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Also, Ireallywanted to eat those chips. I laugh out loud at that thought and the pain lessens ever so slightly. With a shuddering sigh, I sweep up the broken dream of my salty snack. As I lean over with the dustpan, my robe falls off my shoulder enough that my boob pops out.
Whoops. My blinds aren’t closed and I laugh again at the idea of traumatizing some random person walking their dog with an unexpected peek at my tits.
I cover myself quickly and stand, glancing out the window to assess the damage of my impromptu peep show. It’s hard to see much out there in the dark, but I catch the glow of a cell phone illuminating the face of a man sitting in his parked car. Oh Jesus, I hope he’s been looking at his phone for a while. As if he hears my thoughts, he glances up and in my gut I justknowthat he saw it all.
I yelp in surprise and scurry into my bedroom—where I keep my blinds closed—and flop down onto my bed with burning cheeks. Maybe if I pretend he’s not there, I can forget I flashed a stranger. The first time a man sees my boobs in three years and it was an accident. Sounds about right.
It takes me a full fifteen minutes before I work up the nerve to creep back out into my kitchen—dressed in my pajamas now. I peek out the window to see if the man is still out there. He’s not, but I close my blinds anyway and add closing them when the sun goes down to my mental checklist of habits to establish. Not that I’m likely to remember once the embarrassment grows distant in a few days. The only habits I’m good at keeping are bad ones.
There’s a twisted part of my brain that’s disappointed he left. That we didn’t lock eyes through the window and exchange a heated glance. That he didn’t knock on my door, introduce himself, and declare his unbridled desire for me after seeing my tit, leading to a night of wild sex on every surface of my apartment.
Who am I kidding? If he’d knocked on the door, I would have hidden in my bedroom closet with my Lord of the Rings replica sword and texted Grace to tell her that a stranger was outside my door and that if she didn’t hear back from me I was probably murdered. Still, it’s nice to imagine someone seeing me. Wanting my weird ass self. My imagination is the only place I get any action, so I’m thankful it’s vivid.
I open one of the many dating apps that lie dormant on my phone and consider reactivating my profile. Then I remember the million other times I’ve tried and failed at online dating and chicken out. I’d ask Grace to tell me the secret to her online dating success, but I get the impression she’s fueled by spite toward her ex-husband who told her she was boring in bed. What a bastard. One more tick in the column of reasons not to bother with dating. Even when you think someone is your perfect match, they could end up being a total piece of garbage.
With that cheery thought in mind, I decide to head to bed early and dive back into one of the romance novels I’m reading. At least in those I know everyone’s going to get a happy ending.
3
Low bass rumbles through the air, sending vibrations through me as I slide my hands down the sides of my body. My hips sway in sensual interpretation of the music, and the thrum of excitement builds inside me as I tease at the hem of my dress. I pull the sleek black fabric up to reveal the straps of the garter belt and my thick thighs, then turn and pull it up further while leaning forward, highlighting the round fullness of my ass clad in a sparkling thong.
All the while, I sense eyes on me—burning through me with barely restrained need. It spurs me on as I unzip the dress and let it slide off my shoulders down to pool on the floor as the music crescendos. My skin tingles as I bare it to my audience, knowing they like what they see.
*beep beep beep*
My cruel alarm yanks me out of my dream. It takes me a minute to locate my phone, nestled under the covers on the empty side of my bed. With a groan, I shut the alarm off. Time for my daily struggle to get up and walk before work instead of going back to sleep. It’s a tougher fight without a little dog begging for me to take him out. Though, in his old age, Nugget often woke up much later than I did. The bittersweet memory of coaxing him awake with kisses on his belly aches in my chest.
My closed blinds give no indication of the weather outside, but a quick check of the weather app on my phone tells me it’s drizzling.Oh dang, looks like I’ll have to skip walking.
