Fucking Daphne by Daphne Gottlieb Page A

any San Francisco lesbionic superstar. Was it really her? Could it be just another six-foot-tall tattooed dame with dreadlocks, wearing platform boots and holding a lunch box?
    It had to be Daphne. Nobody else looked like her.
    I was hustling one dude pretty hard at the corner table near the stage, trying to get a dance. I’d put way too much time into him already. Even if I got a couple of dances off him, the money wouldn’t be worth the time I’d already spent. Still, the club was dead on a Tuesday night—the death shift—and he hadn’t told me to fuck off yet, so I hung tight and kept smiling and asking him when he was gonna take me back to the VIP so we could get a little nastier. My wig was hot and the doll hair from the bangs kept poking me in the eyes. My bra straps were sawing my shoulders in two, making angry red welts that chafed every time I shifted position, and my too-small thong felt like it was rubbing my asshole raw. I was having a shitty night—I hadn’t made my stage fee yet, and no customers wanted me to dance for them. I felt ugly and fat and smelly, like some sort of livestock, patiently offering my udders to a series of uninterested farmers.
    Daphne stood there at the entrance to the Shack, looking around, appearing nervous but making a good stab at pretending not to be. She had that trick some tall girls have of just standing still and letting the world revolve around them, instead of scampering to find their places in the rotation—a sneaky way of seeming at ease, a model’s trick when you’re almost six feet tall.

    She was alone.
    As I stared at her, she turned her head and looked at me. Recognized me, even though I was wearing my big blond wig and about six layers of sweaty, melting makeup. Smiling, she made her way over to me.
    â€œâ€™Scuse me a sec,” I said to my customer. I moved away from him rapidly, trying to get to Daphne before she could say anything or use my real name in front of him.
    â€œHi, Sar—” she started to say.
    â€œHoliday,” I said. “It’s Holiday here.” I cut my eyes back at my customer. Please understand me.
    She reddened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “ Holiday. Hello.”

    Daphne Gottlieb.
    Daph-ne Gott-lieb.
    I’m not gonna pull some kind of Lolita shit with this, but I have to admit I have always liked the sound of Daph-ne Gott-lieb and the way it feels in my mouth; the way the emphasis lies sweetly and squarely on the first part of each name like you’re counting time in a polka: one two, one two, one two.
    DAPH-ne. GOTT-lieb.
    And Daphne, for the sweet, batty daffiness of it all, the redhead in Scooby Doo, a name that pretty much signifies a sexy girl or a playful one, or both—and then Gottlieb for the love of God, an arch little caution like a finger in the air. Don’t get too saucy, Miss, the Gottlieb says, even though the Daphne makes you want to take liberties and gives you giggling permission.

    Whoa there, says the Gottlieb . God is watching.
    And you’re caught short with your hands in your pants, feeling led on by one and chastised by the other.
    Between the two of them—the Daphne and the Gottlieb—it’s like a hot girl in a short dress who knows you’re looking at her and likes it, and even bends over the tiniest bit to flash her drawers in your general direction, because she knows that kind of thing (the gleam of panties, the bending) makes you nut-ass crazy for pussy like a big dumb panting boy. But if you try to talk to her, she’ll cut you dead. The panties are the Daphne, but the Gottlieb tells you to back the fuck off. It’s maddening.
    One two, one two.
    So yeah, DAPH-ne. GOTT-lieb. And liebchen for darling, my dear Daphne, my tongue all curled around the word, a secret.
    One last thing I gotta say about Daphne Gottlieb (DAPH-ne. GOTT-lieb).
    Well, she’s a hot bitch, and she knows it. Hot in a weird way,