What Gets Reflected in a Mirror Ball
Smack!
“Back straight.”
The little dancer straightened her back immediately, trying not to focus on the sharp pain from the ruler that had left a hot mark on her shoulders.
“Tendu, into fifth position.” The choreographer, who looked suspiciously like an adult version of the little dancer, stood in front of her five students, watching them carefully. She had on a black cap-sleeve leotard, a burgundy ballet wrap skirt and was barefoot. Her mini twists were pinned up into a bun, and despite the softness of her appearance, she cut an intimidating figure.
Smack! Smack! Smack!
One of the boys had leaned into the barre (two smacks!), and a girl had slid into the fifth position clumsily.
Then the choreographer’s eyes fell on the little dancer, and rested coolly at her feet.
Ugh, what now? The little dancer stiffened, as she realized what. Her arms were in position five, her feet were in four.
She opened her mouth to protest as the choreographer glided towards her.
*
The dancer scanned the floor, it wasn’t super crowded but there were more guests than usual for a Thursday night. As she stepped onto the floor, she made eye contact with a man entering on the opposite side of the large, dimly lit room.
Hmmm. She sauntered across the room, toward him, without breaking eye contact. He was a recent regular to the club; for the past few months he had come in almost every Saturday.
The dancer had never interacted with him directly before. She had, however, heard from other dancers that he was a generous tipper and apparently had a big dick.
She stood in front of the patron, and put her hand on her hip.
“It looks like you’ve got time on your hands,” she stopped herself from looking at the rack he was holding.
He arched an eyebrow, appraising her. “I’ll take a lap dance.”
Naturally, he meant VIP.
The champagne room had a love seat, low pink lighting, a mini bar and a mirror ball in the ceiling that the dancer turned on as they stepped inside. It spun gently, scattering pink shards of light all over the room.
“Are you having a drink?” she asked, turning toward the bar.
“Not yet,” the patron sat down. “No music, barefoot.”
She turned back to him. Oh so we’re raw dogging it, She kept the joke to herself and gave him a feline smile, slowly unzipping her thigh high boots.
She sighed inwardly. It was a week night, so she was simply dressed compared to Friday through the weekend. She was wearing a black oil slick micro bikini, her black patent thigh high boots had a peep toe, an exposed heel, and were 7 inches tall, making her over six feet. The boots were essential to the look. But not essential to dance.
The patron was leaning back on the love seat, racks in hand. She started to dance.
He was watching her carefully, studying her movements. The dancer undulated. The patron traced her with his eyes; he could hear exactly what song was playing in her mind.
She slid back off the couch and bent over, rolling her hips backward, just grazing the tip of the patron’s nose with the her barely covered vulva. He inhaled deeply. There was a sizeable tent in his pants.
She didn’t do extras, but she wanted to see it. She licked her lips, imagining, was it curved, it was definitely thick. Was it cut? Maybe it w—she faltered a second, mid wine. He hadn’t tipped once yet.
She paused, looking back at his hand gripping the money. He saw where her eyes had drifted, and smirked. “Keep going, you’re not touching any of this.”
Time froze. Huh?
The dancer’s heart rate doubled. Her mouth formed the words “You owe me money,” but she couldn’t hear herself say them.
The patron smiled, his eyes glittering with pink light and wicked mirth. He leaned into her ear, “I’m not giving you anything.” He squeezed her thigh.
She slapped his hand off her thigh, backing up. The patron grabbed her elbow.
Wrenching herself out of his grip, the dancer looked toward the single camera facing the love seat. Wasn’t anyone watching? He grabbed her by the elbow again, and yanked her back to him.
Dancing was fun, dancing was great. It freed her, it was her life. But why did it have to hurt?
“Why should I?” He was still smiling, still erect. “Finish the dance.”
Like hell! She opened her mouth to scream, tears welling in her eyes “I—“
*
“I…but,” she shut her mouth.
The little dancer looked composed, but in reality, she wasn’t. Her hair was pulled back into a small puff, tied with a navy bow that matched her leotard. Her bows were always matchy-matchy with her leotards, she felt the accessory gave her an air of dignity. Dignity, that she could feel wavering. Please, please move on…
While she was the most graceful, and naturally talented of the children in the dance troupe, she also made the most careless mistakes…like moving her feet into fourth position instead of fifth. And careless mistakes led to strict correction.
The little dancer was also prideful, while she feared the pain of the choreographer’s deceptively flimsy ruler, what she hated most was the humiliation of being wrong, and being disciplined in front of her peers.
She was a crybaby, and even though she was six, slept without a nightlight, ate her vegetables, could read pretty well, and was learning her times tables, she still could not figure out how to control her tears.
The students were barefoot. The choreographer said it was about “grounding in the surface we’re moving on” but the little dancer knew it was for this moment. She moved into position five, and looked straight ahead.
The choreographer gave the little dancer a look. Shuddering in anticipation, the little dancer lifted each foot and the thin, cruel ruler snapped against each sole five times.
The little dancer stayed quiet but the tears had started to spill.
Dancing was fun, dancing was great. It freed her, it was her life.
But why did it have to hurt?