Page 15 of Body Language
I walked into the VIP room where the poker tables were already set up—green velvet, gold trim, and enough silence to hear your thoughts. Nobody else had been allowed in yet, which wasexactly how I wanted it. I needed the room to myself. Time to stretch. Time to breathe. Time to slip into another world, the one I always go to before I perform.
When I dance, I don’t just move. I escape. I have to because I’ve always loved dance. Specifically ballet.
It was one of the only things offered at my raggedy public school growing up, so I clung to it like my life depended on it. It became my peace, my prayer, my portal.
People used to say I was born to be a star. That I’d make it big one day. That I had the discipline, the lines, the stage presence.
And maybe I would’ve…But life had other plans. Bills don’t wait on auditions. And my siblings couldn’t raise themselves.
So, the pole became my Plan B that paid like Plan A.
Still movement. Still beautiful. Still me, just under different lights.
The room had a small stage tucked in the corner, but it was everything I needed.
One single pole standing tall under a spotlight. Elegant and intimidating, like it was watching me back.
I stepped closer, running my hand up the cool metal.
It wasn’t just a stage, it was where women like me turned survival into art.
Arlette told me to keep it classy, and that’s always been my preferred lane anyway.
I’ve never had to get naked to get paid. I sold fantasy. I sold control. I sold softness with boundaries. And I stayed booked.
I wore a nude leotard that hugged every curve like it was made for my melanin. Paired it with nude stiletto heels so sharp, they could slice a man’s intentions in half. Honestly, what’s better than nude on chocolate?
Glistening under the lights like God made me for that moment and whispered,“Take everything.”
I sat at the edge of the stage, took a deep breath, and began to stretch—slowly, deliberately, letting my muscles remember who the hell I was.
Not just a dancer.
Not just a sister.
Not just a hustler.
But a woman who could bend without breaking.
The lights were low enough to make my body glisten under the spotlight. I had already slipped into my flow, already disappeared into that headspace where nothing mattered but breath, movement, and control.
A soft R&B beat floated through the sound system. I hung from the pole by my ankle, slowly spinning, watching my world tilt and come back to center.
Men started filing in. They came in loud, like all men do when they’re trying too hard to make each other believe they’re not afraid to lose.
“Y’all already know I’m taking everything tonight,” one said, laughing as he clapped his friend on the back. “Whoever sits across from me? Just donate your stack now, ‘cause I’m feelin’ lucky as fuck.”
They kept talking, joking, flexing, slapping hands, and still found time to watch me.
I shifted into a superman hold, body extended out mid-air, heels slicing the air slow and deliberate.
I heard one of them mumble, “Damn, she's sexy as hell…”
I didn’t say a word. Just turned my head, locked eyes with him, then looked away like he never existed.I don’t talk when I dance. My body does all the speaking.
Another man chuckled. “Aight, she one of those. Don’t say anything. Just make you feel it.”
They kept watching, and I kept moving. Smooth, sensual, like I was made of syrup. Every swing, every hold, every grind down that pole.
