Sharon Leach


Listen, it’s like some weird mating dance going on between me and this girl who’s taking her clothes off for me. We’re inside this strip club called Pussycats, a favourite haunt of mine. It’s a dive on a seamy little street in the East Village that’s cluttered with beauty supplies’ stores, specialty sex shops, delis, dirty bodegas and shambling gray buildings that host wild rave parties by night, and crawling with black-eyeliner’d club rats, trannies in fake Prada and Gucci trying to hustle $20-hand jobs on the corner, crack whores wanting like hell to hit the pipe and whacked-out bums jonesing for the next drink. It’s a grim night, you know, the way Village nights can be, with the smell of piss, degradation and fucked-up dreams radiating off the walls of every old building. Heaven on frigging earth, right? Sometimes I wonder why I bother, and what the hell am I even doing here. But, what can you do?



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