India Alessandra

We dance in a literal cage at this club. Is it empowering? We aren’t too sure. But it’s fun and people look at us. We are always wanting people to look at us.

Older men dressed in semi expensive suits move in packs. They circle us like sharks, hungry for our youth and our innocence. But we aren’t here for hook ups. Only free drinks and attention. Luckily we are served both.

Delete that photo. I fucking hate it. Wait, don’t put your phone away. We’ve gotta keep projecting that image, the one of perfection. The club photographer takes a snap. Oh god. How will it look tomorrow? In two days? Why do I care so much? Wait, why isn’t anyone looking at me?

Swing your hips in time to the music. Face twisted in what you hope is an attractive pouty expression. This is your moment to show off those moves you practiced in the mirror. This is your moment to prove you are attractive, to prove that you are truly fuckable.

Those four tequila sunrises are beginning to catch up with you now. You watch as other girls dance in the cage. Early thirties wearing tight leather pants with an unmistakable stench of desperation. They need this and we don’t, you think coldly. Something about them actually trying to sleep with the men in this club makes your skin crawl. They are a cautionary tale of what you could become.

But never mind all that. Slam another tequila shot and continue indulging in this patriarchal bullshit. Free drinks and male attention will suffice for tonight. Tomorrow you will nurse your hangover, and perhaps try to remember your Feminist values