People are always curious about dancers feet.
As if our toes tell a story. In most ways they do. Each blister from a different night, wavering pain into performance.
Today, a lady gave me a French pedicure, drawing thin white lines over a barely there pink, after sawing away at my callouses.
It had been a month since she last smoothed my heels of all their sins.
This is what fell into that navy blue towel:
The 5 hours of sitting topless on top a man who cried about his divorce.
The vibration of his shaking shoulders.
The cringe of a customer asking me to feel his hard dick.
The twirl I spun to slap him. Back hand and graceful.
The questions of a man who really thought he knew me like “will you really call me?”
The list of blocked numbers ever growing.
The hard stage floor always grimy.
The night I was so tired my legs gave out and I tumbled in front of the bar.
The compliments of a lonely old man.
My silence from my ass smacked so hard it bruised. Every time I traded cash for comfort.
Every hand diverted, every wandering finger.
And wedding bands
forgotten, ignored, resented.
Although, I dress them pretty, my feet carry me through the dirty secrets of men. Impulses and desires they only bring to the women like me. Who stretch clear plastic buckles around our ankles to lull their hidden transgressions into tenderness.
With Pointed toes in pleasers. 7 inches, floating above club floors, twirling fantasy and fiction into something tangible
Like cash.
