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Love In A Plain Brown Envelope: My Own Private Portland

by Jaime Dunkle

Starlit Laurel

Star slumped over. Her dirty-blonde dreadlocks dipped into her beer on her way down. She passed out and face-planted the counter, before the bartender noticed. No blood, luckily. But, her forehead had a quarter-sized knot brewing.

She told Laurel that they had snorted a crushed stimulant, but actually they scorched their nostrils with the muscle relaxer, Flexeril.

Laurel—the only tipping customer—placed a five-dollar bill on the rack. Star danced over to her and sat in her lap. She rubbed her titties in her face, then leaned into Laurel’s ear.

"I’d love to give you a table dance," Star said, then nibbled on Laurel’s pierced lobe.

"I’m not into simulation," Laurel said.

"What about stimulation?" Star asked. "I have this pill a crusty custie gave me."

Laurel shrugged her shoulders.

"Why not?" she said.

The husky bouncer stomped over to the stage, almost in a goosestep.

"You need to be moving to the whole song," he said. "Don’t make me tell you again."

"Oh, right," Star said, then climbed all over Laurel. Star flipped her hair and tickled Laurel’s face with it, as it moved down her body and eventually knelt on the carpet.

The song ended. Star jumped up, pulled up her dress, snatched her five dollars and purse, then grabbed Laurel’s hand.

"Let’s go," she said.

Laurel chugged her beer, as she followed Star into the women’s bathroom. She discarded the empty glass on a tabletop along the way.

They both crammed into a tiny stall. The stench of piss and day-old pussy blood hung in the air. Star shut the graffiti-covered metal door that didn’t have a lock. She faced Laurel, lunged at her and shoved her tongue in her mouth.

Star pulled away and set a folded paper triangle on the back of the toilet. She smashed the paper triangle with the edge of a lighter. She peeked into the football-shaped paper and saw small chunks of the pill, so she rolled her lighter over the paper again and again until all the bits were powdered. Star pulled out a straw and snorted half of the powder. Laurel dismantled a pen, before Star could hand her the used straw. Laurel snorted the rest of the crushed pill from the paper on the back of the toilet.

She titled her head, plugged the opposite nostril and sucked air, until a ball of powdered snot hit her throat with a medicinal bitterness that made her eyes cross.

Laurel lifted Star’s leg onto the toilet seat and knelt before her, the tile cold against her knees. Laurel buried her face in a mass of dark blonde pubic hair, until pussy juice glazed it.

Laurel stood up and almost fell. She washed her face in the sink and held onto the sides until the wobbles dissipated.

"I’ll meet you at the bar," Star said. She wiped her labia and pubes with a paper towel.

Star sat at the bar and ordered a beer. She gulped a third of the ice-cold draft lager. The room started to spin. A swirl of black lights and pink runners trailed about, as Laurel sat in a faux-leather barstool next to her.

"Can I get a coffee and a water?" Laurel asked the bartender, before a loud thump startled them both.

They looked over. Star was passed out. Her dreads now tentacles dipped in beer and sprawled across the polished counter top.

Laurel laughed and pulled Star’s dreads out of the pint glass, then poured sugar into her coffee.

The bouncer swooped in, stood Star up, gripped her shoulders and shook her like maracas—then ushered her to the dressing room to sober up and finish her shift.


Her electroshock-therapy hair waved in all directions. She immediately reminded me of Ursula from The Little Mermaid.

"I’m a professional skateboarder," she said in the dressing room stairwell. She just blurted it out to anyone who would listen. I gravitated toward the dysfunction.

I hide my interest with a look of disbelief. "Really?" I said.

"And, I’m a model," she said.

"Then what are you doing in a strip club?" I asked. "I sure wouldn’t wanna waste my time with the likes of us if I didn’t have to." I laughed.

She huffed and puffed, then waddled up the stairs. I see the scene of Ursula with her barracuda minions making poison in the cartoon—in my mind’s eye. I can’t even figure out what I said to upset her, considering I was the only one willing to interact with her.

A dancer left her stripper station to join my lazy ass on the couch. We shared a joint.

"I don’t know why you’re nice to Sea Hag," she said. "She’s a compulsive liar."

"I know, but I like her stories," I said. Kick my feet up onto her lap and pass her the joint.