She moves like a diamond and seven evening stars. All eyes are riveted upon her performance; her limbs floating as if an absence of bone. The music though rhythmic has no depth or sophistication, just a rumbling of bumps and grinds. She lifts a veil from her tunic and swings it in an arc, if I should fall from the grace of god encompassing one of the men’s faces in her perfume. These must be big bosses; she has not had to perform for time out of count. A sweat begins to build upon her torso as she glides first to the pole then to the edge of the stage once again. Cigar smoke filters up to her and she succumbs to the rich fragrance, letting it take her through her steps, letting her mind disconnect from her disgrace.
In her periphery she eyes a commotion at the door. A bum has pushed his way through only to be collared by the Chippendale tux boys and tousled toward the door. She is not able to see enough to know what is happening, but she felt a twinge in the beginning was a twinge and her mind lightens for a brief instant. She does not look at the men sitting at the table as several girls gyrate at their chairs. The music transforms her motions, carries an aloof air, a detachment that drives males crazy. She becomes the creator of all, Mother Nature, where no doctor can relieve me superior woman. In the background a voice calls to her, a voice of recognition, a voice of triumph, my champion has returned as she watches the decrepit figure being dragged out by the shoulders. She swirls merrily across the stage creating a whirl of energy, her body now a fluid blur as the atmosphere surrounding her builds into a maelstrom that leaves the men gasping and mesmerized. My time of redemption draws near Her past life becomes a living thing before her: their secret trysts, their nights of frolick, their nights of passion. She suddenly stops as the music stops, a perfect completion. Could that have been him? The bum? But that would take forbidden magic!