We don’t talk as we head to the back door. It takes a moment to unlock all the braces and deadbolts.
Then we’re inside, enveloped in the smell of beer and lingering fried food. It’s becoming familiar, like a second home.
“I set the pole up on the stage,” Merrick says. “It’s easy to disassemble and roll into the side closet up there. I made room.”
I follow him through the kitchen and into the bar itself.
It’s dark inside, but a single spotlight is on the stage.
The pole has a heavy black base and gleams in the clean, bright cone of light.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, heading for it. I hop onto the short stage and approach.
The metal is cool and smooth. I grasp it with both hands and take a quick spin around it.
“It can be static or rotating,” Merrick says. “I set it to static since that’s what your class has.”
“I love it.” I climb partway up and look down at the bar. Merrick stands in the murky room, barely lit with the dregs of my cone of light, his hands on his hips.
Behind him, all the chairs are up on tables, the only witnesses to what might happen here.
“I’ll put on my outfit,” I say, pulling it from my pocket. It sparkles in the light.
“You don’t have to …” He trails off.
“I want to.” I hurry off the stage to the women’s bathroom, the new one near this side of the bar.
The lights are out, and I feel blinded by the flood of it when I turn them on. I face the mirror, noticing my ponytail has gone slightly off center from the helmet. I pull the elastic band out and let my hair fall free.
This could be it. Will dancing for him put him over the edge? Will we get past the rules of the club, this situation we’ve been dancing around for months?
I kick off my shoes and swiftly strip off the dance clothes. I’m a little sweaty, so I dampen some paper towels and wipe myself down.
Am I ready for this? I think so. I’ve wanted it forever.
I pick up the tiny top and tie it behind my neck and back. The red circles are nowhere near the right place, so I adjust them.
I look in the mirror. I’m so tiny. Nothing like a typical pole dancer.
Fear washes over me. I want the push-up bra. The cleavage. This outfit shows off my bones.
Too late.
I shimmy the bottoms up and adjust the red slice of bejeweled fabric so it covers me. I waxed myself within an inch of my life the moment I told him about the red outfit. I’m glad I did it ahead because I was bumpy for days, but I’ve smoothed out.
Here goes nothing.
I give my hair one more toss and step out of the bathroom.
The cone of light is still over the pole. I’m too blinded to see into the dark. “Are you out there?” I ask.
“I’m front and center,” he says.
He shifts, and I see his black boot by the leg of a chair. Slowly, I make him out, sitting in the dark.
Waiting for me.
I’m in the shadows, so he won’t get the full effect of the outfit until I’m in the light. “Do you have music?” I ask.
