Dance, Baby, Dance!

Chapter 1

"You're up, Alex!" Arthur's shouted, as if spitted the words out right into my face. And I, having just heard the first, still quite slow, rhythmic beat of the drums as dropping dry peas on the wooden floor of our mini-scene, stepped into the blinding light of the ramp behind the velvet black curtain, as if I had stepped out of the night into an unbearably bright and hot day.

Counting down the hard and frequent rhythm to myself, I froze for a few seconds, spreading my arms like wings, and felt the tight hum of men's voices in the hall began to subside, calming down. And then very clearly and still quite smoothly I began to make circles with my chest: "Forward - up - point, right - up - point, back - bent my back as cat - point, left - up - point", and so for a few drumming plays; so that the buzzing and drunken hall of our nightclub quieted down, starting to follow the rhythmic circles that my chest, sparkling with multicolored beads and gold coins, draws. My bare feet are firmly on the floor, and I am an ancient Oriental statue, with only the top alive above my waist, my hands floating in the air as if weaving invisible nets, and my face covered with a black translucent veil, from which, I have no doubt, my kohl-rimmed eyes burn bright emeralds in the dense, thick twilight of the darkened hall. I feel how slippery, like night insects, glances descend on my face, neck, décolletage and settle on my breasts shaking in the rhythm of the dance, wrapped in the honeyed light of the spotlights.

I take a small step forward, and my naked leg, covered with several layers of the thinnest transparent fabric, emerges from the sea foam of its covers, and tiny Moroccan bells on a heavy silver bracelet begin to ring melodiously on my ankle. Obeying the magical rhythm of the Egyptian drums, I freeze again and exhale with my belly, causing all the eyes in the hall to follow the movements of my smooth, semicircular tummy and roll lower and lower - I know it for sure - along the secret path to where the cool silk of the shalwar is stretched beneath the soft roundness of my flesh, at the very edges of my hip bones.

I pause for a second to catch my breath before the wild increasing tempo of the drums, and suddenly my eyes in the faceless, frozen crowd are fixed on Him. The dim light over the table falls on his stone-cut face: a masculine chin with a slight stubble, a straight aquiline nose, and a cold and haughty gaze that seems to have grown tired of all the world's shows. He sits loosely in a British carved armchair, long slender legs in blue jeans spread wide, wearing a plain light-colored T-shirt with Gucci logo, and clutching a fogged whiskey tumbler in his hand. Ice cubes glisten in his clear glass, melting, mixing with the precious amber drink, and I myself suddenly realize that I, like a small ice flake in the hot sun, shrink and melt from his haughty and mocking glance ...

My cheeks under the veil blaze, my shoulders catch fire, as if a shawl of fire had been thrown over them, and my stomach suddenly becomes unusually empty, like a light, helium-inflated balloon. I take the second step, and all the gems and monists begin to ring in one rhythm with the drummer, performing a duet with it. Now my breasts, belly, and hips are moving in turn, as if they were setting the rhythm of the dance, not quite as fast yet, but now I am the painting, and the music in the club is just the pattern framing me. Hundreds of hours of training in front of the mirror in the gym, and my whole body is a plastic canvas on which I write out a belly-dance that gets faster every second.

My hips repeat the primal shake honed to perfection now, his eyes are still on me, he can't tear himself away from the rolling muscles beneath my smooth skin on my chest and belly, and I'm dancing just for him. Shimmering with all the colors of the world, jingling with hundreds of gold coins and bells, I walk along the edge of the stage, looking down at the crowd of my fans and regular clients huddled there. I approach one of them, a stylish businessman in an expensive suit who tries not to miss my shows on Thursdays, kneel down and arch my back, leaning on my heels, keeping my belly and breasts in rhythm. My long hair spreads as silken snakes across the wooden deck, and I can see the man staring at my flat stomach and what is now hidden beneath the thin, translucent petticoats, unblinking, unable to look away. I roll closer to the edge of the stage, exposing my naked thigh, tied with a rubber band shalwar, and feel how the hard and crisp banknote, slipped under the thread, pleasantly scratches the skin ... Sitting on my hips, I continue to dance my drums, wrapping the admirer with a shawl of hair and coming so close to him that he could feel and see the slightest drops of transparent sweat, already beginning to collect in the hollow between my breasts.