Fucking Daphne by Daphne Gottlieb

that, and the Gretels would’ve totally kicked my ass by now. So you see, it’s a good thing I
didn’t get a job like you said I should. Your parents have tons of money anyway. I don’t see why it’s such a big deal to ask them for money. It’s like they’re paying you back for your fucked-up childhood. And it’s cheaper than sending you to grad school, which they thought was better. Sure, I could cut my hair and bathe every day and wear some Gap shit down in the financial district and all that bullshit, but what would that really accomplish in the long run? When am I supposed to do my art?
    When you and the others got back from tour, I thought that you would be able to sort all this out, but that was when you totally lost your shit about this whole thing. So you see it’s not so “simple,” like you said, as that I “fucked Daphne” while you were gone. It’s not a yes-or-no question. Actually, it is. It’s a no, but you wouldn’t take no for an answer without asking me about all this shit I’ve written here.
    I can’t go to the Lower Haight, the Upper Haight, or the Mission anymore. I can’t go to Jones Street or within a block of any of the strip clubs. The Gretels have all those spots staked out.
    By the time you read this, I will be in Seattle. I caught a ride up there being a roadie for Dave’s band. There’s a lot of cool music stuff going on up there with this record label called Sub Pop, and K Records and shit. Don’t come up for a while because I will be crashing at my ex-girlfriend Tura’s place, and that would be awkward. You remember her. I probably told you about her: She was the performance artist who fucked herself onstage with the twelve-inch GI Joes. She’s doing really good now; she’s on methadone and she’s about to graduate from massage school. She’s totally not psycho like she used to be, especially now that she has three months clean, all in a row, which is more than I have, and her boyfriend went back
to prison after he violated his parole. Did you know selling one of those fetus-in-a-jar things at a yard sale is a felony? Serves him right for stealing it out of the Butthole Surfers’ tour van. She’s got extra space here now, so I’m going to chill here until everything blows over, and then I’ll be back. So let me know when all this shit calms down. Don’t worry about me and Tura. Nothing will happen, I swear. We’re totally just friends now.
    I’m sorry it all ended like this, but like I said, none of this was my fault. If anyone says anything different, they’re fucking full of shit. I can’t believe I let that crazy cokehead ruin everything. Fucking Daphne.

DANCING FOR DAPHNE

    Sarah Katherine Lewis
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    I was very surprised to see Daphne Gottlieb walk into the Sugar Shack, the club where I work. Which is a strip club, if you have to know.
    The Sugar Shack is on Pacific Coast Highway—the ho stroll made famous by the Green River Killer, who liked to shop for his ladies here—a few miles away from the airport. Sometimes we hear the Boeing jets overhead in between songs, or when the DJ goes out for a smoke and leaves us with dead air and nothing to dance to. The Sugar Shack is a dive, a dirty place where men go to unload themselves. It’s as unlike the glossy strip clubs you see in movies like Showgirls and Striptease as a used condom is to a dozen long-stemmed roses. I’m not proud of my job, but I make decent money and it’s better than working at Butterscotch’s, where you have to hit the men with riding crops and paddles for the same money you get for a regular lingerie show.

    I got sick of pretending to be a dominatrix. Now I’m just a stripper again. It’s easy, and I already have the costumes.
    I hadn’t heard Daphne was in town from the local queer-girl grapevine, which usually buzzed at the arrival of