin? The highly danceable Cranberries hit Zombie? Well, Lewis. Your morning coffee will be my cha-cha.
Oh, I see your beady eyes as I walk in at 9:37 am. I’ve seen Shark Week. I know the look of a Great White the moment a bloody hunk of beef flies off the side of a South African skipper. Menace with a capital M, presumably for Menace. I see the shake of your head. The movement of your hand to the spacebar. What treat do you have for me today, Lewis? Avril Lavigne? Bruce Springsteen? Ah. The big gun. You’ve saved a treat for me.
4’33”. John Cage. You’ve one-upped me there, Lewis. This is Paul Allen’s card. This is the subtle nimbus lettering of your daughter’s Spotify. At least I think it’s John Cage, everything’s quiet in my head.
I knew, walking down those stairs, that I could not dance. But as I removed my jacket I heard Tarun rouse from deep slumber and make a post-hibernation groan of approval. Indistinguishable from disapproval. At least, when your eyes are locked with your loudly-dressed blue-haired human captor. I knew then what must be done.
Should one piece of clothing come off, so should them all.
You were all excited to see my bare breasts and supple pectorals. But I felt nothing.
This was all for you, Lewis.
P.S. Does anyone have a good recipe involving creme fraiche? I bought too much of the stuff last week. Preferably low carb.