The Red Dance

Crouched at the floor, next to the solid silver sliver of light,

Resting on her haunches, arched foot, pointed slight.

Her head bowed down, as if in prayer,

Her muscles tense, back hunched, a professional slayer.

As the titling music, diffuses into the silent night,

Not a breath escapes the hungry audience with eyes alight.

Some perspiring with growing apprehension,

Some twitching with pumping adrenaline.

As the first beat hits her body,

Forcing life into her lithe and slender being; godly.

She straightens hips swaying, to her full height,

Caressing the pole, till she’s on her tippy toes stretched tight.

Gliding languidly away from the pole,

She finally rewards her onlookers with her face whole,

Piercing silver eyes and full blood red mouth,

Her body dipped in dew from north to south.

Some sit up straight, some drop their jaws,

Some go into a trance, some extend their claws.

As her spell, slowly descends on them like a shroud,

The club now holds a crowd so unlike a crowd.

With a black leather corset, and fishnet stockings,

Her pale limbs stand out, the contrast shocking.

She spins back towards her metal dance mate,

Gripping him with her thighs, she hoists up her entire weight.

With her legs wrapped around the pole, her hands fly free,

She arches backwards, like the branches of a tree.

Her body at ease, not a hint of strain,

Her obsidian hair falling parallel to the pole, like rain.

Both her hands then grip the pole,

As she unclasps her thighs, the floor meets her sole.

With her back to the spectators, she now kisses the iron rod,

The two wrapped around each other, like lovers caught.

Turning to face her admirers, the pole pressed against her back,

Her expression carries a hint of a smile, as her hands so slack.

Then reaching above her head, she grasps the post,

And proceeds to slide down slowly; the succubus’s ghost.

As her fingers pass over the kiss stain on the metal staff,

A red smudge forms capturing half the eyes, and her, the other half.

Making her journey back up, she turns her face slight,

Her hands make their way down her body, as she stands upright.

Standing with her legs apart, her chin and lower neck meet,

With one hand touching the pole, her luscious hair falls like a sheet.

Then she begins to slowly circle the metal shaft,

Her feather light touches, working like witchcraft.

As she finishes a round, the music changes,

The beats quicken, the audience’s expression ranges.

Signalling the end of the show, she begins to descend,

On reaching the ground, for the last time her body bends.

Crouched at the floor, next to the solid silver sliver of light,

Resting on her haunches, arched foot, pointed slight.

Her head bowed down, as if in prayer,

Her muscles tense, back hunched, a professional slayer.

Suddenly as the music stops, the stage goes dark,

Then the lights come back, sans girl and her red mark.

All that remains is now a deserted metal pole,

Collective breaths are let out by every single soul.

Some sit still, some look dazed,

Some look lost in an unending maze.

The few that managed to gather their wits,

Frantically look around for exits.

But one or two determined ones, snag the bartender,

Shower him with questions, pleas, threats to surrender.

They demand information, they demand to know her,

A chance to see that again, a chance to hold her.

Shaking his head, the burly man reaches for the dirty rag,

With a smoke in his other hand, he then takes a long drag.

Smirking at their naivety, he mutters “Mate, no chance”,

For you just witnessed, The Red Dance.

-Sanjana Jain, 3rd year