Short Stories

Skin Dancer

The building was filled with smoke or gas of some sort. White lights flashed, and aggressive music blared throughout the air. As I walked deeper into the heart of the establishment, I started to see people dancing on stages, above all the spectators, clearly visible. The stages were so high and so small they were basically pedestals. Skin was everywhere. The dancers showed seventy percent of their skin at the very least. Stomachs and backs were a commonly showed part. Skintight clothes were the only type of clothes they wore. Netting stretched over thighs and stomachs, sometimes ripped. Leather clung to legs, breasts, groins. Glitter and transparent cloth was used for decoration. Everything was flashing, there was so much to take in. So much motion, so much skin, so much skin. All types of people were dancing, from playful women to aggressive boys. My eyes caught on a boy with what looked like silver hair in the flashing lights. It must have been the palest blonde ever. With high cheekbones and long eyelashes, he looked like something straight out of royalty. He contorted his body in all sorts of ways, bending and moving to the beat of the music. Rough-looking pants clung to his legs, ripped up in several places, and his feet and torso were bare. He was lean-muscled, and had grime and sweat over his bared flesh. His muscles rippled as he worked to entertain those who watched on. His eyes were half-closed, and he seemed to be in a meditative state.

Walking on, I watched a girl with wide eyes and curly hair for a bit as she strutted, swinging her head and her hips around. Then I moved on to a man with a transparent shirt dance at his audience, attacking them with his angry movements. The music changed, and around me, the dancers stepped down off of their pedestals. Those who had been watching the dancers slowly started to coalesce into a giant mob of people pressing into each other. I found myself suffocating between two men gyrating their hips toward others. I tried to relax and let my body be carried by the crowd, but I couldn't. Slipping through tiny spaces, I made it to the bathrooms, which weren't as brightly lit as I would have preferred. The walls were brick and the stalls were wooden, polished to a fine sheen, then scratched repeatedly; the mirrors were covered in the same grit and grime the dancers seemed to have on them. Thankfully, the sinks themselves were pristine.

I splashed cold water onto my face and exited back into the heat and chaos of the crowd. I needed to leave. Before I could make it out into the fresh air of the night, the boy I had stopped to watch for most of the time here brushed up against me. I turned to look at him, startled. We made eye contact, and I saw intensity and slight amusement in his. His skin slid against mine, and I stumbled back, not wanting it. He was hot and sweaty, and I could feel every inch of skin he pressed against me. I was hyper-aware of it. If I wasn't already red in the face from the heat and energy of the crowd around me, I would have blushed. He slowed to a stop and grabbed my arm. I could feel the muscles in his shoulders twitch, overworked. I tried to escape, but he was gripping my arm too hard. He began to dance again, but not up against me. Using his flexibility and ... experience, he led me through the tightly pressed people to the exit. I opened my mouth to thank him, but he returned to the throng without another glance at me.

I stepped outside. The road was wet, and the air was cold. I sighed, thankful to be out of the inconspicuous building.