Twenty feet off the freshly waxed stage, she loosens the squeeze of her thighs and descends slowly towards the intoxicated patrons below. She pauses for a moment and throws her breasts from side to side in sync with the continuous pound of a hard techno beat that engulfs the room. She drops a few more inches down the pole in quick, jerky movements, toying with the idea that at any given moment gravity could shut the show down for good. The tension adds to the energy of the performance and as she falls closer to the stage she pushes her butt far off the pole supporting her weight with a toned shoulder and forearm.
With inhibition lost to a cocktail of pills and the right amount of alcohol, she pulls the crotch of her panties to one side exposing a shaved pussy and asshole. She tucks the panties up against her inner thigh and the scrunched up g-string holds in place by the bulge of her plump vagina. With shoulder taps being passed down like a row of falling dominos, it doesn’t take long before she becomes the center of attention for the majority of the club. With a gaze of seduction and a smirk across her face, she brings her left hand up towards her head. She licks her lips and slides her middle finger into her mouth. Before releasing the finger from its warm, wet clutches she simulates a felatio act that starts at the fingernail and ends halfway to the middle knuckle. She repeats the process a few times while arching her lower back even farther from the pole. She pulls her finger away from her mouth and lets a string of clean, clear drool dangle loosely from her tongue to her middle finger. The spit glistens with each flash of the multi-colored stage bulbs, throwing fragments of light from one side of the room to the other. The pulse of the generic techno beat pounds faster.
The string of saliva pulls thinner and thinner as she brings her hand further from her mouth and closer to her exposed privates. When it reaches its limit, the string snaps sending one end back to her tongue and the other to her fingertip. The dancer scans the room for any authority figure quick to dish out a fine for inappropriate behavior. She spots the club owner distracted with the door girl who’s been convinced he hasn’t been watching her pocket admission fees for the last week. The Champagne Room host is busy tryin to talk a new dancer into suckin a high-rollers dick, and the floor hosts are preoccupied kissin ass for their next tip. She establishes that the coast is clear and proceeds with the show.
She tilts her chin up towards the ceiling and places the front side of her lubed middle finger on the swell of her asshole. She rubs her finger in a circular motion around the perimeter of the entrance. A teardrop of spit breaks loose and drips down to the stage below. The stage lights escort it down to the glassy surface below where it splashes silently between rows of thin scratches etched out from the heels of a thousand forgotten dancers. With her asshole wet and the right amount of pressure applied, her finger slides into the tight warm tunnel of her anal cavity. Her finger disappears and stops only after reaching the imitation diamond ring resting at the base of her knuckle.
Enthralled with her own sexuality, she moans a little as she massages the lining of her interior. She presses her finger on the inside wall of her asshole. The movement creates the visual effect of something trying to push its way through the back of her vagina. She presses hard and holds her hidden finger in place, turning herself inside out for the intoxicated on-lookers. When she feels the desired results have been achieved, she pulls out and admires the conclusion. She has just destroyed the will of every drunk, drugged out, lonely degenerate in the club. She makes a point to tap her asshole one last time before placing her panties back to their original position over the mound of intricate pink flesh. She raises her finger back to her lips and inserts it back into her mouth.
Radiating with the disposition of a fallen angel, she clamps both legs back onto the pole and bends backward, stretching her arms over her head in victory. The pulse of the techno beat slows as she finishes her decent back to the stage, resting on her back with relaxed breasts and open legs. Hypnotized by a beauty far beyond their potential, the glassy-eyed patrons were now more than prepped to hand over this week’s rent money with the utmost enthusiasm. The DJ solidifies the performance with a raspy groan into the microphone. “Gentleman, give a round of applause for Miss Crystal Delight. She’s now available for private dances.”
Pilson and eventually Crystal Delight. She wanted an alias that could pass as an everyday name but one that still had the selling power of an exotic dancer by night. It was a marketing technique she picked up from a fellow stripper and mentor who went by the not-so-subtle name of Champagne Cox.
“You ain't gotta hide from anyone out here little girl. We ain't gotta be like them corn-fed bitches from Indiana who ride to Chicago to strip so their daddy’s co-workers don’t recognize em grindin on cock. This is motherfuckin LA bitch. Ain't no one really from here. And you want your customers to be able to know you by name inside and out of the clubs. For references you know?”
Most people in the course of their lives won’t go through a name change but in Los Angeles it’s all part of the Hollywood experience. A name change in Los Angeles is an opportunity to present yourself to the world in a way that you’ve always wanted to be seen. Creating a fresh image to mesh with your new audience’s expectations. Making yourself more memorable and appealing to your new target audience. The remnants of your former self having been abandoned in the shit-smeared bathroom of the stuffy bus you crawled out of; eventually being kicked off three states later for not having a ticket, doomed to wander the terminals with all the other lost souls searching for their new selves that left them behind. Most wouldn’t be recognized if they were to be found.
