I’m lying on my back the way he wants me. I long to touch you but he has not paid for that tonight. He breathes too close, stands behind the bed. You watch me as I’m told to run my hands down my own body, pretend I don’t know how it feels. I play the virgin and the whore, linger on your heavy curves. Darker, bolder, more defined. Unlike the surface I show for him, narrow hips, a hint of muscle.
He calls himself an artist, but we are on the bed and he does not want or try to get inside us. I’ve seen his paintings, erratic not erotic. In a certain light he is unimposing, drooling dumb baby that will not suckle. But his white sack flesh stoops over us and hair curls out from the back of his blunt head like hooks.
My hand is wet between my thighs. A bent knee wards him off, but one leg is trapped beneath a crumpled sheet. Naked to him, open to you, we are not allowed to speak. We use our tongues for other things. You turn to face me. Beautiful, not quite my mirror. I like to think that you are here by choice. You are educated, and I am the ballerina with a weary look. Forced to act, I sweep my hair back, rest my head on my other hand. He pays for this, every time I come and you are watching.