Free Joy and Pain by Celia Kyle

Chapter One
     
    Dance is a song of the body.  Either of joy or pain.  ~Martha Graham
     
    I’m down to my g-string, hips slinking from left to right, hands stroking my chest, tugging at my nipples and I’m letting my eyelids half close. My attention’s on the guys at the edge of the stage and I slip my right hand beneath the hem of the spandex, pretending that I love what I’m doing, that it’s getting me off.
    My cock is soft.
    But I still pretend. Pretend that the men yelling my name are the hottest things on the block, that they do it for me.
    The music drowns out any sound I make, but still I moan and breathe fast, trying to get into the dance.
    God, the dance. I love it and hate it at the same time. It’s good to be moving, interpreting the music, trying to find beauty in each note.
    It’s hard to do when dollar bills are littering the shined stage.
    I lean against the pole, metal cool against my back, and arch and pump my hips, hump the air, close my eyes and bite my lower lip. The guys are going wild, hooting, telling me to come, shoot my load and prove how good-looking they are.
    They’re idiots. Idiots who give me money to fake an orgasm, but idiots none the less.
    This song ends on a crescendo, a few final beats and then I freeze, back curved, muscles in my neck strained, mouth open on a shout and the pervs go wild.
    I relax, raise my head, eyes heavy-lidded and a small smile on my lips. I’ve practiced this pose, the self-satisfied smirk of a man who’s come while they didn’t.
    Slipping my hand free of my g-string, I grab my camouflage pants and make a show of wiping my hand, men yelling, asking if they can have a small taste.
    Creepy.
    A small wink at the loudest of ‘em and I exit, stage right, ass wiggling. The bouncer will collect the take. I always slip him a quarter of my tips, just for handling that part for me. I don’t like getting close to the audience and the guys seem to eat it up. My distance, the aloof Army twink.
    Down a few dimly-lit hallways and the main dressing room is to my right. I slip in, find it empty. Not too many guys working a Thursday night and I know Marcus goes up after me.
    I strip the poor excuse for underwear off and slip back into my jeans, legs of ‘em big enough so that I don’t even have to lose the boots. They hang low on my hips, tiniest bit of my pubes showing above the waist, but the customers like being able to see that bit of teasing. My favorite vest completes the extent of my dressing.  It doesn’t provide much cover, but that’s not its purpose. The idiots in the front of the place like to have something to touch, play with, tug on when they want me a bit closer. It does that.
    One last breath for courage and I’m heading down another hallway, giving myself a pep talk. I mean, it’s no different than meeting with the benefactors after a performance of Swan Lake, right?
    Wrong.
    Rich patrons aren’t staring at you like they’d like to bend you over the bar.
    Okay, some of them used to look at me like that, but they never said a word.
    These customers do. They offer money, a good time and, probably, disease.
    Yeah, thanks but no thanks.
    The main area of the club is dim and I still a moment while my eyes adjust, Marcus’ music already thumping as he gyrates on stage. Now, Marcus loves this life, the money, the attention. And, honestly, I’m happy for him, that this works.
    The customers don’t notice my reappearance yet, so I amble toward the bar and Luca, the bartender and owner, places a bottle of water on the smooth cherry surface at my approach.
    I slip onto a stool with a small smile and murmured thanks.
    “No problem.” He goes back to polishing glasses, moseying toward the other end of the counter and topping off some guy’s drink.
    He’s a big man, thick thighs, scary-as-shit bi’s. Guy could crush me, no problem. So, I’ll stay where I’m at and pretend he’s not there. I’m supposed to be sociable, but...
    Luca’s still