Erin Manifests

On Stage

Mid 2000

I am Erin. But I didn’t know where the hell I was or what the fuck I was doing?

I could feel myself dancing. I could hear loud music and I was dancing to it, feeling the beat pound through my body. I was sweating and my heart was pounding. I looked down; I was wearing nice, black high heels, black pantyhose, and a sexy black and pink corset covered me from the top of my thighs to my breasts. I was on the catwalk, dancing in a cloud of bright spotlights.

I looked up, a bit too quickly. Whoa girl, slowly there I thought to myself, you almost stumbled. I felt wasted, must be that Heroin shit the guys are always spiking me with – Bastards. How did I know they were drugging me? I don’t know; don’t think about it too much. Don’t do anything too sudden; just follow the routine I thought to myself.

I looked out past the bright spotlights into the dimness of the club. I could barely make out the tables surrounding the catwalk. At one table, a group of fat, middle-aged men sat, in suits, their ties askew and top buttons undone, faces red with alcohol, smoke curling up from a full ashtray on the table. They were staring at me, their eyes lit with illicit desire. They’d probably ask for a girl upstairs later before they went home to their wives and families.

Another table was occupied by younger guys, probably a stag night. They were very drunk; less interested in me than in the raucous drinking game they’d started hours ago.

Over in the corner sat a solitary figure, drink forgotten on the table in front of him, eyes fixed on me like a shark on a thrashing seal. Shit, I better be careful of that one later on, he’s a psycho for sure.

Men lounged against the bar. Sure enough, there was Don’s fat face beaming proudly over a whiskey glass. I thought fuck you, but carried on dancing.

That’s where I was, I remembered now – I’m dancing for Don at Mavericks. That Mercedes girl was too weak to handle the men and the drugs so she created me to do it for her. Great, thanks a lot.

Every night Don would bring Mercedes in to wait tables and dance, but as soon as the men and the drugs got too much for her, I’d present and take over her body. She didn’t know it, and I didn’t really know what to call it, or even how to explain it properly, it was just that I was better at handling the dancing and the drugs. I didn’t like it, I thought Don was a prick for making Mercedes do it, but it was easier for me to deal with it.

I’m sixteen years old, and I got the name from a friend of mine’s brother – he was called Erin. He was a tall strong guy. He served in the SAPS, and he went over and fought in the Iraq war. He could handle anything. I looked up to him, so I thought using his name would help me cope with this shit.

As the song wound on, I started to strip, slowly at first, unbuttoning, revealing, and then hiding white flesh. I thought it was quite funny; the way I was teasing these men, what pussies, getting all excited for some pale flesh they couldn’t get. The song was coming to an end, so it was time to end my routine; I unzipped the corset, flashed it open and closed a few times and then threw it to the floor. I raised my hands above my head as the song finished, sticking my breasts out, my sex covered by the thinnest G-string, threw back my head and laughed.

Men shouted, whistled and applauded and threw money on the catwalk. I picked up my clothes, the money lying around me and walked off along the catwalk. Don was waiting by the steps.

“Great show, Mercedes, you looked fantastic up there.”

Fuck you old man, I’m Erin, I thought as I handed the dirty money to him. Don’t be mean, Erin the voice in my head said, Don loves us. Oh, you shut up too; I’m tired of hearing that.