Dance for the Broen

Sometimes there are dances that we do, not for the public but for ourselves. It began in Russia, my home country. We would begin the night dancing for the crowds, dancing for those men with their hands in their pockets and their gaping maws, thrusting the zloty into the ridiculously brief costumes we would wear.

True sexuality comes not from a red sequined g-string and a few moves that simulate the sexual act against some shining pole that still carries the scent of the other dancers that work the club. All to the pulsing, throbbing music that sends liquid honey through the veins. It comes from within.

Before we dance for each other, we bathe. Perhaps it is a reaction to that sweat, that stink, that stench that remains in the nostrils hours after we finish a show. It invades the skin and the odour of spent desire remains in our hair, though we have not allowed anyone to cum on us. It did not matter though.

We bathe in pairs. Do not misunderstand, we are not lesbian. But we touch each other, a gentle contrast to the rough handling from the men we have had touch us again and again.

The bath begins on a small wooden stool. A bowl with warm rosewater is made ready. Candles and lanterns pattern the room with shifting shadows and pools of light.

The sponge is dipped into the water and placed against the back of my neck and squeezed. The water sluices down the satiny smooth golden skin, trickling down my buttocks and dripping onto the floor. Slender strands of hair soak with water, while the rest is pinned atop my head.

Another dip of the sponge and this one smoothes over my shoulders and down one arm to my fingertips. The faint scratchiness inevitably causes the rosebud tips of my breasts to peak. The sensation is indescribable.

The sponge traces across the tanned skin of my breasts, a tantalizing dip and swirl over each sensitized mound. My skin shines in the glow of the candlelight. A kiss is placed on my shoulder with gentle lips as the sponge traces the other arm, cleansing it. Those lips drift up to my neck, a delicate tongue tracing the soft skin.

I do not respond. There is no need to. I just draw comfort and a slow arousal from it. The sponge is drawn across my belly and down my legs to my toes. Dancer's legs, slender and toned, the nails clear of the bright red nail polish that matches my 'uniform'. The rough sponge is drawn up my inner thighs, the sensations plucking at my core. The lips still do wonderful things to my neck. And with that, the bath ends with no protest. What is given is gratefully received, but more cannot be asked.

I am dried with a soft cotton towel. I need not lift a finger to help, and next comes the perfumed oil. The scent is reminiscent of jasmine. Strong fingers rub the tension from my shoulders with sensual strokes, sending tremors of awareness through my blood.

The fingers smooth the slick fluid over my breasts, tracing over my nipples, teasing gently. The sheen on my skin makes it glow copper in the candlelight. Lips replace the fingers, kissing briefly, while the fingers splay across my belly, smoothing more oil across the flat plane. Oiled fingertips slide into the thin stripe of curls covering my groin, moving in a breath stealing motion. My eyes are closed through the entire ritual – not from disgust, but to use every other part of my body to enjoy the sensations – the smell, the taste, the sound, the feel. The eyes can be deceived, mocked...but one cannot make a fool of the skin and the gentleness of the touch of another woman.

For a moment, those lips rest on mine, tenderly kissing me. No thrusting tongue, or clash of teeth, just a careful tasting. Our tongues flow together, a mating dance that is slow and thoughtful, testing each other out. There is no sense of should and should not, there is only the moment. The hands smooth more oil down my legs as she kneels between them and her face in the light is exquisite.

She rises before me, her form lightly clad in nothing more than a white silk shift, made transparent by pressing against my damp body and again I need do nothing as my dancing garb is brought in. Of azure silk, the garment is richly jeweled, and hides more than it shows. But ah, such is true sensuality. A real dancer does not need to flash her breasts and her mound to arouse others. She uses her eyes, her limbs, her soul.

The flowing skirt clasps at my waist, the sapphire jeweled belt a match for my eyes. The fingers smooth the silken bodice over my breasts and tie it behind my neck. The areola are peaked and visible behind the sheer cloth.

My fingers are clasped firmly in hers, as she leads me to the front room. Here the tables are cleared to one side, the floors clean and swept. All the lights are out. Like the bathing room, the front room has only firelight to illuminate it – candles and lanterns by the hundreds.

An indulgence the owners know to allow. There are no men here, none are ever invited.

The music is not the strident rhythm of the strip club, but it holds elements of similarity. Someone plays the drums. The driving beat that sends shivers of heat through the veins, overlaid by a sensual melody wrought by a flute that asks the body to move, not in a superficial parody of sex, with thrusting hips and shaken breasts, but in a more earthy manner – a story told by limbs, by eyes not deadened by experience and by a come-hither flick of the hips.

