The Dance

She struts on stage scantily dressed, black
leather mini skirt and matching vest.
Dyed raven black short hair, mirrored
sunglasses and black patent leather stiletto
boots add to the act.  
Her alabaster skin glows in the spotlight,
a contrast of black and white.
With a wave of cat o’nine-tails, she’s
Donna Matrix tonight. 
“You can spank me anytime, sweet heart.”
She moves and groves, as she removes
her clothes seductively slow to the hard
driving beat of rock and roll. 
“You go girl!” 
The sunglasses are tossed aside and there’s
a fire in her eyes. 
Button by button the vest opens to reveal
her abundant breasts bound in a sheer lace
bra and after the mini skirt is lost, a tiny
g-string is left, it leaves nothing to the imagination.
“Keep going honey.”
She prances and dances across the stage
to a pole, swirls and twirls, straddles
the extension of imaginary manhood
with her legs and spins around, locks
her legs and hangs upside down. 
Lo and behold, the bra is gone and she’s back
down on the ground. 
“Ooh yeah! That’s what we wanna see!”
She gently pats her behind with the cat o’nine tails
as she bounces around, does a flip and a split. 
“All right, all right, all—right!”
“You’re killing me, princess!”
“Oh baby take me I’m yours!”
Dollar bills fill the stage. 
The routine ends, she cleans the stage, dresses
and visits the patrons, leaving two buttons unbuttoned
on the vest. 
She smiles and pushes up her chest.
Everyone obliges and sticks a bill between her breasts.
She says, “Thank you.” 
And I wonder if she dances for the money
or the adulation of the crowd. 
But, when she gets around to me, she says
“Hi, Pete. Long time no see,” and gives me a peck
on the cheek.
I had gone out with her years ago when she was still Amy,
before she became a dancer and before she played
Samantha the blonde-haired school girl with
the white blouse, pig tails, pleated plaid skirt, knee
high socks and pumps and don’t forget the lollipop
or before she was Cheri the rah-rah-rah, red headed
cheerleader.
She could shake her pompoms, but she could
change her mind and mood like she changes her act.
And somewhere between remembering the love and
the lust, I slip her a buck.
She says. “Thanks. Maybe we can have a drink later?”
“Sorry, but I’ve got to go soon.” 
“Another time? “ 
“Yeah, some other time.” 
She smiles and moves on to play the crowd like she once
played me, but now I know it’s all a tease. 
She dances for herself.