I should abandon the pretense that I’ll actually go for a walk and change my alarm. At least that way I wouldn’t get interrupted while I’m in the middle of a dream. I wish I could fall back to sleep and start back where my dream left off. The details are already fuzzy, but I still feel the excitement and anticipation in my gut. And lower, between my thighs.
Nothing worse than a ruined sex dream. Well, other than bad real life sex. I have a lot of experience with both. In and out of my dreams, sex rarely does anything other than frustrate me. Even my sleeping brain must know that I’m hard to satisfy.
I’m too aroused to go back to sleep, but too sleepy to do anything about it. So I compromise and doom scroll on my phone. Oh, great—according to Facebook, my college boyfriend, Alex, got married last weekend. What a perfect way to start off my day as a spinster—photos of a giddy couple reminding me I’m still alone.
Enough moping. I toss my phone down onto the bed and let out another loud groan, then force myself to get up. Damn, my negativity is getting the best of me as of late. Not a reassuring sign for my mental health. I feel myself creeping closer and closer to the point of no return with my depression. When I sink so far into that hole that it feels impossible to pull myself out. The last time I had a major depressive episode, it took me two years to become semi-functional again. I’m terrified of going back to that place.
Logically, I know I’m not the same person I was back then. Now I have a therapist and decent medication. But I need to do more than sit in my apartment alone all day. My hobbies and interests dwindled with the stress and financial strain of taking care of Nugget in his decline. Most of my friends have family or partners that take precedence over spending time with me. It’s hard to admit to myself how lonely I am and how small my life has become. But I can’t hide from the truth anymore. I can’t wait for my therapist to give me that “no shit, Mona” look when I tell her about this morning’s revelation. She’s been trying to get me to go out more for ages.
Since I have extra time before work, I use my whisper of motivation to find something to do tonight. Maybe a dance class? It’s been ages since I’ve danced and I could use the exercise to prevent my full metamorphosis into a slug. My glimmer of excitement at the prospect dies when I find that the studio I took classes at closed a year ago.
I taste the defeat and excuses I’d normally tell myself on my tongue, but swallow them down. Moonvale must have more than one place to take dance classes. I do a quick search for “Moonvale adult dance classes” and something inside my chest flutters when I see the top result—Ignite Fitness. Isn’t that a pole dance place?
Checking their class listings, it turns out they offer a variety of pole, heels, floorwork, and burlesque classes. The fluttering in my chest intensifies. Though, I doubt they have a class I can just drop into tonight, even if I were brave enough to try.
My finger hovers over the “Class Schedule” button. I hesitate, imagining the look on my mom’s face at the thought of me taking a racier dance class. She was the one who insisted on my dance training growing up, enrolling me in jazz, modern, and ballet classes from age three. I dropped out when I was a teen and my body grew massive tits, with an ass and belly to match. I didn’t take a class again until after college. That’s where I met Devi. She was my dance buddy, but stopped not far into her pregnancy. I didn’t have to stop, but it felt weird going without her and I needed to save money to pay Nugget’s vet bills.
Screw it, I’m a grown ass woman. Who gives a shit what my mom would think? I click through to the class schedule and right there, under “Friday”, is a new session of Burlesque Performance Prep. A flash of last night’s dream surfaces and my heart races as I read the class description…no prior burlesque experience required, 10-week session culminating in a student stage performance.
This has to be a sign, right? Even my skeptical self can see that. I fill out the online registration and pay for the entire session before I lose my nerve. When I receive a confirmation email, dread and regret threaten to dampen my excitement about this serendipitous discovery, but I push them down. Taking this class could literally make my dream come true.
I open up our group chat to let them know Friday game nights will need to go on hiatus for a couple of months. Not that I expect any protests. It’s been over a month since we played.
Mona: Hey, would it be okay if we skip game night for a few months? I found a class that I want to take on Fridays, and I figured I should at least attempt to get out of the house before I become permanently fused with my couch.
A few minutes pass before someone replies.
Rachel: Oh, okay! No worries. What kind of class is it?
