Let the Music Play

An exotic dancer having a godforsaken day can’t wait to escape to the quiet of home. Applying makeup eight times a day? No wonder we refused it off-stage, living in comfortable sweats and flip-flops. Back then, I practically wished for things, and they appeared: men, food, drink, clothing, cars—and drugs, for those who indulged. Friends? Never enough, but that never seemed to matter. I had everything.

You know, it’s not like I was some dancer in a smoke-filled room with drunken jerks ogling me, either. I was a fantastic dancer with all the God-given goods—these were the days before you could purchase them as add-ons from some catalog. With a thirty-eight, twenty-four, thirty-five list of measurements, I wasn’t Barbie proportions, but I was damned close. And I could dance like nobody’s business. In fact, I’d likely shut any competition down, and I worked hard to prove it. I’d never felt so alive!

One of my finest weeks was performing at the Las Vegas Stardust Casino. That memory will stay with me until my dying days. A black latex catsuit, dressed as Catwoman, in an intricately designed latex outfit. My stiletto heels did a whole lot more movement than any movie ever showed. Limber as a cat, I moved in ways that made people scratch their heads. And the whip? Oh, yes. That took months of practice. But this week, hunger and sleepless nights consumed me as I rehearsed relentlessly, perfecting every move for a competition against overa hundred performers from across the country—and Canada.

Truth be told, as good as I was, I can’t say I won. Then again, a lot of extraordinary dancers didn’t. Still, I was invited as one of two women from my state to compete. And, honestly, it probably wasn’t even me that grabbed their attention—it was the air-splitting crack of my leather whip.

The life wasn’t always lavishness and comfort. I worked my butt off and had danger to pay for it. Obsessed men. Those who tried to woo me into going home with them. One even wore a bizarre mask, refusing to take it off. I refused speaking unless he removed it—he left instead.

It was exhausting, dancing for six hours a night, whether I felt like it or not. But “not” was a rarity. Even after a shift, I’d go out clubbing, work out, and practice across my living room. Gyms weren’t my thing—I had enough men staring me down when I was getting paid for it. Like I said before, I deserved to be paid for it—not have some guy drool over me and then whack it in the parking lot for free.

Besides, I had a hard and fast rule: I never mixed my personal and professional life by dating customers. It wouldn’t work anyway. Like an actor, this was only a professional mask—not the real me.

Once, after being stood up for a date—a first—I vented my frustration over the front desk phone at work, my voice sharp enough to draw uncomfortable glances from patrons. By the time I returned to the stage, I was ready to pop like a toaster, I was so mad. The song, pulsing with a lover’s murderous vengeance, became my expressive outlet. Every move on the pole unleashed my simmering anger, a laser’s heat spreading through the room.

Clearly, this jerk had no idea who he was brushing off. I wasn’t just anyone—I was me: an accomplished and self-taught professional sex machine. Especially as a “look, but don’t touch” artist, he should have felt privileged I chose to spend my valuable and limited time with him. I gave him something no one else had—the unguarded, genuine me. Gorgeous, talented, and unforgettable. Passing me up wasn’t just rude; it was insanity.

Not everyone caught the vibe. Tonight, a client smirked, his lips curling with mockery, and he flicked a quarter onto the stage. His friends followed suit, laughing as the coins scattered around my feet like cheap confetti. By the time the bouncer threw them out, more than $5 in quarters littered the stage, reflecting the flashing lights. I’m just glad none of them struck me, but it added a whole new layer of pissed into the mix. My temperature rose under the dim lights, climbing to the height of explosion as my jaw flexed and I continued strutting.

Humiliated, I yanked my robe off the hook and stormed toward the steps, my glare chasing them with unmistakable disdain. As I stormed off the stage, a coin caught beneath the ball of my foot, stealing any traction I had. For a moment, I teetered on the edge before gravity pulled me from the stage, sending my forehead crashing onto an empty table. The verbose and colorful surroundings dissolved into a deep, silenced void—and then, nothing.

“Are you okay?”

The whispered panic sucks me back. The nearly silent hum of cars drifts through the park. Green grass ripples gently, trees burst with blossoms, and bees dance through the fragrant air. Lives overlap in a chaotic symphony of slang terminology surging through cell phones. I can’t hear my own thoughts as kids on electric unicycles and motorized scooters zip by.

Over the once peaceful lake, jets of water burst from beneath a younger generation’s feet, suspending them high in the air. With all this technology, you’d think people would care more. But they’re so self-absorbed, it turns my stomach.

“Grandma, are you okay?” she asks, concern etched in her voice as she gently pats my arm for attention.

Her face, so familiar, mirrors her mother’s.

“I’m going to get Mom. Stay right here. I’ll be right back. Don’t move,” she says firmly, punctuating her words with a “stay-put” motion of her hands.

Her tiny fingers rub my shoulder for a moment, her concern evident. Rising isn’t an option—I’d collapse if I tried—so I remain where I am, unmoving. She pulls something from her pocket—sleek AirPods—and places them in my ears. She pokes at her phone’s screen, and a familiar melody bursts to life.

Michael Jackson’s “Smooth Criminal.” My breath catches. It was one of my signature songs.

I silently bid farewell to my little poppy as she disappears beyond the teens, the parents pushing toddlers on swings, and frisbee-catching canines. She’s off to the restroom in search of her mother.

The corners of my mouth lift slightly as the cool outdoors dissolves into a darkened room. Pulsing lights and the staccato heartbeat of music course through my veins. My mind conjures the memory: the crisp white suit that hugged my body, the fedora pulled low over my eyes. My hair, tucked neatly under the brim, waited for its moment of release. The crowd’s cheers still echo as I see myself tear the hat away, letting my hair spill dramatically down my back. My stiletto heels refuse to stay still, the rhythm carved into my hips creating a sinuous sway as I grip the pole. With a powerful push, I spin across the stage in a flurry of exuberance.

With a flip of my lush blond tresses, my eyes emerge, framed by long glittering lashes that catch the stage lights. Young. Beautiful. Desirable. And ready for anything. My tongue glides across full crimson lips before my smile says it all.

Without a thought, I mutter, “How did I get here? I want to go home.” And I cry.