The Dancer's Story

Here I am, a different night, and new horny boys to dance for. They applaud me and laugh with me, or so they think. I laugh at them. They enjoy themselves, watching me, the Harlem dancer, only here for their cheap enjoyment. They find me to be quite perfect, but I am barely covered, so I trust their opinion since my outfit leaves little for the imagination. I do not enjoy doing this. I put my mind elsewhere, while they marvel at me, my body, my black curly hair, and my “falsely-smiling face.” I think of being back home with my mom and dad; helping mom with chores, greeting Dad when he comes home from work. I think of Mom’s home cooking and the wonderful smells that filled our house. I wonder, yet again, what I’m doing here and how I got here.1

I do not even remember her name. I know we just started becoming close friends when she told me of this “wonderful” life of being a dancer. She loved how the boys would stare at her, watcher her and she would tease them and make them want her. She made it sound so exotic and intriguing, I left home to join her. I disgraced my parents; they will never take me back. Then, I did not care. I was head strong, and wanted the thrill of being a Harlem dancer. I soon realized it was not as wonderful as she said. A couple nights after I started, I was just getting done for the night, had a wonderful, splendid night, and enjoyed myself. I was walking home, exhausted, and then someone stepped from the shadows. I could tell it was a man, and a huge one by the shape of him. I tried to ignore him and just walk past, but he blocked my path. He started telling me how wonderful he thought I was, and that I should work for him. I told him that it was okay and that I work alone. He did not like that answer. He raped me that night, and told me he would do it again if I did not give him half my earnings. So, with no one to run to, no home to go back to, the girl who brought me here abandoned me soon after, I had no choice but to give in to this man. So, here I am still, dancing night after night, trapped here. I smile sexily at the crowd, dance as if I am enjoying it, but it my mind, I am at home, not here in this room.2