And so I dance. For these women, for my sisters and what they mean to me. For the memory of what we once were, for the celebration of who we are and to forget what we do. The drum beat hits me low in my gut and spreads throughout my groin, my hips move of their own volition. The harmonies ask my arms to move, and they create a dance of their own, light and flowing.

My bathing partner joins me. Sometimes this happens, but it is not frowned on, or even commented on. Her hands slide down my arms and her fingers merge with mine. Our bodies close the distance between them, and we move, hip to hip, breast to breast. There are other women in the room, and some of them sit with their arms around each other. Light caresses. A touch here, a kiss there. None here find other women their true desire...but this catharsis, this desire to remove what we know each day can only be done by one who understands.

And the beat. Those drums..pounding, pounding, pounding...writhing their sensuous way through my gut, tapping an insistent rhythm on my clit, peaking my nipples and drawing the flush of arousal to my cheek.

Fingertips lightly memorise the curve of a waist, a buttock, a breast. The music plays on, a heady sound. My mind that tells me numbers and facts and 'don't do this!' or 'don't do that' is far, far away. Her lips, they meet mine for a butterfly kiss, no demand...no pressure. No 'tick tick tick'...hurry up, your next customer is waiting. We have all the time in the world and we take it. Music washing over us, exhorting us...tantalizing us.

My bathing partner skims her way down my body, tracing kisses through the sheer cloth. Her hands smooth up the firm skin of my thighs. My muscles arch and strain, moving, constantly moving, like the silk that covers my body. My head drops back, the silken curtain of my hair brushing the bared flesh of my back and my eyes drift shut, enjoying the sheer weight of pleasure that courses my being. Her fingers find the very center of me and a sigh escapes my lips as she delves deep. I can feel all eyes upon us.

There is a new element tonight. One which I had been aware of, I had talked about it with her. But that beat, that driving rhythm...it made me forget. So when I saw her, my eyes widened in shock. She was clad in white also, they all were. Only the dancer ever wore colour – it was an unwritten rule. But unlike the others she was wearing something else...

I felt its touch as she came up behind me, a contrast between the hardness of it and the softness of her breasts as she embraced me, her hands caressing my barely clothed torso. The soft exhalation that follows this unusual sensation is taken by the lips of my bathing companion, her fingers still at work, the lightest of touches. My eyes drift shut.

Women are naturally instinctual at making love to other women. They understand the nuances of pressure, of what feels good, what hurts...what hurts so that it feels good. But there is no pain here, only the heady sensation of arousal. And whereas a man might thrust, even the gentlest of men, and unwittingly cause pain, a women understands slow, steady, allowing for adjustment, understanding that deeper is not always better. The hardness pressing into my buttocks is adjusted so that now it hovers at my nether lips. There is no dancing now. This is a different kind of dance. A healing dance.

My stance adjusts to allow room, and my bathing companion supports me. Her lips trace my neck, her fingers delving into my hair, drawing me close. The woman behind me rests her body against mine and I am surrounded by softness, a comfort, a sensation not possible with the planes of the male body, all angles and hard edges. The only hardness is that which is slowly pressing inch by heart-stopping inch into me.

And at the point where pain is normally caused, she stops, withdraws, and thrusts again. I open my eyes, the lids slumberous and heavy. Many of my sisters now caress each other openly and I watch them. There is a heat in the room that cannot be attributed to flame alone. There is no judgment here, no shame. No 'why can't my breasts be larger?' or 'why can't my legs be longer?'. There is just the passion.

My bathing companion was whispering to me, I realized. She alternated between tracing the shell pink curve of my ear with her tongue and speaking in that husky voice that drove another spike of desire into my groin. My breath was coming sharp and fast now.

With the arousal that hard started with the bath, it was not long before I clenched around the hardness within in an orgasm that crashed around me, blowing away my thoughts like autumn leaves. I was supported between the two women and they held me firmly.

A bubbling laugh erupts from my lips, the first sound heard in the room. And this is some sort of signal.

Once more we are but strippers, dancing for the dollar bills thrust into our panties by sweating men. But somehow, after a night like tonight, it does not seem to matter so much.

I am given a hug by my bathing companion, and a sisterly kiss on the lips. The other woman embraces me from behind. There is no hardness now, it has been removed from me, and from her. The other women rise from their prone positions, some hug me, others touch my arm as we drift away. Some of the women will enjoy each other's company this night and return on the morrow for another days work.

As for me?

Perhaps I did. But it isn't really that important is it?