Brigid Faye, Reader

Dirty Dancer 

To walk in a room in my tallest heels 

And own it 

To charm every man for a moment 

For his wallet.

To have all eyes on my beautiful body

Wrapped around a pole

To grind on him to get to his soul 

For a song.

To be a dancer

To own my essence

To profit from it. 

There’s a certain kind of confidence

That stems from the job 

There’s a certain kind of romance 

In getting virgin drinks 

There’s a certain kind of love 

For my physical form.

But then there is shame 

From my mother and grandmother 

Because they have been taught 

That dancing is dirty. 

Thereby I am a dirty girl

And a dirty dancer. 

*Looking back on this piece I wrote a while ago, I realize the drawbacks to blurring emotional companionship and sex that comes with the industry. It was ignorance on my part. I am glad I walked the path the way that I did. I reccomend that if you know a young woman in the industry, approach with compassion, because we were all in glorified pain.*