Then, I guess, it's up to the spouse or significant other to recognize the meaning of that dark splotch ghosting beneath the bleach.

Most of 'em probably don't want to look. Don't want to know.

The Reason I know so d.a.m.n much about the sinning is I have pretty well been pushed into causing some of it. As sin goes, at least so far, my own partic.i.p.ation has remained fairly mild.

See, when Alex and I first hit town, like a few weeks ago, Lydia seemed okay with giving us a place to crash. Alex called her from the bus station. Hey, girl. You said to look you up if I ever made it to Vegas. Well, me and a friend just got here.

Could you come pick us up?

It was early morning, and Lydia was not real happy about having to pull herself out of bed. We waited a couple of hours, sipping coffee, until she finally showed, took us back to her small tract house south of the city in a burb called Henderson. She keeps her place neat, with pretty flowers in trim beds, giving the impression she wants to give-legitimate.

See, for a while Lydia worked as a stripper in a fairly nice club near the Stratosphere.

I made pretty good money.

Most of it went to the house, which took a big cut for keeping the girls safe. I did all the work, they reaped sixty percent of the bennies. Hard to swallow.

So Lydia got smart, started her own business-Have Ur Cake Escorts. Now she takes a cut from the girls (and guys) whose "dates"

she sets up. I still strip for fun once in a while. All on my own terms.

Her Neighbors Are completely clueless about her means of support.

They think she's a showgirl.

The ultimate Vegas dream.

Anyway, she let Alex and me move into her spare bedroom.

But not for free. You can stay for a week gratis. After that, I'd appreciate a little rent.

She never asked why we were there, although she did mention Alex's dad. How's he doing?

Alex shrugged. Same ol', you know? But if he happens to call, I don't want to talk to him.

Far as I know, he never did, and Lydia let the subject drop. Alex and I looked for under-the-table jobs, but they're hard to find, unless you're good with pulling weeds for five bucks an hour. A week came.

A week went by. Two. Plus a couple of days. Finally Lydia said something. Okay, here's the deal. Both of you are pretty girls. Great bods, with that fresh look guys (especially old ones) appreciate. You could make boatloads taking off your clothes.

The clubs are careful about underage girls, but work for me, no one will check your IDs.

My first reaction was no way would I ever let evil old pervs see me naked. That's when Lydia mentioned how much money we could make. Easily five hundred a night. And that's no touching allowed. Bachelor parties alone could make the two of you very comfortable.

What She Forgot To mention was that her cut for setting us up in the exotic dancing business was one-third the hourly rate. Tips are ours to earn and keep. And hey, considering Lydia handles all Have Ur Cake calls, screenings, and advertis.e.m.e.nt, she's worth every penny. As per her well-advised counsel, Alex and I work exclusively as a team.

Sooner or later, Lydia said, you'll have to deal with a jerk who won't want to hear "no touching allowed," if you decide to stick to that. With two of you, you've got a fighting chance, or at the very least, a witness.

So far, though we've had many requests for more, and a few grumbles when we say no way, the men have all honored the "look but don't touch"

rule. Our two-for-one fee is three hundred an hour (a bargain!) plus tips for straight dancing. Private lap dances are twenty dollars per song. Girl-on-girl action adds another hundred to the tab.

Besides Lydia, we give a cut to our regular taxi drivers, who keep us off their meters.

They're cool and weren't hard to hook up with. Pretty much everyone in Vegas is a scammer.

As for the actual stripping, Lydia gave us some pointers.

Turns out I'm a better dancer than Alex. Her b.o.o.bs are bigger, though, and really beautiful.

I swear I never knew I leaned toward girls until I met Alex.

Guess I never let myself lean any way at all. Didn't dare get close to anyone, male or female.

But Alex and I are tight. I love her heart. Her brains. Her body.

The men we perform for like when we dance with each other, breast-to-breast or belly-to-a.s.s, tan skin against pale, ebony hair on blue-streaked blond, fingers touching hidden places we won't let "clients" touch. Powerful!

That's how I feel, seeing how helpless we make them. I so enjoy reducing them to masturbation.

It's like they are masturbating for me, and I can control when they come by how I move my body, what I let them see.

It's a game I win every time.

Another Few Weeks We'll have saved enough to get our own place. Maybe a nice little townhouse closer to downtown, where most of the action is. Tonight we've got a bachelor party.

Great gigs. Tips are good.

And when there's a crowd in the room, the d.i.c.ks mostly stay hidden. I'm standing by the window, keeping watch for the cab, when Alex comes into the room, wearing a yummy short leather skirt.

Just got a ten o'clock. We should be finished with the boys before nine. Younger guys tend to get started early. The best man booked us for seven, and they should all be well on their way to pa.s.sing out before we even get there.

Which is why we collect our basic fee up front. Don't want to get caught with our fingers in some drunk guy's wallet.

Of course, we do hope they stay awake long enough to reward our girl-girl routine.

We knock on the condo door at seven on the dot. The guy who answers is pretty cute.

h.e.l.lo, girls. Come right in.

Can I get you ladies something to drink? We decline and he escorts us inside, where a half dozen guys are ogling cable p.o.r.n.

