I grip the cool metal pole, my fingers tightening as I step into the routine. My legs wrap around the length of it, my muscles contracting as I lift my body into an inverted hang.
The lights bounce off the glitter that Amelia painted on my skin. Down into the divots of my breasts it runs to make them seem larger and across my thighs and bare ass cheeks, highlighting the good parts of me.
From somewhere out in the dark crowd I hear a holler and a few shouts of praise over the loud music. That encouragement pushes me to continue.
No, I’ve never done this before. But I’ve done something like it. Okay, not really but sort of.
My father—controlling, exacting, a multi-millionaire obsessed with appearances—had insisted on ballet classes for me as a child.
Of course, every private-school princess in New York must be a prima ballerina, right?
And so, I was. Years of training, discipline, and performance culminated in Broadway stage performances as a child before I traded pointe shoes for law books at Harvard.
I might have left the world of pirouettes and pliés behind, but I never left my strength or skill. That’s muscle memory. And tonight, it’s my ticket to not falling on my face.
The pole feels steady beneath my grip as I spin upside down, my legs locked tightly around the metal. The world blurs as I twist and twirl, the movement instinctive now, each transition flowing into the next.
My hands release the pole briefly, letting me dangle just by the strength of my legs, and the audience cheers louder. I can’t see them through the blinding lights, but I feel their energy, their eyes glued to every part of me.
With a sharp inhale, I let my legs unravel and drop toward the ground, catching myself at the last second in a handstand. My palms press into the stage, muscles taut and strong as I hold the position for a beat longer than necessary, letting the crowd take it in. Then, slowly and deliberately, I lower one leg at a time into a full split, hoping that the light purple thong I'm wearing holds up and doesn't reveal anything as the cool stage floor presses against the thin fabric of my underwear.
My body stretches into the familiar position with ease, and the cheers rise again, the applause vibrating through the air.
Amelia finally joins me, her long legs striding confidently toward the center of the stage. She knows how to work the crowd in a way I can only hope to mimic, and with a playful smirk, she turns her back to them and peels off her top in one smooth motion, tossing it to the side. The crowd roars its approval as her breasts bounce free.
I stay seated on the stage for a moment, watching her shine in her element, before gracefully rising to my feet. My outfit stays firmly in place; we agreed that Amelia would be the focal point of this moment, and I would not strip completely so thankfully, my opening is finished.
I transition into the routine I planned, my movements fluid and deliberate, every step intentional. My hips sway in time to the beat, my arms lifting gracefully above my head before spinning into a turn that any ballerina would recognize.
Apas de bourréeflows into a controlledpirouette, my body angled just enough to make the move sexy. I let my hands trail lightly along my sides, an action I wouldn't do in an actual performance, but it helps highlight my body.
My hands lift again, fingers outstretched in a poised flourish before I drop into another spin, this time on the balls of my feet. My balance is precise, my movements smooth, as though this stage were my second home and I find myself getting lost in the music, forgetting where I’m at.
As the music builds to its final notes, I take a step back, giving Amelia the spotlight for her dramatic finish and feeling relief and adrenaline wash over me.I did it.
It looks like a man in the front row has paid for a private dance from her but she’s gesturing for me to join her in the center where the announcer reminds every one of our names, and we take our final bow.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Rose & Lily! Our flowers of the night!
The crowd continues to shout out and applaud as we move to leave while an employee comes to collect the bills that litter the stage before the next dancers join the stage.
“Oh my god,” I let out a rush of breath as soon as we’re out of sight.
“Not bad for amateurs’ night, huh?” Amelia teases me with a nudge. Her top is still off, nipples hard, and for the first time, I don't feel uncomfortable around her confidence.
She wasn't wrong; this whole thing is liberating even without being completely naked.
“Did you have fun?” she asks.
I nod. "That was… amazing.Youwere amazing."
She grins and gives me a hug. "You did really well. The crowd loved you.”
“So, what’s next?”
“A guy purchased a private dance in one of the back rooms with me. Will I see you after I’m done?"
"I don't think so. I'm probably going to change and take the train back to Connecticut. I have work to catch up on this weekend.”