Every year approximately 110,000 thousand people make the move to Los Angeles. 80% of that number do so with the intent of becoming the next big thing in the world of film, music, and whatever else is left. They’ll sleep on piss-stained couches and cram themselves into bedrooms the size of closets, snuggling up to the cockroaches that’ll still be around long after their dreams have crashed and burned. By the end of the year, 40% of that number will have caught the bus back to their hometowns. Of the 40% who haven’t yet been chewed up and spit into a Starbucks trash bin, 20% will go through the awe-inspiring name change. They will adopt new names for a multitude of reasons - to sound less black, less white, less Jewish, less Midwestern – to sound more rockstar, more pornstar, more superstar, more marketable in their chosen field. And if by small chance you do become famous in the land where image is everything, you better have a name that matches.
If your shitty hair metal band makes it big do wanna be grindin out the chorus of a song titled “Talk Dirty to Me” as Bruce Johannesson or as CC DeVille? Would “Welcome to the Jungle’ still have the power it has today of it was screeched out by Bill Bailey instead of Axl Rose? Would the young black man screamin “Fuck the Police” have been as much of a “Nigga with Attitude” if Oshea Jackson appeared in the credits instead of Ice Cube? Do you wanna see Frank Farrano Shout at the Devil or do you wanna see a character named Nikki Sixx? MC Hammer's real name is Stanley Burrell. The list goes on and on.
Stacy Thompson, a.k.a Crystal Delight, shares a story typical of the small town Hollywood transplant. She grew up 50 miles south of Cleveland, Ohio in a small town named Wooster, an unimpressive little city named after a revolutionary war hero and barely famous as the birthplace of physics Nobel Prize winner Arthur Compton. When she was a little girl she spent more time than what would be considered healthy flipping through her Grandfather's vast collection of vintage magazines from the 50’s and 60’s. Her Grandfather slaved his whole life in a small print shop and his appreciation for the medium could be gauged in stacks upon stacks of old LIFE magazines, Esquires, and Playboys. The pages were stiffened from moisture, yellowed by age, and smelled like mildew from years of collecting dust in the basement, but those magazines were her dolls and the images she absorbed at such a young age were burned into her DNA. She would get lost for hours in pictures and articles about Marilyn Monroe, Betty Davis, Elizabeth Taylor, Betty Grable, and Jane Mansfield. Her first crushes were on stars like James Dean and Marlon Brando. She was fascinated with their beauty and the way they were captured in a photograph. The hair styles, the jewelry, the make-up, the outfits. She would fantasize about the lives they must have lived and wondered what they were really like in private. She imagined herself as a personal assistant to the stars, preparing them for those photo shoots. She wasn’t the brightest little girl but she always had an active imagination and a wild spark for life. She knew from a very young age that she was destined to live in the area of Los Angeles called Hollywood.
Her world was turned upside down at the age of 7 when she lost her mom to breast cancer. She was too young to understand what happened but she was just the right age to feel the effects. All she was told was that her mom wouldn’t be around anymore. Her step father was a county sheriff and could give two shits about his inherited daughter after the death of his wife. She became a nuisance and was a daily reminder of the love he had lost. She was regularly pawned off to relatives on his side of the family and the only affection she received from an adult figure after the death of her mother came from her step-fathers alcoholic brother. He’d creep in her bed at night and tell her that he understood what it was like to feel alone. That it was OK to turn to him for comfort. A shoulder to cry on. He would brush the tears away from her cheeks with his left hand and finger her with his right. That was a weekly occurrence up until the time he went to prison for involuntary manslaughter in a drunk driving accident. Crystal grew to the age of 14 before the abuse came to a halt.
Crystal developed into an attractive teenager and was a bombshell even before arriving in LA. Coming from a small town she was very naïve about her looks. The boys were too shy to pay her the attention she would later receive and she never had a reason to get dressed up. She was a natural beauty. Tall with with long legs and large, perky breasts. A naturally tanned complexion and a healthy, toned figure. Her button nose was overshadowed by a full set of lips and her natural blue eyes were hypnotizing.
Her looks would eventually be nurtured by her West Coast environment and her full potential as a sex pot would be realized with all the fake Hollywood could muster. Her natural blonde hair would become an exaggerated white with carefully placed black streaks. The black only drew further attention to her shockingly blue eyes. Her already large breasts became even larger with tight, leopard skin push-up bras hidden under black rock tees. It was as if God had created a limited edition mold and dressed it to kill. Crystal Delight was it.
