Dance for Me(2)
I’m not an exhibitionist, but there are times like this that an almost overpowering need to push past my own limits threatens to consume me. It takes everything I have to pull back.
Rotating onto my stomach, I push up onto my knees, reach for the pole again, and pull myself up. With both hands, I lift myself from the floor and bring both of my legs up, swinging in a full circle. Bills flutter to the stage, and I feel my smile inch up, slow and seductive.
It is then that I feel Him.
I’d noticed Him my first night on the job about five months ago before I learned the importance of lighting. He stuck to the perimeter of the room, choosing the same table in the same dark corner every time. From what I could tell, he had long legs, he was tall and had dark, almost midnight hair. The air of importance that cloaked Him made me peg Him as a professional. Although he alternated between jeans and slacks, polos and button-downs, I remember thinking he looked like the kind of guy who should be wearing business suits—sharp, expensive, and tailored.
He isn’t a regular by any stretch, but he’s definitely a creature of habit. I’d only seen him a total of four times before I began plunging the room into darkness—and I’ve only felt his presence a handful since—but I never miss the short glass, two-fingers, neat. My stomach flutters remembering those dark, penetrating eyes focused solely on me, glued to my every move, every sway, reading my body like a book. I’d never been more turned on in my life than the day I laid eyes on him—a perfect stranger.
He is the reason I now perform under the cover of darkness. I know if I had to see those eyes watching me, I’d never make it through my performance without combusting.
Times like this, I wished for a private dance. A chance to get up close and personal with my mystery man, but not knowing only added to the experience.
Asking around about Him isn’t an option. I’ve made it a point not to get close to the personnel. This isn’t the type of place I want to make friends. I came to dance, make a quick buck, and go home. No, the people I choose to associate myself with are classy, intelligent, and would never be caught dead in a place like this. If anyone found out what I did for a living… I’m not sure what would happen, but I’m not willing to find out.
Sensing Him watching me, I feel a familiar thrill tickling my insides. True heat spreads through my limbs, pooling in my stomach and lower as I imagine those dark eyes. What is He thinking right now? Is He imagining me, like I’m imagining him, his hands on my hips, his hot mouth tasting my skin? Pressing my breasts to the pole, I draw my focus inward, silently devoting this dance to Him.
I’ve built up a lot of strength since I began dancing, and I use that power now to pull myself up the pole. Wrapping my legs around it, I lock my feet at the ankles and release my hands. Arching back, my body folds over, until I hang upside down with only my legs to hold me. With my long black hair sweeping the floor, the gentle curve of my throat exposed, and gravity drawing my breasts up to full, round mounds, the effect is nothing short of erotic. When I allow my hands to touch my fevered skin, I imagine they are his, and find myself hoping he is doing the same.
When the dance is over, I collect the cash and hurry off-stage just as the lights come up. Just before I duck through the curtains, I glance toward the corner. My breath is lost the instant those dark pools of black meet mine. My feet continue to carry me to safety, but I don’t miss the seductive curve of his lips, nor the promising wink he sends me.
TWO
I rap my knuckles on the door twice—two quick, rapid taps. It’s our signal. Sometimes, I pretend that this is a little game we play to keep the intimacy alive, but the reality of it is that the man behind the door is more concerned with secrecy. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to guess why.
I don’t know what possessed me to accept His invitation, but I’ve been coming here every second Thursday and every first Sunday for months, ever since he’d taken an interest in my routine. He knows nothing about me, and I know nothing about Him, except that he likes control, an occasional glass of scotch, and he fucks like a god.
If I had to explain it, it’d sound crazy. The truth is, I have no idea how I got here. It just happened one day, and it keeps happening. And I’m not inclined to stop anytime soon.
He could be married. He could have kids. He could be a drug smuggler. I have no way of knowing, but I know that the few hours I spend in his bed are some of the best, most exhilarating moments of my life. At least when I am old and gray, I’ll be able to say I had lived.
The door cracks open revealing nothing but darkness and I am sucked inside by a strong, unyielding arm. A squeak of excitement leaves me as I am whirled around and my back is slammed up against the door.