The Dancing Girl

The ornaments of my ankles dance along as I twirl towards a heavy man. Licking my lower lip, captivating him, I bend to expose the already exposing swellings over my blouse. Low lights are an addendum to my work, a little wink, and another prey. Don't hate me already, my swirling and twirling is what I get money for, the rest is just bonuses they earn, for I am here to entertain. I am here to be the dancing girl.

 My amatory body sways along the exotic music. I am here to fill in their appetite. Barely covered in a net fabric, I lift my lament eyes towards the wolves. Their hooting suggests my prevalent job is going to be a lot more lucrative tonight.

I am poor, and I am a girl. These people here are rich, and they are guys. Rich and guys. Rich guys. It's true when they say money is the root of all evils. I earn through wrong means, and they spend it on wrong means. Irony is that, both of us sin but they still judge me for my sin. They might be cheating on their wives, their girlfriends and maybe their parents but no, the dancing girl alone is sinister here.

This paunch man on far end points his fingers towards me; an invitation. I twirl around him, the sight of my raw navel is enough to make his mouth water. He traces a hundred ruppee note on my raw flesh, I give him a cheesy smile; I am his food for tonight.

This ambiance is imminent for me. For I am a piece of meat and these are famished dogs. Once sated, they'll roam around with sufficed lust. And I will be left with another stake of sorrows. I do not relish my being. My raunch is impure, find me a cure?

I stretch in the middle, my efflorescent body perfidy restlessness. I do not wish to be laid, but I am in dire need of money. My children are nobody's heir. I don't even know who they belong to, these fathers here don't really care. I can not earn them respect. Poor children, they think their mother is the best.

Eccentric ain't it? All the vibes are a limited liability for the poor. Little did I know, money buys virtues. This shindig is going to end, and I will be pursued in privacy. This gathering would one by one ease their manhood in me, and I will have nowhere to escape. This place feels like a abattoir, the only difference is, I am the kind of animal who will never die. Immortal. Copious. But would they do the same to their women? They might as well kill them in the name of honor than to let them being exploited.
They await my adept service, my depravity. I am a dancing girl, stuck in a travail.

Photo Courtesy = Saleha Adnan