To say that she was completely naive about the current state of Hollywoodland would be unfair, but when she arrived in California it didn’t take her long to see that the glamor of 50’s Hollywood falsely captured in the magazines she worshiped as a child had been replaced by a seedy element haunted with the reality of dreams never achieved. She quickly fell in with a crowd of like-minded LA transplants searching for something that didn’t exist. Searching for a life of glamor and opportunity - for some kind of success that would validate their existence in the land of milk and honey. Until that day came, Crystal Delight would be the best stripper LA had ever seen.
Crystal picks herself off the cold stage platform, bracing herself on the pole for support. She makes her way gracefully towards the stairs bouncing each breast in concession with every step. She approaches the stair rail and snatches up her white bikini top throwing it over her shoulder. She takes the stairs with caution careful not to miss a step in her hazardous stiletto heels. She makes it down without incident and heads toward the dressing room at back of the club. She spots a group of guys she’s been expecting and makes a quick detour to the left and up a few more stairs to the VIP section.
The exclusive seating arrangement is occupied with an array of slick looking characters. Mostly white, dressed to impress, weaving in and out of their mid twenties and early thirties. Crystal hands out a few hugs before focusing her attention to the rough looking character sitting in the center of the black velvet couches. Ramone "Sanchez" Vandetti is the ringleader of this Motley Crew and his three-piece suit glares in contrast to his weathered face and heavily tattooed flesh peeking out from underneath the suit. Inked above his left eyebrow is an outline of the LA logo. Across the way above his right are the letter D.M.S. The tops of his hands are covered with black and grey images incorporating brass knuckles, guns, knives, and roses. Inked across his top right knuckles were the letters D.O.P.E. His left knuckles tied the phrase together with the letters S.I.C.K. The finger knuckles on his right hand spelled the letters A-D-I-L. The left ones had the letters H.R.K.L. When he interlocked the hands, the seemingly misplaced letters spelled out HARD KILL. His entire neck up to the jawbone from the front to around the back featured an intricate portrait highlighting a baby angel under the protection of winged guardians sporting AK-47’s. Across his forehead at the hairline of his shaved head was the word SKARHEAD. His skull from front to back acted as a canvass for an elaborate Biblical-themed war scene incorporating images of warrior angels battles demons for the rights to Christ's soul.
Crystal maneuvers her way around buckets of ice hosting bottles of Grey Goose and expensive champagnes. She approaches Sanchez, offers up a smile, and plants a kiss on his cheek. He puts his hand on her thigh as she arches her hips closer in a playful manner. She bends down and whispers something in his ear. He says nothing but nods in the direction of an equally tattooed character standing a few feet away. Crystals smiles and walks over to the ruffian dressed far less fashionably than Sanchez. She throws her arms around him and wraps her leg around his lower back. She pulls him closer to her with her calf. The sidekick makes a quick scan of the room and slips an Eight-Ball along the lining of her g-string. Securely in place, she guides the plastic bulge toward the center of her panties and pushes the knotted up baggy inside her crotch. Crystal makes some meaningless small talk and flirts a while longer before heading back toward the dressing room.
“Did you get it?” Asks the knock kneed, rail thin brunette following in tow behind her.
“Of course I got it Chelsea. Settle the fuck down ya tweak.”
Chelsea and Crystal were best friends and roommates. Individually they were trouble. Together they were ruthless. They met on the Greyhound traveling cross country from their hometowns to LA. Crystal left from Ohio and Chelsea hopped on shortly thereafter in Chicago. They survived the grueling 3 day, 72-hour bus ride together and were forever bonded from the experience.
Chelsea and Crystal head to the bathroom and each enter their own stalls. Crystal reaches into her g-string and pulls the bag of coke from her special hiding spot. She struggles with the tightly-knotted bag and eventually pulls it loose. She carelessly dumps a pile of the white powder onto the top cover of the black toilet paper dispenser. She secures the baggy and hands it to Chelsea underneath the connecting stalls.
Chelsea takes the hand-off and whispers through the metal divider, “So what’s the deal stickin yer finger up yer asshole like that?”
Crystal didn’t answer. She was concentrating on cutting her pile into three fat lines. Within seconds all three rails vanish up her nostrils.
“I got bored.” Crystal mumbled as she frantically wiped at the burn coming from deep in her nasal cavity. “And I felt like fingerin my ass.”
That was a good enough answer for Chelsea.
They both clean the top of the dispenser of all evidence with a quick swipe of an index finger before leaving their stalls. They then clean the residue off their finger by rubbing their gums. Crystal walks out of the stall still in the act of the numby.
Chelsea looks at Crystal and makes a gross facial expression, “You just had that finger in yer asshole.”