I have named it 'In the night' because it is this song by The Weeknd which inspired me to write on this issue. The base story includes a f real-life experiences of a go-go dancer so as to make it sound more realistic.
She isn't the regular white-collar worker. She is of the stuff what werewolves are generally made of- she isn't at night what she seems to be in the daytime.
It was her first night at the club.
Stiff and unable to find the groove in the song's rhythm, she tried to shimmy into it with her eyes closed. It was when she opened her eyes that she discovered the hush about her.
Tattooed men in pony tails and handkerchiefs banded around their foreheads, women in black-leather vests and hot pants, and smoke so dense she didn't even see the first beer bottle hurtling through it. When it crashed a few feet to her left the bartender flew after it and yelled at her to just keep dancing. Somehow, amid the hooting, booing and catcalls, she did.
"Go back to the convent where ya came from!" came a voice from the ruckus as another couple of bottles landed on either side of her. She had set out to make $20 as one of the three girls dancing that night, and she wasn't leaving without it. She danced in a trance.
Her nine-to-five, five-day-a-week job as secretary to the hospital administrator at the City Hospital netted her only a bit more for the week than her Saturday job, moonlighting as a go-go dancer. Somewhere amidst the paper bills and the crowd of slugs writhing and leering at her she discovered herself pirouetting on the nefarious beats. It wasn't her fate, it was her obligation. An obligation to reimburse the $20 she was being paid, an obligation to dance not because she loved to but because it was her means of subsistence, an obligation to enthral the inhuman douchebags with her physical comeliness because she was a woman.
It was her first night at the club.
Stiff and unable to find the groove in the song's rhythm, she tried to shimmy into it with her eyes closed. It was when she opened her eyes that she discovered the hush about her.
Tattooed men in pony tails and handkerchiefs banded around their foreheads, women in black-leather vests and hot pants, and smoke so dense she didn't even see the first beer bottle hurtling through it. When it crashed a few feet to her left the bartender flew after it and yelled at her to just keep dancing. Somehow, amid the hooting, booing and catcalls, she did.
"Go back to the convent where ya came from!" came a voice from the ruckus as another couple of bottles landed on either side of her. She had set out to make $20 as one of the three girls dancing that night, and she wasn't leaving without it. She danced in a trance.
Her nine-to-five, five-day-a-week job as secretary to the hospital administrator at the City Hospital netted her only a bit more for the week than her Saturday job, moonlighting as a go-go dancer. Somewhere amidst the paper bills and the crowd of slugs writhing and leering at her she discovered herself pirouetting on the nefarious beats. It wasn't her fate, it was her obligation. An obligation to reimburse the $20 she was being paid, an obligation to dance not because she loved to but because it was her means of subsistence, an obligation to enthral the inhuman douchebags with her physical comeliness because she was a woman.
As the sweat pours down my fishnet stockings, these guys think they're gonna take me home and score, while I'm wondering if I can throw in a load of laundry before I heat up the leftover lasagna.
~An anonymous go-go dancer
~An anonymous go-go dancer
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OWSM <333333333
ReplyDeleteTHANK YOU SIDDHI! :33
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