Jordana Torres

The dim lights of the club flicker above me as I nervously make my way through the entrance, my heart pounding against my chest. The air is thick with anticipation and the unmistakable scent of cheap perfume. I tug my leather jacket tighter over my white lace bralette, the thin fabric doing little to calm the chill...or my nerves. My low-rise black spandex shorts cling to my hips, white fishnets tracing my legs down to a pair of worn white Nikes. Long black hair cascades down my back, swaying with each step, and I catch glimpses of my reflection in the mirrors lining the walls...blue eyes trying not to betray the anxiety buried beneath my confident facade.

As I approach the bar, the bouncer eyes me skeptically, questioning my ID, his skepticism slicing through my shaky confidence. I am screwed. My stomach knots. Then I see you across the room...I can tell you're the owner or manager someone important. I lift my chin and step forward, clearing my throat to be heard over the bass. "Hey! I just… I need this chance," I say, my voice pushing past the tremble in my chest. "Let me on that stage. I’ll show you what I’ve got." There’s desperation in my tone, sure...but underneath it burns the fire of someone who’s got nothing left to lose.