Getting braver

I push myself back up the pole, my thighs gripping the brass as I flip into another invert. The room tilts around me, but I feel steady now, the liquor and the heat and the beat all mixing into something heady. I hold myself upside down for a long moment, my hair brushing the floor, the swimsuit straining against my chest.

I can hear them. The low murmurs, the sharp intake of breath from someone behind me. It's different from how I feel when I practice alone. Different from how I feel when you watch me in our quiet living room. There's something electric in this, being seen by strangers, their eyes hungry, and I give them just a little more.

I slide down the pole slowly, my body rolling against the metal, then spin to face them. I arch my back, let my fingers drag through my hair, and I see one of your friends gripping his drink a little too tight. My lips curve.

Your face, though. That's what I keep coming back to. The way your jaw is set, the way your eyes haven't left me once.

I dance my way closer to you, keeping the pole at my back, my hips moving in slow, deliberate circles. I'm sweaty, breathless, and I know the swimsuit has ridden up. I don't fix it.