Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Like I wear lovely lingerie—so I can take back my power, even if it’s just for me.
I glance at her racy red sports bra, then down at my beige fitted tee that covers so much skin—skin I need to show to do the moves I crave. We’ve never discussed why I wear short-sleeve shirts to class. Kyla’s never asked, nor has she butted in to suggest I wear a sports bra like she does. She accepts her students for who they are, where they are, and however they feel comfortable in their skin.
But I came here tonight for a reset, not to document it, so I shove those nagging little wishes far away. I stayed to help, not to make this moment about me. “Let me get your videos.”
She pauses, but then acquiesces. “Sure,” she says, handing me her phone.
She grabs the pole and whips through several advanced tricks like a dance ninja, moving from a Superman to the Titanic, a shoulder mount to a brass monkey, till she executes an Ayesha—an upside-down V where she’s holding on with only her hands. It’s so good I don’t dare breathe as I shoot the video. I don’t want to be the one to mess up this moment. When she flips off the pole, I clap loudly. “You look like a goddess.”
She catches her breath, then says in a warm, encouraging voice, “So do you, Everly.”
I peer around the studio for good measure. It’s just us. No other students, and none are coming.
It’s been a year and a half of me wearing T-shirts.
A year and a half of holding back.
A year and a half of longing to let go.
Maybe it’s time to stop hiding.
Pole isn’t just for my friends and me. It’s also for only me.
After today, and how I handled the event, maybe I am ready. Or maybe I’m not but I think I’m doing it anyway. Courage isn’t always something you’re ready for. Sometimes you have to choose it. I hand her the phone. “Will you take a picture…for me?”
Her smile is proud. “I will.”
Then I do something incredibly hard. I take off my shirt, leaving on only my sports bra with my short shorts. I roll my lips together, bracing myself.
But Kyla doesn’t cringe at all the scars on display, the zigzags down my back, the jagged cuts on my arm, the raised one across my shoulder. She looks at me…the same. Before and after, scars and all. I walk to the pole, feeling horribly vulnerable that the parts I like least are visible at last.
But then…fuck it. I grab the pole and kick up into my outside leg hang, dropping my head toward the floor. I’m still holding on like I’ve done every single time, in every single class. My life hack. My workaround.
Except…what if?
I let go, and press the outside of my now bare arms against the pole—skin to metal for the first time ever.
She snaps a shot and cheers. “You nailed it,” she says, even brighter than before.
I stay upside down for a beat, savoring the way my arms tingle, how I feel the slightest bit lightheaded but in a good way. Mostly, how I’m strong and powerful.
When I step off the pole my throat is tight. Quickly, I pull the shirt back on. “I don’t know if I’ll do that in class,” I say quietly.
She gives a one-shoulder shrug and a smile. “We’re all ready for things at different times in our life. Wear what you want. Try what you want. Just keep coming.”
“I will,” I say, then I leave, feeling like I’ve reset my mind in the most necessary way—through my body. Pole dancing has always done that for me since I started it. It’s a reclaiming of my body. Of myself. Of being alive.
I head home, hop into the shower, and wash off the chaos of the day and the hard work of the class. When I’m done, I tug on sweats and a tank top, then head to the kitchen as the door buzzer sounds from my phone. Worry races through me. It’s evening. I’m not expecting a delivery. And I certainly don’t answer the door to strangers.
Like it’s a gun I need for protection, I grab my phone from my sweatpants pocket.
Oh.
The camera app tells me it’s not a stranger with a delivery. It’s Max with a delivery. An annoying burst of excitement rushes through me, along with nerves too. No idea why he’s here. I wish I weren’t excited at all to see him. I wish I felt nothing.
But I don’t. I feel too much for a man I can’t have. That’s the problem.
I grab a hoodie and zip it up halfway since I might be ready for my teacher to see my scars but I’m not ready for Max to see all of me.