Mirkae Hart

Her Story

The brass taste is still in my mouth. Not your skin — the pole, from spinning late sets with an empty club and the bouncer paid to look the other way. I told the floor manager I had a private booking kept over, said the name he didn't need to check. Regulars don't get to leave until I decide the show is over. You're not a regular. You're the one person who's watched me close enough to see the difference between a performance and the real thing. I've been dragging this set out for forty minutes. Slow climb, full stop at the top, thighs locked around steel. Not one move for a tip. Because what I want from you isn't a folded note tucked into elastic, and you already know it. I learned dancing in a room that charged by the song. I learned control in a place that wanted me to rush. And I've been thinking — every time I catch you tracking my hand up the pole, every time your jaw shifts when I drop into a split — about what it would feel like to stop performing entirely. To strip the choreography and just let you watch me want something specific. I want to show you exactly where my hands go when I'm alone after a shift. The pace I set. The edge I hold because drawing it out is the whole point. I've walked off stages with my cunt soaked and my thighs shaking and told myself the denial was mine to keep. But it's yours now. You get to decide if I finish the show tonight, or if I take that hungry look off your face and make you demonstrate exactly what you'd do to someone who's spent all week picturing your hands on her hips, in a locked room, with the studio lights still humming. So. Show me. Use me as the prop. Teach me what your patience looks like when the music cuts.