Smoke

It was a thing. You'd sashay 
around the club, asking again and again, 
Do you want a lap dance? 
and sometimes they'd say yes, 
and you'd take their hand and lead them 
behind a heavy red curtain 
that smelled like perfume 
from all the clouds and curls 
of fake smoke rolling off the stage, 
reminiscent of fog over a desolate moor, 
echoing the howls of ghostly hounds 
in the empty breasts of men. And you'd 
grind and pump and make 
your twenty bucks, which wasn't a lot, 
and it was pretty awful, 
but the yes's weren't as bad as the no's, 
when they'd shake their heads 
or frantically wave their hands, 
when they'd look you over then look away, 
as if you'd offended them just by asking, 
as if you were putting them out
by offering to make all 
of their dreams come true, as if 
your body were merely a vessel, nothing 
more than a receptacle for the male gaze, 
as if rejection rolled off of you like water 
or dissipated as easily as smoke.