CHAPTER THREE
*Lace*
When Reece was born, I made it a goal to never bring her inside Tit for Tat. Once you cross the threshold of these doors, the lifestyle takes hold of you — consumes and never lets go. Seems everything that happens in life is a product of fate, though, no matter how often I try to convince myself otherwise. So here I am, doing exactly what I tried so hard to avoid.
A sense of déjà vu hits me hard as Reece reaches forward and slaps at one of the many buttons on the DJ controller. Same thing, different timeline. More advanced tech. I was once the baby on the hip of a stripper. Mom was the desperate dancer who had no other choice but to tote me along.
My knees have swept these floors for more years than I care to admit, and even though I managed to finally find a way out for a short time during my high school years, I still came crawling back. No matter what I do or where I go, the stage and pole beckon. Dancing for others feeds my belly, but dancing for myself feeds my soul.
While I attempt setting up the special software laptop one-handed, Reece continues writhing in my opposite arm, trying to play whack-a-mole with as many knobs and buttons as possible. “Damn, sis. You need to take a chill pill.”
Nerves frayed and pulse pounding, a ‘chill pill’ sounds pretty tempting right now. “Let there be light,” I announce dramatically, flicking and pressing all the appropriate thingamajigs.
Reece turns still as a board, instantly hypnotized, giving me the small window of peace I need to select and rearrange my playlist, collect the remote, and leave the booth. If she is absolutely anything like her big sister, as soon as the dancing starts, Reece will be enamored. Just in case, though, on the way to the couch, I collect a few treasures for her to play with: a pair of wireless headphones, a coaster, and a clean plastic ashtray.
Of course, in classic toddler fashion, she wants the one thing I keep in my hand — the remote. “Nice try. I need something to play with too, ya know.” Lips curled to the side, I swipe up the bulky headphones, place them over her head, and chuckle when the cups completely engulf her chubby face. “Think you can stay put?” I coo, running my finger over her plump cheek.
Reece ignores me, one of the headphone cups now in her mouth. Her eyes blink slowly at the flashing and rotating lights, little body bouncing lightly to the low background music. I turn around, ascend the steps to the main stage, and grab the cleaning supplies at the top. Puffing out a breath to blow away the messy strands falling loose from my unkempt bun, my gaze catches on my image in the wavy mirror as I shine the seasoned chrome, first the secondary one at the back of the main stage, then the primary one. Scratches and dull spots from years of use manipulate the visual on each; looking back at me is this hideously tattered and scarred version of myself — a reflection that perfectly represents how I feel deep inside right now.
Teeth clenched, I toss the spray bottle and rag toward the edge of the stage, close my mascara-stained eyes, and start rolling my neck in slow, rhythmic circles. By the time I switch directions, my tense jaw is looser, my pulse has slowed considerably, and I am ready to open my eyes to the reality surrounding me again.
Reece is no longer upright; her body now rests against the back of the couch. She has switched from gumming the cushiony ear cup to playing with the plastic ashtray, tiny fingers exploring each little groove. Her big blinks slow even more than before. With each one, I breathe a little easier, knowing she is moments away from dreamland.
The first song ends, and a new one fades in, changing the mood from upbeat to seductive. Perfect for warming up. I shake out the remaining tremble in my hands, bring my cool fingers to the clasp of the dangling necklace around my neck, and begin the process of getting comfortable.
After the jewelry comes off, so do the borrowed leather belt and blouse. Though the makeshift dress is classy and sexy, its smooth silk will hinder my grip points. While dancing away my reality, I want nothing in the way.
I want to feel: The burn and bruise of metal against my skin. The layer of grime that will coat the bottom of my bare feet from every walk and pivot. The music. The emotion. The pain — inside and out.
Satisfied with dancing in my black, lace crop top and matching cheeky, tanga-style thong, I turn up the volume and place the remote along with everything else in a small bundle near the cleaning stuff before returning to the pole closest to Reece and beginning my traditional warm-up. By the time I get to my wrists and fingers, spiraling my hands in a fan motion, Reece notices something is up, and her focus rivets on me. No stranger to being watched, I toss her a wink, ease onto my knees, and start isolating my torso, arching and curving my back in waves with the sensual rhythm.
The song, my movements, and each breath become one. Knowing how much I tend to lose myself while dancing alone, I take care to make sure every joint and muscle gets attention.
This time when Reece blinks, her lashes give one final flutter, and her heavy eyes stay closed. The environmental stimulation overwhelmed her straight to sleep as I hoped it would. Just in time, the song I picked for my purge starts, cueing me with the brief piano instrumental.
Keeping low on the pole, I start with some basic floor work, moving fluidly into a few poses for the intro before thrusting up and wedging the cool metal between my hip and thigh to support me while hanging upside down, fingertips grazing the stage. In the next breath, I clench my stomach tightly, draw myself back upright, and ascend the pole.
The first lyrics hit and crush my soul a lot harder than expected; the artist croons out, “You don’t own me,” parroting the desperate plea in my soul. I release my hand to let my upper body fall, putting all trust into my lower body grip, before rolling to sit at the base with my leg extended. Hitting with the beat, I bound up, swirl around, arch my back against the pole, and slide down slowly, shoulder dragging against the cool metal.
A male solo part begins and the energy shifts. I crawl from the secondary pole to the main one and do a complex series of back-to-back trick variations, ending with my body in a ball once more. This time, I linger there for a moment, hugging myself, before letting go and using my stomach and thighs as grip points for another slow, hands-free spin to the ground just in time for the female part again. “I’m free, and I love to be free.”
By the time my side hits the gritty floor, tears are streaming down my cheeks. Even though the multi-colored lights have turned into a watercolor through my blurry vision, in that short moment of recovery, faint movement in the farthest, darkest corner of the room still captures my attention.
My tears morph from a soothing balm to a fiery burn. Aflame on the inside, I fan kick out of the weak pose and roll across the floor. In a low and wide squat, I move my body side to side, mimicking my mental game of tug of war, one arm extending elegantly to the side before switching and doing the same with the opposite arm. Whoever is here, encroaching on my privacy, will pay. Fuck the contract; I have had enough.
With a forward split roll, I return to the secondary pole, fold over into myself, grip the pole on the forward motion, and roll my body back to standing. As soon as the crescendo approaches, I twist myself around the pole and aggressively break into a series of rapid-fire spins.
Pirouette.
Knee hook.
Inversion into a Reiko that I cling to before slowing down to pose in several different holds every time she says, “You don’t own me,” making sure I transition seamlessly between each one.
Hip hold tuck.
Meathook split.
Meridian.
Russian layback.
The harder, the more painful, the better.
When the last, “You don’t own me,” strikes, I ease down the pole in a back arch, shoulder and wet cheek pressed to the chrome as the music dies.