Page 23 of Body Language
We picked the two closest men and pulled them onto the stage. Flat on their backs. We swung a leg over each one and loweredslowly, making it look like we were riding their faces while keeping the rhythm locked in.
I didn’t blink. I didn’t break. I kept my eyes on him.
And that’s when he smiled. Slow and dangerous like he’d just been claimed.
But I wasn’t done. Not yet.
The pole was my weapon, so I climbed. Body tight, arms firm, thighs locked. And then I did the Pegasus. One of my signature variations.
Upside down, one leg split and pointed toward the ceiling like I was about to take off midair. The other leg bent sharp, flexed just behind the pole, holding me like a damn bird in flight.
But I didn’t stop there. I added the a slow, body-controlled grind mid-air, while I arched my back and threw my head so far back, it looked like a surrender.
Every angle was divine. Sweat glistened like honey on my skin, and the crowd was screaming like a church altar call.
And he straightened his spine like he’d just seen something biblical.
Then I stood without using my hands and I looked at him one last time. Dead in his eyes. He was still leaned forward, staring like I had him in a trance. He licked his lips again, like he was starving and I was the only thing on the menu.
I gave him a small smirk, turned around, and walked off stage with my hips swaying like they had their own agenda.
I didn’t look back because I didn’t need to.
He was already mine and as I disappeared behind the curtain, I thought to myself:
“That’s how you get a man to beg for your energy without opening your mouth, or your legs. Just move like you know he doesn’t deserve a damn piece of you… but he might earn the fantasy.”
Our dressing room was quiet with just the low hum of the music from the main floor fading into the walls. Ty was halfway out her outfit, one stiletto kicked to the corner and the other still on like she couldn’t decide if she was clocked out or not.
“Bitch,” she said, flopping into the chair with the most dramatic sigh, “we just made this club ours, bitch.”
I laughed, taking off my bodysuit, letting the soft cotton of my sweatsuit touch my skin. “Hell yeah. That pole still smoking.”
Ty grabbed a makeup wipe and cleaned her face. “One of them ballers I gave a private dance to asked if I like seafood. I told him I’m allergic to bullshit, but I might let him take me out for shrimp anyway.”
I looked up from my bag, squinting. “Ain’t nothing good open this time of night but Waffle House and legs. Tell him to wait until tomorrow to see just how bad he want it.”
Ty tossed the wipe in the trash. “You right. But maybe I did want my legs open. I mean, they was already stretched out earlier on the stage.”
We both hollered, and Arlette busted in holding two fat bags of money like Santa Claus, if he only sent gifts in fives, tens, and sweaty hundred-dollar bills.
“Okay!” she said, face glowing. “Y’all did that shit.”
She dropped one bag in front of me, the other in front of Ty, and stepped back like she was giving offerings at the church.
“That’s y’all cut. Y’all made the night what it was. The crowd is still talking. I ain’t gonna hold you, this place wouldn’t have hit like it did without you two. So… what I’m sayin’ is…”
She paused.
“Come work for me.”
Ty and I looked at each other. She raised one brow, smirked, and said, “Bout damn time you asked.”
She laughed, tossing her hair. “I got both of your numbers. This was the soft opening, but we’ll do the grand openingfor real, for realin a few days. I’ll be in touch. Just keep practicing your sets… or don’t. Hell, y’all already perfect.”
She turned and left.
Ty stood up and stretched. “You gonna tell our old club‘Her Majesty’we leveled up?”
