Maybe my stringy muscles are extra strong. Maybe the pole and I are family because we have the same shape. I almost laugh out loud, but then the music begins, and the cone of light turns on over the center stage.
The rich timbre of the voice comes on. Everybody knows this song. Everyone. Maybe I shouldn’t pole dance to it, but I am. But as the title words are said, “Time of My Life,” I lift myself up and do the first turn on the pole.
I don’t have a routine, just a dozen or so moves and a few transitions to go between them. But I know this song so well that I can predict when I need to do something low and sultry and when to lead up to a bigger, flashier moment.
Merrick sits at one of the tables. I don’t see him so much as sense that he’s there. This dance lines up with the last one I did here, and even though I’ve already gone into that airy space of orgasm once, I know it’s going to happen again.
And more, if I can help it. I want him. I want him like I’ve never wanted anything. Maybe it’s all mixed up with the club and the protection order and the outlaw nature of whatever is happening with Lucifer’s Kin.
But man, I feel more alive than I’ve ever felt.
I rush into a spin, and the air across my bare breasts is like foreplay. The boots are heavy, but I manage my V formations and swing out. In fact, I think I spin faster with the extra weight.
I slide down to the floor, stretching out a leg. I appreciate these legs now, long and strong. It’s fine that I’m tall. I can take up more space here, go higher, create a more impressive spin.
The music winds down, and my anticipation peaks. Will he come up here again? What will happen this time? Will we have sex right here on the stage?
I want that. I want to look at it on Wednesday nights when I work or when I come in with the ol’ ladies and remember what we did here. It couldn’t be more perfect.
I shift to hands and knees and stare out into the murky bar. I can barely make Merrick out at his table. I lift an arm and beckon him to come here to me.
He rises from his chair and walks my way, one step at a time, in no hurry.
His heavy black boots thud on the steps. I stay on my knees and wait for him to arrive. Then I rise along his body, using his knees, his pockets, his belt to stand. I take his hand and twirl beneath it, bringing him to the pole.
Whatever’s next on the playlist begins. I don’t recognize it, but it’s right, sultry and slow with a steady, thrumming beat.
I move to the rhythm and take Merrick with me. I shift him to face the pole and move his hand to wrap it around the cool metal above his head. Then I take the other and place it a few feet below.
Once he’s in position, I kick off my boots and climb over his back, arriving at the pole above his head. I continue up, then shift upside down. I turn slowly until my face is next to his, our eyes locked.
The music increases its tempo. I slide down a few more feet and circle the pole. I face him, then climb until I’m above him again, his mouth at the level of my chest.
I hold on with one hand and press his head into a breast. He takes it greedily, and the spiral begins again, the stars in my vision, the anticipation.
My head falls back, and I revel in the feeling, the urgency building.
Then I pull away and climb. He watches me from below.
I wrap my ankles around the pole and extend out both arms. I slowly circle the pole, my hands outstretched. I’m on display, and he is under my spell. He can’t look away.
I slowly descend and fold in behind him, wrapping my legs around his waist. I release the pole and hang on to him like I do on his motorcycle, feeling the cut of his muscles on his belly, the strength of his back.
We are going to do this thing. I will make sure of it. My dance is a web, and I have caught him.
I reach for his belt and slide the leather out of the buckle. I can’t do much more in this position, so I lower my legs and twirl away, pulling the belt out of the loops.
Actually, this will do nicely. I turn him around to face me, his back to the pole. I lift his arms overhead. Before he can realize what I’m doing, I figure eight the leather and tie him to the pole.
There we go.
His eyebrows lift when he discovers I’ve strapped him to the metal. I sense he could break it, maybe take down the entire pole, but he allows this, watching me turn and twirl around him, using him as the pole in a pirouette.
I unfasten his jeans. I can’t feel the bulge of him straining the band. I have never held a man in my hand. I’m about to.
The zipper rolls down in a cool rush of metal. I press my palm against him. He’s long and hard. My throat tightens. I can do anything I want.
I push up the T-shirt so that I expose his abs. I want to lick every single one, so I do, lowering my mouth to his hot skin.
