No Touching Allowed

The first beat of the bass hits me right in the chest, and I swear my pulse syncs to the rhythm. Out here, under the hot pink and electric blue lights, I’m not Zara-who-worries-about-the-electric-bill or Zara-who-has-to-pretend-she’s-fine-when-she’s-not. I’m Zara Queen. Performer. Goddess. Whatever they want me to be.

I know they’re all watching me—men with their mouths half open, women giving me that mix of envy and curiosity, the kind that says, “I wish I could do that.” I feel the stares slide over my skin like warm oil. The sequins on my two-piece catch the light with every turn, sparkling like I’ve got stars sewn into the fabric.

The song is loud enough to make the floor vibrate under my heels. I let it carry me, let the music curl through my limbs, bending my spine and stretching my arms out toward the crowd. My hair catches the air when I spin, my lips curling into a smirk I’ve practiced a thousand times in the mirror but still somehow feels natural up here.

I make eye contact with a guy at the front—a suit, probably too polished for a Wednesday night—and watch him forget to breathe. That’s the thing about performing here. It’s not just about moving to the beat; it’s about taking control of the room, catching someone’s gaze and not letting go until you decide they’ve had enough.

The spotlight follows me as I strut to the edge of the stage. My heels click against the polished wood, but the sound is drowned out by the pounding track and the low hum of anticipation that always comes from the crowd. I lean down slightly, close enough for them to think I might touch them, then pull back just enough to make them want more.

I’m smiling, laughing inside at the way they’re eating it up. They have no idea that five minutes ago, backstage, I was sitting with my head in my hands, telling myself to just get through another night.

I flip my hair back, the strands brushing over my shoulders. My body moves in practiced patterns, but my mind wanders. It always does. I think about the bills I left on my kitchen counter. The text from my landlord I haven’t opened yet. The way the rain’s been falling for days and the faint smell of damp in my apartment that I keep trying to ignore.

A cheer from the left snaps me back. I tilt my head toward the sound, giving the guys in that section a wink. One of them nearly falls off his chair. That gets me laughing for real, and the joy of it floods through me like champagne bubbles.

People think dancing here is all about sex. Sure, there’s heat, there’s teasing, but for me, it’s about control. I decide what they see, what they think they can have. I decide when the fantasy begins and when it ends. Out here, I’m the one in charge.

The song shifts, the bass line deepening, and I drop low, my palms brushing the floor before I push back up, rolling my hips to the beat. My thighs burn, but I don’t let it show. You can’t show strain. You can’t show anything that makes them think you’re not untouchable.

Untouchable. That’s a joke. Under the makeup and sequins, I’m just a girl who once slept in her car for a week because rent was late. Who’s made mistakes. Who still doesn’t know how to stop making them.

I catch sight of my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar. My smile is perfect, my eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. But I can see the faint lines around my eyes from nights when I’ve cried off all my mascara before falling asleep. Nobody else can see that from out there. That’s the point.

A group of women at a table near the back are clapping along to the music. I blow them a kiss, and they cheer louder. That’s another thing—people assume only men come here. But some of my favorite regulars are women out with friends, celebrating birthdays or divorces or just the fact that they can. I like those nights best. Less expectation, more fun.

The track builds toward its final chorus. I grab the pole at center stage, spinning around it in one smooth motion, letting the momentum carry me. My calves ache, my core screams from holding the shape, but the crowd roars like I just defied gravity.

And maybe I have, in a way. Maybe every night I step on this stage, I’m defying the version of my life that was supposed to happen. The one where I stayed in my small hometown, married my high school boyfriend, and worked in a grocery store until my back gave out.

Not that this life is perfect. God, no. But it’s mine.

The song ends with a final pulse of bass, and I strike my finishing pose—hips tilted, arms stretched overhead, chin lifted like I own the place. The applause hits like a wave, and I ride it, breathing hard but smiling wide.

I step back from the edge of the stage, letting the lights dim just enough for me to slip into the shadows. My heels click against the narrow backstage hallway, and the second I’m out of sight, my shoulders sag. My chest still rises and falls from the adrenaline, but already the mask is slipping.

“Great set, Queen,” one of the other dancers says as she passes, glitter shimmering on her cheekbones. I give her a thumbs-up, but my voice feels stuck somewhere in my throat.

In my dressing corner—calling it a room would be generous—I sink onto the little stool in front of the mirror. My reflection is still dazzling, still smiling faintly like the show hasn’t ended. But I see the hollowness behind my own eyes.

The applause fades, replaced by muffled music from the next act. My ears ring in the sudden quiet, and I lean forward, elbows on my knees. I tell myself I’m just catching my breath, but my heart is pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the performance.

I think about the text from my landlord again. About how the rain won’t stop, about the slow drip I’ve been ignoring in the kitchen ceiling. The smell of damp is worse every time I go home.

I’m still staring into the mirror when someone knocks on the doorframe.

“Zara?” It’s Marco, the stage manager. He looks… uncomfortable.

My stomach sinks. “What’s up?”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “You might want to check your phone. Your landlord’s been calling.”

My pulse kicks up. “Why?”

Marco winces. “I heard him say something about flooding. Said it’s urgent.”

The air feels suddenly heavy, like the stage lights followed me back here and are pressing down on my shoulders. I grab my phone from the vanity, my fingers trembling as I unlock the screen.

Three missed calls. Two voicemails. One text.

I open the text first.

Zara, call me back right now. It’s about your apartment.

My throat is dry when I hit the call button.

He picks up on the first ring. “Zara? You need to get home. Now. The water—”

The line crackles, and his voice cuts out.

“What water?” I say, my own voice rising.

Silence. Then the call drops completely.

I stare at the phone in my hand, the bass from the next act thudding faintly through the walls. I’m still in sequins and heels, sweat cooling on my skin, heart racing.

And I have a horrible feeling I already know what he was about to say.