“Let me dance for you.”
She moves like a snake: smooth, sensual, elegant. She singles me out from the crowd. She always singles me out.
“You should smile more,” she says as she flips upside-down on the pole. To her, I am the lone patron.
She never stops smiling. She is my beacon of hope in a lighthouse of never-ending positivity, guiding wayward vessels astray from the rocks of foul deeds. I don’t know how she manages to stay so bright working for him.
Her glitter-covered body glows with an otherworldly quality, accentuating her already angelic features. She doesn’t even have to try to make me want her. I want to reach out and save her from this life; to take her far away from this city and live in a small cottage near some remote European village. I think she’d like Bulgaria; this country is too vulgar. She deserves better than this.
She slides down the pole until her hands touch the ground. A momentary handstand. She looks lighter than air as her legs slowly draw themselves to the floor, and with every inch of her smooth, naked legs, she casts a spell on her gaping-mouthed fans. She hooks her leg onto the pole and sails around, reaching for the crowd. Reaching for me. I can’t help but to reach out to her. Our fingers almost meet, they want to interlock; to caress; to hold; to save ourselves from relentless agony, but we both pull away. We are bound by rules, and cannot touch.
He abuses her because he believes it gives him power. She allows the abuse because of some debt she owes to him; a chosen ignorance blossoming from a sense of duty. I cannot help her; I am bound by rules.
Her skimpy top falls to the floor. She is straddling the pole, degrading herself with the greatest of confidence. She’s appears to be the happiest woman in the world, but she is miserable, maybe even suicidal. If she killed herself we could touch, just for a moment, but we could never be together.
She flips upside down again and spreads her legs wide. She teases me, and she loves it.
The song changes. She grinds down off the pole as the next girl comes out and starts dancing. She picks up her top and the money that has been thrown at her feet. A glance at me when she sees the twenty dollar bill I’ve set on the stage. Our eyes meet. My mind is flooded with visions of her past and future. I smile.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Sultry Goddess,” I cry out, “I want you forever and always to be mine. I’ll save you from this life; I’ll take you far away and you will never be sad again. I’ll erect monuments in your name and resurrect Michelangelo himself to sculpt the likeness of you a thousand times if only you’ll run away with me.”
She is gone with a smile, and the stage is dominated by a competent girl whose only fault is that she’s not her predecessor. My proclamation of unyielding love stayed on the edge of my tongue, where the rules say they belong. We are bound by rules, her and I, but mine are inescapable by even the greatest of escape artists. I’ll come back tomorrow to see her again, and that will have to be enough.
I’m out of cigarettes. I’ll search out the bum. “Bumming” a cigarette off a bum brings a smile to my face, which makes me think of her. She likes it when I smile.
- Disturbed Personas #4: profane cigarette (wordsandslurs.com)