Poor Iris

         The colored light of the club reflected off of Iris’s white rayon shirt, causing it to appear pink. Sweat rolled off her back as she ground against a significantly taller girl in cowboy boots.
         $8/an hour Iris grinding against a $200/a shot hooker.
         Poor $8/an hour Iris.
         Can’t-Pay-Off-Her-Student-Loans Iris.
         There’s-No-Work-For-A-Philosophy-Major Iris.
         The girl in cowboy boots gracefully made her way over to the bar and seductively looked at one of the men sitting on the side. Eye contact. She slid onto the stool and leaned over, whispering something to the bartender, and Iris watched with envy.
         Within minutes, the girl in cowboy boots left with a 30-something-year-old man attached to her arm, and Iris watched.
         Iris in her white rayon shirt and short black mini skirt.
         Can’t-Make-The-Rent Iris.
         She makes it look so damn easy…Iris thought, watching, admiring, longing.
         On auto-pilot, Iris made her way over to the bar and slid onto a stool. Her long, cherry-pie-red fingernails fell against the surface one by one. The bartender brought her a drink. “Compliments of the young man in red,” he said, gesturing several seats away. Iris looked up and into his gazing eyes.
         Iris without a real job.
         Verge-Of-Eviction Iris.
         With alcohol circling your bloodstream, it’s easier to do things you know you’ll regret. With bills to pay, without a job, with worry on your mind, it’s easier to do things you know you’ll regret.
         Iris stood up and walked over to the man in the red shirt, seductively grazing his shoulder with her arm. In the low, breathy whisper frequented by pornos, Iris thanked him for the drink gently touching his shoulders. “What’s your name?” he asked her.
         “Whatever you want it to be,” but as soon as she said it, she regretted it. So fucking cliché….
         The man in red let out a low chuckle. A courtesy laugh…Iris thought somewhat bitterly.
         “What do you say we head out of here?” he asked Iris.
         Iris, anxious as a death row prisoner whose execution is rapidly approaching.
         Desperate Iris.
         “I’d say that’s a pretty good idea,” she answered without a hint of uncertainty.
         Together, the pair left the club and proceeded to his parked car. Wasting no time, he began to kiss her, removing her clothing almost immediately. Her rapid, shallow breathing finally exhibited her inner panic.
         “What’s wrong, baby?” he asked with no real concern in his voice.
         “It’s my first time.”