The small outfit

The moment I step through the doorway, the room shifts. Someone's dimmed the overhead light, leaving only the warm glow of the string lights we'd hung last month and a single lamp by the window, casting long shadows across the living room. The pole gleams in the center of it all, lit like it's the only thing that matters.

I hear the change in the air before I see their faces. The cheers come faster now, sharper, someone letting out a low whistle that cuts through the music. I feel the latex shift against my skin with every step, the boots making my stride slower, more deliberate. I keep my eyes on you.

You're leaning back on the couch, drink in hand, your eyes dragging over me in a way that makes my stomach tighten. You're drunk, I can tell. But you haven't looked away once since I walked in.

One of the guys — the dark-haired one who gave me the bottle earlier — calls out, "Jesus Christ, Joe. You're a lucky bastard."

The bachelor is quieter, but his eyes are locked on me, his beer forgotten on the coffee table. The muscular one who'd hugged me earlier is grinning, arms crossed, watching me like he's waiting for the show to start.

I walk past them, letting my fingers trail along the back of the couch, my boots clicking against the hardwood. When I reach the pole, I turn to face all of them, my back to the brass. I let my hands find it behind me, gripping it loosely, and I tilt my head at you.