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It’s all muscle and gravity andmoves. It’s all physical power, which I don’t have, like, in spades as a five-foot-two-inch woman on the ground.
Up here, though? On my hoop, suspended in the spotlight at The Membership, I’m in full control.
A lot of that comes from my prowess with the hoop. I’mgreatat aerial hoop routines.
The rest comes from the fact that The Membership is a gentlemen’s club.
In the spirit of accuracy, it’s amember’s only social and dining club with adult-only performances.You don’t have to be rich to get a membership here, which is why I can perform here at all. No gender requirements, just a good-faith deposit to keep out party-going frat kids. All phonesmuststay in the coatroom. No photos allowed.
All of this creates a luxurious vibe for people who don’t have millions of dollars to blow on the exclusive clubs. That’s perfect for me. I don’t have a theoretical objection to working in an actual strip club, actually stripping, but Ilovethe hoop routines. Every time I’m about to go onstage, I get a breathless rush of adrenaline and anticipation. I’m about to beso powerful.The spotlight makes that magic seem real. In the tight circle of illumination, I appear to be much higher in the air than I am. The spotlight hides the safety mat on the stage below. All anyone looks at is me.
And my mind is going to be blessedly blank for the duration of my routine.
It’susuallyblank.
This afternoon is a different story.
It’s my usual shift time, but this isn’t a regular day.
I fold myself over the hoop and do my best to let my mind slip into the tension and balance of the routine. I’m dancing to Ludovico’s Experience. The slow, delicate beginning is my favorite. I canfeelthe men in the audience collectively holding their breath.
But I’m firmly into the third minute, when the song intensifies. I hook one leg over the bottom curve of the hoop and arch into the next part of the routine. Every movement has to bleed seamlessly into the next one. A pull and a drop. A spin and a slow. The heat of the spotlight becomes a physical touch on my skin.
All the muscles on my back light up with the effort of balancing myself with and against the hoop. My thighs burn. I probably shouldn’t have chosen a song that’s a little over five minutes long for my routine. It’s always worth it in the end.
Like law school will be worth it in the end. Like the pre-1L summer program is going to be double worth it.
IfI get in. Columbia only invites twenty incoming students to take part in two months of intensive study and networking, which—yes. I want to be in that group of students. A place in the Columbia Legacy Immersive Scholars program will give me a chance to both distinguish myself and build on my grandfather’s career as a prosecutor and a judge. I had my materials ready the second applications opened last spring.
I definitely want to get in. Nothing would be better.
Nothing at all.
I took this shiftexpressly to avoidthinking about the invitation emails. For the love of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Icannotlet this interrupt the flow of my performance.
This song pushes me almost to the limit, both in length and tempo. I never let that show in my expression. I always appear serene. If not serene, as if I’m experiencing a transcendent emotion. My performances are about movement, not about exposure, so I dance in a custom leotard. Black, long-sleeved, high-necked. Mesh lace patterned like feathers covers my neck, and the body has sewn-in sequins that make the reflections from the spotlights seem like stars. The most risqué thing about the costume is that it shows a large portion of my ass via a thong bottom.
It’s probably no coincidence that when I’m up here, when the song is at its peak, I have the distinct sense that I could fly away. Put the hoop into a spin and disappear into a blur of feathers and darkness.
I enter the final spin with that energy.
Do it well enough and you’ll escape. Explode into the night on the strength of your wings. Hold their attention right to the end.
I have their attention, right to the end.
I let the spin slow down, taper off, and pull myself through the hoop again.
I’m perfectly timed for the end of the song. On the last, fading repetition of the melody, I end up cradled by the hoop, like I’m held in the arms of the moon.
At least, that’s the impression I’m going for. Sensual and dramatic, yet soft. A lingering memory.
I stay completely still as the song dies out.
In the second of silence afterward, I’m caught between hope and indifference. I hope my performance landed, but it’s not important, in the end. What’s important is that I loved it. Those feelings refract, building on one another until—you know what? Idocare if it landed. I want to keep working here.
I want them to clap. I want them to see me like this and think,yes, she was worth my time. That was beautiful.
Applause rises from the audience as the house lights go half-up. It’s not thunderous clapping. This is the afternoon performance at a mid-to-upscale gentlemen’s club, so I don’t have throngs of admirers. But the appreciation ishearty.
