A recent experience in which an awkward situation was narrowly avoided led me to explore the dynamics of power when a woman is called to entertain a room full of men.
Show me some of that Spanish dancing.
Step inside this room perched beside the Hill, on legs hewn from centuries old passion that rages still.
Curtains pulled tight as the door shuts, and locks.
“Do Not Disturb”.
We’ll let no dark escape this cave. Oh, you will shine tonight Bright Eyes.
Loosened bulbs twitch and flicker casting our demons as giants lurching on the walls.
It seems the Gideons missed us,
there’s nothing sacred in our drawers,
but we’ll exorcise you tonight, Angel.
Every step sets a fire in the room.
We’re hungry, and each dripping mouth quiets your flame.
The air gets thick with sonorous anthems to your form.
He likes them “mami’s”, so show us some of that Spanish dancing.
Your movements serpentine as you slither out of your skins,your virtue kicked to the floor.
Hypnotized by your charm, we lick our lips at the sight ofyour fruit.
Every kick, swing, and drop tugs us closer, deeper
Black hair matted on beads of sweat keeps your eyes dry - for now.
The tears come later.
Our hearts racing, trying to keep to the beat of your metronome hips.
We lose ourselves. In this cave, huddled around your twirling inferno, our shadows now cast one horny headed, cloven hoofed creature - swaying, giddy, and ugly.
Pan, the god of shepherds, approaches like a wolf in sheepskin. Yipping and nipping, jowls grazing his nymph’s nose. Now this nymph knows this nympho’s nature.
Sensing the pressure, your learned legs execute a divine pirouette and end in a grand plié that looks far more inviting than any of us deserve.
All things are perfect when catered.
Your practiced two-step is a delicate death march.
You didn’t do three hours a day, six days week for a decade and a half to dance for dodgy degenerates, your mother berates.
You weren’t taught to sashay in dimly lit rooms for dim witted grooms
to be - she seethes.
You got lost somewhere on the national lawns and now you’re more than a few yards from Juilliard.
You’d sit at Lincoln’s feet and pray to make it to his Center
But who needs it?
You’ve always had the power.
And you’ve always loved it. Nothing makes you feel stronger or more whole than watching us sink dumbly under your spell as we drink numbly in this cheap hotel.
You never lost control. You love the show. Love the disguise. Live on lust - no matter whether it’s that guy’s or this guy’s
The music stops. We’re interrupted by Tchaikovsky. You answer the call, exchange quick words and hang up.
Outta time gents.