I have to believe that. It’s the only way to keep going.
And then I’m backstage, waiting. Trapped. The opposite of free.
I stand behind the curtains. Twenty years ago this area would be filled with stagehands and costume designers and performers waiting for their cue. But now there’s just me, shivering in the draft from the air-conditioning as the final strains of music fade away.
Candy slips back, skin shining with sweat and glitter, smelling of booze and cherries. She’s the prettiest girl here, except for the track marks on her arms. Except for the black eyes she has too often, ones she skillfully covers with makeup.
The opening notes of my song start playing.
“Depressing,” she tells me as she straightens the straps of my bra.
She’s never been a fan of my song selection. Apparently, blues is a downer.
“It has a good beat,” I say even though she’s right. Of course she is. She definitely earns the most of anyone here, and Lola earns more than me too. But if I can’t dance classical, I’ll at least pick something I want to hear.
She laughs. “A good beat? You still think this is about dancing.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. She has that effect on people, with her slutty schoolgirl outfit and pigtails. With her bubblegum-pop songs that she strips to. Branding, she calls it.
“What’s it about then?”
“About fucking, of course.” Then she’s gone down the hallway, heading toward the dressing room.
My smile falters as I stare after her. What’s more depressing than fucking?
I manage to push through the curtain only one beat after my cue. Not that anyone here would notice. Like she said, it’s about fucking. About being naked and for sale. Not about dancing. So I drop one foot in front of the other, making my hips pop with each step. A black satin bra. Panties made of black ribbon. It’s dark and sexy—and obvious. That’s fine with me. I’d rather be forgettable. I wish I could forget.
In the first moments onstage, I’m always blinded.
The bright lights, the smoke. The wall of sound that feels almost tangible, as if it’s trying to keep me out, push me back, protect me from what’s going to happen next. I’m used to the dancing and the catcalls and the reaching, grabbing hands—as much as I can be. But I’m never quite used to this moment, being blinded, feeling small.
I reach for the pole and find it, swinging my body around so the gauzy scrap of fabric flies up, giving the men near the stage a view of my ass. I still can’t quite make anything out. There are dark spots in my vision.
The smile’s not even a lie, not really. It’s a prop, like the four-inch heels and the wings that snap as I drop them to the stage.
Broken.
A few people clap from the back.
Now all that’s left is the thin satin fabric. I grip the pole and head into my routine, wrapping around, sliding off, and starting all over again. I lose myself in the physicality of it, going into the zone as if I were running a marathon. This is the best part, reveling in the burn of my muscles, the slide of the metal pole against my skin and the cold, angry rhythm of the song. It’s not like ballet, but it’s still a routine. Something solid, when very few things in my life are solid.
I finish on the pole and begin to work the stage, moving around so I can collect tips. I can see again, just barely, making out shadowy silhouettes in the chairs.
Not many.
There’s a regular on one side. I recognize him. Charlie. He tosses a five-dollar bill on the stage, and I bend down long and slow to pick it up. He gets a wink and a shimmy for his donation. As I’m straightening, I spot another man on the other side of the stage.
His posture is slouched, one leg kicked out, the other under his chair, but somehow I can tell he isn’t really relaxed. There’s tension in the long lines of his body. There’s power.
And that makes me nervous.
I spin away and shake my shit for the opposite side of the room, even though there’s barely anyone there. It’s only a matter of time before I need to face him again. But I don’t need to look at him. They don’t pay me to look them in the eye.
Still I can’t help but notice his leather boots and padded jacket. Did he ride a motorcycle? It seems like that kind of leather, the tough kind. Meant to withstand weather. Meant to protect the body from impact.
The song’s coming to a close, my routine is coming to an end and I’m glad about that. Something about this guy is throwing me off. Nothing noticeable. My feet and hands and knowing smile still land everywhere they need to. Muscle memory and all that. But I don’t like the way he watches me.
There’s patience in the way he watches me. And patience implies waiting.