Slice of Whipped Cream.

It’s not blood, it’s lipstick. Regular, ordinary, everyday lipstick. Look, there’s a tip jar, I can do slap stick, knock, knock jokes, circus bits, or what do you want to see, kid? Very funny. That’s not something I do. That’s not something I’d ever do. Look, I’m here to have fun in a child friendly way.

Yes, I want to make money, but that would give a bad name to . . . How much? And you’d pay me in cash? America cash? Not Jamaican cash, right? And you’d let me wear makeup. That was a stupid question. What about a mask? Damn. Okay. And nothing about this on YouTube or Facebook or nothing, understand, ever. Yes, I have an old costume. Yes, I have sharp scissors. Ok. Cut holes there. You’ll pay in cash. Anything else special they want? No, I don’t have any tattoos or piercings. Shave I shave every day. My face. I shave my face. But it says on the razor to only use it on . . . Where the hell would I get a body razor. Right, pick up some lub while I’m there and maybe some porno or clown porn. I was being facetious. Ok, I can do that. I’ll add it to your tab. No phone videos with my picture or I’ll never get another kids gigs in this town. How often do these kinds of things happen. Is it annual like Mardi Gras or once in a blue moon. All the time. How did you even get into this. You watched an HBO special called “Sex Bytes” when you were young? How young? Jesus Christ. And on this show you saw something about clown sex and you wrote down the website and paid for membership. At that age? You had a credit card at that age. But your parents found out. Then how did you keep using it? Right. Ever thought about going to sex addicts anonymous? Ok and you ignored them. Of course. Yes, I know I’m a clown and not a therapist, but it seems wrong like my intuition is saying, “No”. Don’t listen to my intuition, listen to my crock?

Nobody but you would say that. Look at these websites? Why? No. Costume ideas. I thought I was tearing up my old costume? Balloon ideas? Balloons with two handles. Dirty jokes? Learn about clown sex? This is going to be one night and one night only unless they start having clown sex at the Monster Jams. Sunday, Sunday, Sunday. Speaking thereof, I don’t know where or when this bullshit is happening or when and where I’ll get paid.

Am I feeling anxious? Let’s see, if one moron has a cellphone and takes a picture and posts it somewhere, my whole career could be over and, if someone comes in there with a fake ID and is underage, I could spend five years in jail and have to register as a sex offender. But, I could use this money to go back to college and get a real job.

Yes, I’m interested. Why would I be talking to you if I wasn’t interested? Interested but reluctant. You understand this. Maybe you could buy a jammer so I wouldn’t have to worry about it? Yeah, that is too expensive.

No damn security cameras anywhere near this place neither. I don’t want anyone knowing I was there. Mum’d the word, and if she’s there I’m definitely leaving. So, yeah, I’ll do the research, get this shit and be there. Also, is this a drag show? Oh, ok.

*

I parked my car and stared at the brick building. Typical red bricks, parking lot looks normal, normal cars. Everything seems normal, which is odd. I pop my trunk with the key, get out, get the bag out of the trunk, close everything and head in. Please, God, they’ll have independent handicapped bathrooms. I’m not handicapped. I just don’t want anyone to see me like this until I get inside. I brought a robe to wear until I get inside the . . . not sure what or where I’m going. Will there be signs : “Freak Clowns: Follow the Arrow”?

Then, I hear a familiar ding. I open the bag with the nonclown clothes in it, feel in my khakis pocket, and look at my IPhone. There’s a text message: “Meet us in the gymnasium, in costume”. Us. I forgot to ask how many people would be there. 20? 200? Doesn’t matter. Just disrobe to my crazy slashed clothes, perfume semi-naked, maybe have a good time. The reader doesn’t know if I have a boyfriend or a girlfriend or if I’m married or single and thank God. The less you know, the safer I am. Think of this as a slice of life.

So, I find the gym, try opening the doors, but they’re locked. Weird. It’s not April Fools’ Day. So, I knock and I hear another bing. I check the phone and the message says to say, “Suck Clown Sex”. I do and nothing happens. I wait a beat and say it louder. After four crescendos, someone lets me in. There’s a short person who looks like a woman with bare breasts painted in rainbows and bare nipples. She has on a diaper (not sure if it’s a costume or real) and asks if she can help me. I tell her I’m the clown for the clown sex party. She says I can’t enter until I ditch the bath robe so I do and put it in my bag (murse?) and enter.

There’s a bounce house, with different hued people bouncing, their breasts and penises bouncing. There’s a “slip n slide with technicolored water, and costumes like mine. Fake, red, round, noses. I ask where to perform and she says the performances or Clown Shows will be later. Just unwind and do shit you ain’t been allowed to do since toddlership. Have fun. Piss in the pools, fuck a random clown after asking, do whatever you want. Oh, and you’ll need a clown name for your name tag.