Authors note: Play Angel by Massive Attack

Leather, Tobacco, Sin. It clings to those purple seats, the red booths, the tall pleasers kissing the ombre ochre floors passing by in little skimpy wear. Bottle service girls walking through the midsts of the neon lit club; filling the choked walking space. Each round directed into several directions where the young, the old, the grinding, dancing, the exploring and or just those of affluent nature pour the champagne down their silver and gold watches and flash their phone cameras against them.

“I don’t understand why I dance anymore”

The murmur proceeds from your stained red lips to none in particular, as you glide around the pole, form slicked with palpable dampness and occasionally brushing the money beneath your pleasers. Hand clutched tight on the cool metal.
Breathing labored and your heart fashioned against your ribs, fifties are tucked into the triangular lace so skinny you doubted the other girls that helped you into it lied about the tape. Backed from the podium are the customers, eyeing you with want in their eyes as though they think you’re doing the same, but it’s just your job.

Lift. legs dive in the air and your hair sure to kiss the ground as you twirl, the pink lights close to blinding along with the bass of music in your ears. You clasp your thighs clasp tight around the cool thing.

A minuscule red glint fills your vision, as you pass your body circling the air. Your thighs clench. Well hidden in that booth on the left, where you catch it suddenly. It’s shrouded by a thick velvet, the door momentarily opened by one of the exiting girls. Something uncanny. Possibly untouchable. Strongly animalistic; the hairs at the back of your swaying hair stand at attention as the red glints for a moment to an orange before the door shuts. Your twirl stutters as you bound down, palms pulsing with sweat when the customers dilute out of your vision, it didn’t feel as if you were dancing for them anymore, but for it. For him.