While I ask Best Man for cash up front-six hundred, split seven ways-Alex flirts. Okay, boys, where's the groom? We want to treat him right! Where did she learn that shtick? Stripping for Dummies? Hah. Anyway, once the cash is safely tucked away, Alex outlines the rules: Absolutely no touching, or we leave immediately. One lap dance is included, for the groom only.

If any of the rest of you are into that, it will cost extra. Tips are encouraged! Any questions?

One rat-looking dude pulls his eyes from the TV screen action. How much for head?

A couple other guys laugh nervously, but Alex has it covered. You'll have to ask your buddies. We don't do head, except on each other, and that will cost an extra hundred.

No surprise that Ratman reaches into his pocket for a Benjamin Franklin.

Seven Fifty, Minus Commission Toward a place of our own, Alex and I bid adieu to groom, Best Man, et al. Poor bride.

We're giggling as we get into Leonard's cab. What's so funny, girls? Care to share?

Alex hands over a fifty. No offense, Len my dear, but men are just so disgusting.

I mean, really. Would you dare beat off in front of your best friends? We crack up again.

Lenny looks into his rear- view mirror, grins. Only if you two were dancing for us.

It's a short drive to our next appointment, in a not very nice part of town. Lenny promises to stay available, Just in case you need a quick ride out of here. Be careful, okay?

Hey, says Alex, no worries.

But if we don't call you in an hour, it's okay to come looking.

She gives him a twenty for caring and off we go. Unlike Best Man, this guy is a pug, short, wrinkled, and bug-eyed.

He doesn't talk as we handle the business stuff, but he does pay extra up front for a three-song lap dance. I glance at Alex, who nods, meaning she'll do it for him. She knows I never could. After a little girl-on-girl rubbing, she goes to take care of it. He sits very still in his chair, staring as she strips free of her bra.

Suddenly his hands are all over her. "Hey. Cut it out.

Absolutely no touching allowed."

No good. Alex's eyes go just a little wild. Okay, man, we're out of here. She tries, but the creep snakes his arms around her waist, squeezes like a hungry boa constrictor.

All I want is a hand job. Give it to me, I'll let you go. You, over there, play with yourself.

So much for control. Good thing it doesn't take long. He finishes with a loud, Aaaagh!

He does let go of Alex, who wipes her hand on his shirt.

We grab our clothes, throw ourselves out the door, mostly naked. Yank on what we can at a dead run. Suddenly Alex starts to laugh. She holds up a wad of bills. Stupid s.h.i.t just gave us a really big tip.

Later, After Several Shots Of whiskey (Lydia buys it for us, as long as we drink it post-business only), Alex and I go to bed.

Fresh from the shower, her skin is warm and apple- scented. I reach for her, but she turns over, away from me. Not now. I'm tired.

Lately this happens more and more. When s.e.x is your job, it gets harder and harder to let it be about love. "Please, Alex.

Can't I at least hold you?"

She sighs gently, backs up against me, into my arms.

Before long, she trumpets Jim Beamfueled snores.

Wish I could laugh about it. Wish she was really here.

A Poem by Cody Bennett

Might as Well Laugh

Crying is for babies, little kids. Old people who somehow can't remember the way to the toilet, so have to rely on Depends. Once, when I just couldn't hold it anymore, I peed my pants in the car.

Life totally sucked until Jack stopped and Mom got me some clean ones. Cory made major fun of me for days!

Please, G.o.d, when I get old, let me have enough sense to find my way to the toilet!

Cody So Lady Luck Ain't no lady. She's a total b.i.t.c.h, not to mention a tease. I mean one minute she smiles, and dice roll your way. Then she turns right around and hands you snake eyes. Three times in a fricking row.

Lately she hasn't even half-a.s.s grinned at me. Don't know what it is, but I can't win an effing bet to save my neck. Not even a little one, and at the moment, I'm not so sure I could even manage that.

The Belmont f.u.c.ked me good.

I sc.r.a.ped together the thousand, knew in my heart of hearts that j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. Jet Fuel was gonna take the Triple Crown, despite what the so-called experts had to say.

That d.a.m.n horse laid back just a little from the start. I knew the jockey was saving something for the home stretch. d.a.m.n, my heart got to thumping in my chest.

Thought it might give clean out, especially when they turned into that final straightaway, and Jet Fuel found his stride.

I was jumping up and down.

Screaming, "Go, you sucka, go!"

He went. Finish line in sight, he took the lead by a nose.

A neck. Then, from the back of the pack, here came Girly Girl, a stinking filly, no less.

I swear, once Jet Fuel took a look at her a.s.s, he was done racing.

Didn't place. Didn't show.

Hauled his b.u.t.t across the line in fourth. Girly Girl, a true long shot, paid out forty to one. At least the experts weren't right about her, either. But Jet Fuel, d.a.m.n the nag, broke my bank account. I should have known to bet the filly. Girls always win, always get their way. Except when their boyfriends are freaking penniless losers.

Sat.u.r.day Is Ronnie's Birthday I wish I could get her something special, or at least take her out to dinner somewhere really nice.

But I'm completely broke. Can't lay my hands on a dime, thanks to one too many bad bets. All I need is one good wager to make things right. But I don't have seed money for even the smallest bet.

I suppose I could go stand on a street corner, panhandle a buck or two.