My father is mad, again.
"Kennedy, I'm not mad, it just upsets me," he says in a whisper, looking down at Jackie as if the little boy tugging at my hand cannot understand what he is saying if he lowers his voice into a serious tone. Jackie is an intelligent boy though. He can understand much more than a four year old should be able to, including the tension between two adults that he loves. He looks up at us with those sad blue eyes, just like his father's, and I wanted nothing more than to turn around, take him home, and spend the evening watching cartoons with him.
"You don't have to do this, you know? Your mother and I are here for you, so that you don't have to make the choices other girls in your position would make!" my father continued.
I sighed. Every favor was like this. They were a loving family, willing to help me, but making sure that they held their assistance over my every decision.
"Look, if it upsets you that much I can try to reschedule for a night when Cara is free and can watch him."
"No, no," he said, scooping my son into his arms, "Look, I am taking the little terror, aren't I? It wouldn't help to reschedule, just to cancel, forever."
I glared at my father and kissed Jackie on his smooth cheek, "I'll be home early," I promised him, "I wont leave you with mean old grandpa for any longer than I have to."
I ruffled Jackie's hair and turned to leave. The door clicked shut behind me and I sighed so deeply that the tears almost came again. My father had a way of doing that to me. All week I felt like a successful businesswoman, working hard and raising a brilliant son on my own, and then five minutes with my father and I felt as if my entire life was a mistake. I wondered when it had gotten like that. Of course, I didn't have to wonder long. I knew the exact moment that everything had changed. I made one mistake and I went from being daddy's little girl, a prized princess, to being an outcast who could do nothing right.
He was right to worry, I guess, considering my situation. My chosen profession was unconventional at best, and only going to school half-time meant that my college degree was still a long way off when my parents would have gladly allowed me to continue attending university full-time. My mother thought that being an exotic dancer and a single mother was completely cliché and refused to tell her friends what I did. Of course, she didn't fully understand what I did. I wasn't exactly an exotic dancer, most of the time. Most of the time I ran a fitness studio downtown. I had a few other instructors working underneath me, and my business was doing well. I, personally, taught a few sessions of yoga each week, and our main money-making class, "Pole-dancing for fitness."
I had one girl's only class that met twice a week, and a co-ed class that also met twice a week. My students varied in age and background, from young women who wanted to work at the local clubs to older wives who wanted to impress their husbands with a few new tricks and a slimmer, toned body. Some men came to leer at cute young ladies in spandex, but they usually only stayed for a single lesson and then realized that they would get a lot more for their money at the strip clubs. The few who returned were actually serious about their bodies and understood the art and commitment needed for pole dancing. My classes were well liked and generally full, and I wanted to keep them that way.
Every successful business owner knows that there are two key components to keeping customers. The first is a great product, which I had, and the second is targeted, innovative advertising. So, twice a month I went to different nightclubs and strip bars to show off my skills and make sure that I had a steady influx of cliental. I would go up on stage for a three-song set, have the dj make an announcement about my studio, and leave some business cards with the bouncers. Inevitable I would see one or two new faces in my class during the following weeks. Struggling dancers saw how much the crowd loved me and came in for some pointers. Girls who went to the club with their boyfriends realized that a "normal" girl could dance and decided to take lessons themselves. It was a great way to advertise.
"A great way to advertise," I reminded myself as I finished lacing up my patent leather knee-high boots. I didn't exactly enjoy the nightclubs. They felt a bit sleazy to me. I felt exposed in the thong and short skirt that I wore, and even though I never took my bikini top off, it still felt as if I was exposing too much of myself. I missed my black bootie shorts and full pink sports top that I wore for class. I missed the tightness of my demure bun. My hair falling all around my face felt very unprofessional, even though the crowd seemed to like it better.
I heard the dj announce me and saw the girl before me collect her tips and leave the stage. I couldn't imagine being her every night.
"Tough crowd," I commented, nodding towards the few dollars that she held. She just rolled her eyes and walked past me, bumping my shoulder harder than necessary. Not all of the dancers liked me. As I mounted the stairs to the stage I could understand why.
I stepped into the light and was greeted by a room filled with catcalls and hollering. My reception was much warmer than most of the other girls'. The regulars knew me, and every time I came in they plied me with adoration and tips, trying desperately to get me to flash a breast or give them a private dance. They knew that I never would; it was just a game that we played.
My music started and I began my routine. I could afford to be much more energetic than the usual dancers. I didn't have to conserve my energy for eight routines four nights a week, and lap dances in between. This was a one-shot deal, and because of that I was able to give it everything that I had. My face beamed, my muscles tensed, and my body slowly lit on fire.
I teased a little first, dancing to a corner of the stage and then the other, knowing full well what the audience expected, and what I was there for. I walked back to the mirror, held on to the ballet bar, and fell gracefully into a split. I tumbled forward out of them, up onto my front foot, continuing onto my hands, and allowed my ankles to finally fall against the pole in the center of the stage. The crowd cheered and dollars flew and I remembered that I actually did like the attention a little bit, even if I rarely admitted it.
I continued my ascent onto the pole, prepared to work it solidly for the next two songs. I wondered what men thought when they saw a beautiful woman on a pole. Did they imagine the softness of her entire body wrapping and folding, wiggling and squirming, around their erect penis? Or were they admiring her athleticism and endurance and thinking of all the ways that they could bend and flip her in bed? I had never asked. Perhaps one day I would.
My feet touched the ceiling and my head hung down and I let myself descend back towards the floor. My hands reached out to stop my descent and my legs opened into another split, the crack of my ass opening behind the pole. It was there, stalled in that awkward position, that I first felt it.
Someone was staring at me.
It was an absurd thing to feel when there was an entire room staring at me, but I felt it nonetheless. Someone was staring at me, quite differently than they usually did. Someone was staring at me and seeing not a beautiful dancer, but me. I felt myself blushing. I hadn't done that on stage in over a year. I curled my knee around the pole, lifted myself up to a standing position, and tried to see who it was. They had turned the stage lights on bright, a common request of mine, and I could not see very easily into the audience. My face fell for just a second, and my body slid to a brief pause. I squinted out into the darkness but could only make out shapes of bodies, not faces.
I continued dancing, knowing that there was someone who knew me very well in the audience. I could feel their eyes on me, appreciating every spin and caressing every curve of mine. I couldn't help but play to their eyes, just a bit. My dance turned slower and sultrier. I usually showcased my athleticism and tricks, not the sexiness of my young, hard body. This dance was different though. I slipped down from the pole, onto the floor, and found myself briefly opening my legs to whoever was watching me. My nipples grew hard until they were standing at attention beneath the thin fabric that held them. My pussy grew damp and began to throb. I eased its ache by allowing it to brush, unnecessarily, against the pole as I mounted it. I ground against the pole, floating up and down it, basking in this strange sense of exhibitionism, and then, just as suddenly as it had started, the sensation was gone.
My eyes snapped open, wide and aware once again, and energy sprang back into my dance. I gave a few final flourishing moves as my song ended and the crowd erupted with whistles. I didn't bother to pick up any of their money as I left the stage. It was my habit to leave it for whatever poor dancer had to follow me and actually work that evening.
I changed quickly in the dressing room, wiped the caked make-up from my face, and put my hair up into a familiar ponytail. On the way out of the club I stopped at the bar to talk with the manager.
"That was fantastic Kennedy," he said, giving me a brief hug, "I think we still might make a dancer out of you yet."
"In your dreams, Michael," I said, kissing him briefly on the cheek.
