The Color Of Truth
When Domenique Louisa Esposito was a little girl, her real name was Domenica and her pops used to leave her at his strip club when he needed a baby sitter. Pops and Momma Esposito, A K A Tony and Lala, in spite of running a clean, reputable business, lost favor with the families in their Italian and Polish neighborhood once they found out about the place. So the Esposito's sitter options were limited to Tony's most immediate circle: his dancers, the girls whose shift coincided with the times Tony had to attend to Lala's medical needs.
Mrs. Esposito's Multiple Sclerosis had been manageable for years. But, after her flare up in the winter of 94, she'd began to require nearly constant care. Tony could have afforded more help, but he chose to do most of it alone. Domenica, Sunday in Italian, the day she was born, had done her best to help, feeding her mother pureed chicken, until Lala started staring at her daughter like she was some freakish little creature. One afternoon, the last afternoon, Lala, chicken dribbling from her lips, had found enough strength to take the bowl of chicken slop and drive it into Domenica's stricken face. After that, Domenica told her Pops that she never wanted to be in that house alone with that lady because that lady wasn't Momma. That lady was a real ghost that was haunting the house in Momma's body.
So, Domenica came more and more to be under the care and watchful eyes of Tony's girls. Not just any of the girls, but the one's like Heather, that had been with him since he'd first opened the place, a two thousand square foot store front between a supermarket and a sub shop in a strip mall just off the Saltonstall Turnpike. There was May, Roberta, Viv, Star Light (nice enough, but wouldn't give anyone her real name) Britney, Natasha and Heather. Heather was the nicest, the prettiest, the toughest, the funniest, who liked to take Saturday afternoon shifts with her, and knew how to draw horses really well.
"So your pops dropped you off early today." Said Heather as she colored in the page of Strawberry Shortcake coloring book Domenica ripped out for her.
"Yup." Said Domenica, "Carefully filling in Blueberry's skirt, "The lady had to go for a doctor's appointment."
Heather paused and looked across the table to search her seven year old charge's eyes. The table where they sat was in the far corner of the shared dressing room, in view of the first bank of lockers. To the left was a wall upon which hung the shift schedule and booth assignment board. Beyond that was the building's rear exit. To the right was the narrow hallway that led to the stage, bar, tables and show booths. It was the afternoon shift. There were only three dancers for the lunch crowd, and the music wasn't as loud as it could be for the night shift. Still, strains of Kix, Poison, Warrant and Def Leppard could be heard coming from down the hallway.
"That lady," said Heather, "is your mom. You understand that, right?"
"I understand that lady took my mom." Domenica answered, peering up from her coloring book, a shining look of certainty in her big brown eyes, "And if you don't eat and drink the right stuff, in stead of all those candy bars and diet cokes, you might become one of those ladies."
"You're right," sighed Heather, "I'll start tomorrow."
"You said that two days ago."
"Oh. So I did."
A click of high heels turned their attention toward the hallways's opening. It was Shelley, one of the latest hires, naked but for her heels, heading to her locker. Domenica was suddenly riveted, her mouth agape. Heather, incensed, was also riveted as she watched the nude woman withdraw a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from her purse, close the locker, and then stroll up to the schedule board. The protocol Heather and Tony established was that when Domenica was present, the dancers were to robe up as soon as they got off the stage. They'd made it easy; installing a long wall mounted strip of hooks just off the stage's exit, from which they were to hang their robes for when they were going on their breaks.
"Uh, hello!" exclaimed Heather, "Go back down that hallway and get your robe on."
Domenica continued to stare, paying particular attention to Shelley's fastidiously trimmed black haired pussy.
"Relax." She sang, "I was checking the booth schedule-"
"Get your robe on I said." Heather insisted.
"Fuck you, okay?" said Shelley, looking away.
It was one thing, to Heather, for one to not acknowledge one's mistake. It was entirely another to be a rude, arrogant bitch about it. So Shelley left Heather no choice but to unsheathe her throwing knife from her boot scabbard, aim the six inch blade and throw it. It took Heather the span of two seconds to make the single motion and hit her mark, and then another eight for Shelley to realize that a sharp knife had in deed flown past her, lodged in the cork bulletin board before her and left a trickle of blood to start flowing from across the bridge of her nose.
"And I suggest you watch your mouth too." Said Heather, her words measured, her tone flat, "Dom? Why don't you go to the bathroom?"
"I don't have to go."
"Please go to the bathroom."
She did; crossing the room, locking the door behind her. With her ear to the door, Domenica didn't hear much, not at first. It started to sound as if Shelley was crying. She wondered if Heather was going to fire her. Still, Domenica listened. There came more voices from down the hall to the stage. The voices got louder. The Def Leppard song was stopped short. Then there were more voices, the other dancers, lockers opening or closing, the rear exit creaking open and slamming back shut. Suddenly there was a knock on the bathroom door. Domenica jumped back.
"Domenica?" said a woman, a voice she didn't know, "Domenica, I'm Mrs. Corber. I'm from the Department of Children and Family services. It's really important that I talk to you. Please open the door. Honey?"
"Honey? Nique?"
"Hmm?" Huh? "
"You're not twitching." Gwen said from between Domenique's open legs; the slick on her cheeks shining from the light of the full moon beyond the bedroom window, "Your clit's not even hard. What's wrong?"
The memories had been intense enough to lure her away from devoting her full concentration to Gwen's trying to help her get to sleep. Looking at her now, Domenique watched as Gwen lay her head upon her thigh, dressing it in a cascade of black hair. Her eyes caressed the distance from the lobes of her lover's ass and her long smooth legs and to the moon light dappled cushion pads of the bottoms of her feet beyond.
"I'm sorry." Domenique softly spoke, "How about I do you. That'll get me going." Okay, but I want to try something new."
"Like what??" asked Domenique, stroking Gwen's hair.
