Million Dollar Man

.shades of cool.

I like to say that I fucked my way up to the top. Here I was, living what this life I choose consisted of: dancing, drinking, smoking and generally getting by. Hair up, nails done, dressed not so modestly; tonight's show was definitely to be a good one. I was wearing that dress he claims to hate. But would he even take notice? Him, drunk off his ass at the theatre's bar, mindlessly waiting for the pretty dancing girls to get up on stage and shed some clothes. I could see him there- slumped back against slumped on one of the bar stools, perhaps a White Russian in hand, bragging how his girl's gonna be up on the stage, how she knows her shit, how she's got lips sweeter than vodka. Did I love him? Hard to say. Could I do any better than Roy Salvatore, a bad ass mobster from Jersey's underground mafia? Mama would have thought him a fine man only because he brings the big bucks home. Got me living like a queen, but the golds and silvers don't hide the ugly bruises. Should the petrifying nights and the bruises and the yelling when he's at his worst even matter? Running a hand through my sides, I flinched. I can imagine the lovely shades were being painted onto my skin right now. Cool shades of greys and blues, some a dark hue of green, darkening into a misty lavender right in the center. I had to conceal any bruises before the show.

Big Daddy Sal he was called. He was the most recent addition to my extensive collection in my miserable love life.  And I'm not even quite sure that this thing going on between Salvatore and I even qualified as an official relationship, the truth being that he's just been sticking around for some time. He was a respected man, known by all the underground criminals, and his air took a presence of great intelligence. Growing up on the better streets of Jersey, he found himself connections and befriended the kids of some rich mafia guys. He killed for a living. It's art in those blue eyes of his. He lives in shades of blue, jazz, and attitude. I saw him, my sweet baby, as one tedious  jigsaw puzzle, one which I was missing several pieces to complete. Relatively younger to the type of men I was used to, his skin reflected youth, desire, ambition. The first time I laid eyes on him, I knew he'd be an instant regret. I recall it was some years back- different city, different life. I was a dancer at Chicago then. Memories of being a burlesque dancer there, not sure if I wholly enjoy bringing those times as tales to add on to my history. Was it wasted time? I was only a skimpy teenage runaway then, doing anything to get myself money. God, it was tough out there. Now that I think of it, all that painful past wasn't really thrown out the door. If it weren't for the fact that I danced and slept with strangers for a living, I would have never come across my million dollar man~