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And why am I speaking in plural?
Is this a sign of lunacy?
It wouldn’t be the first.
I pout my lips at the mirror, add another dab of lipstick. I’m practically a caricature of a woman like this, my eyes made huge with makeup and long fake lashes, my tiny dress accentuating my figure.
I wonder how men find it arousing.
Then again, they don’t get to touch me, and mainly see me dancing on stage. I’m a showgirl, I’m here to play a role, and that’s all there is to it. I don’t hate it. Dressing up even helps me go through the motions because it’s as if it’s not me on that stage but a character in a story.
A story not my own.
A story I’m reading, observing from afar.
When nobody touches me, I can maintain that illusion. Let’s hope tonight is one of those nights where I can play my role without interruptions from reality.
Climbing onto the stage, I keep my eyes on the toes of my shoes and the steps, then I fix my gaze on the pole. I know from experience that glancing around at the customers sitting at their tables, waiting for the show to start, will only make me more nervous.
The ones sitting front row, on the tip rail, usually expect lap dances and extras. The VIPs of the club. Its princes and princesses, because not to forget, not only men seek us out. It’s generally an alpha haunt, but sometimes rich betas and omegas also join the ranks of pleasure seekers.
Personally, seeing without being allowed to touch would never do it for me, but the more money you can wave around, the more touching you’re allowed. Special rules and all.
Which is why I hate the tip rail and am scared of those people with enough money to break the rules.
I signal Meera and my chosen song plays over the speakers. I can’t choose just any song, of course. It needs to be approved by Meera who runs this show. She is in charge of our personals, costumes, dancing and music. She’s like our pimp, DJ, trainer and shrink in one. It’s to her we go with any issue or question.
The song starts. It’s Stars and Roses, by one of my favorite rock bands, The Fugues, and the beat starts strong, echoing inside my bones. I let it seep into me as I sidle up to the pole, swaying my hips, getting into the rhythm. I swing my head right and left as I strut around the pole, letting the lyrics pierce me.
‘You said let me in, let me in, but every smile I wore is now broken,
Faking fine, faking fine, I try to breathe, but the air is too thin
I’m haunted…’
A drumroll, the singer wails into the microphone, and I grab the pole, swinging onto it, wrapping one leg around it, sweeping my arm out, fingers outstretched.
I grin, feeling a little mad, like the Joker, or like Harley Quinn, but shorter and with better makeup.
A poison doll.
Thankfully, the customers can’t read my thoughts as I now grab the pole with both hands and hook a leg around it, gyrating. I let my head drop back, open my arms, using only my leg muscles to keep myself on the pole.
It’s tempting to lose myself in the dance, get lost inside my head and dance for myself only, but the boss will be mad. I need to dance for the customers, play up the sexy angle.
Meera taught me all that. Gone is the wide-eyed innocent who landed upon these seedy shores. Now I grin wider as I climb up the pole and lean back. I turn as I spiral, giving the customers a good look at my cleavage, flashing them my black lacy panties.
Look but don’t touch. That’s the idea.
Fantasize about me but remember you can’t have me.
I don’t turn tricks. I’m only here for your viewing pleasure. And that pleasure should be enough.
‘You said, let me in, let me in, but in the shadows of my mind anxiety creeps,
We weren’t meant to be together, not forever,
Lost in a maze…’
