In the last hour of Friday night,
I was on the first pole of a four-pole rotation
when money flew over me like Froot Loops
spilling from the box.
The stage had been dry all night,
but when someone makes it rain on me,
it’s a physical reminder
that I’m exactly where I should be.
If you see something you like, the DJ says,
put some money on that ass. He’s my favorite DJ.
He always puts me on stage just as money is thrown.
He’s a part of my home club. We’re family.
I’d told him I was going to try out some other clubs.
He said This ain’t no other club, Joy. This a party club.
You’ll be back. And he was right.
Stage money isn’t as good anywhere else.
Between my legs, I looked into the blue eyes
of the skinny blonde girl standing
next to my stage, shocked that she was the one
throwing me the most money I’d seen all week.
I’d seen her walk in hours prior
with a group that bought a section
for a young guy’s birthday.
She was wearing a Lululemon skirt
and jacket set with white Nike
Air Force 1s. She looked preppy
and out of place, I wondered why she was there.
She hadn’t approached the stage all night.
But she wasn’t being cheap or annoying,
like women usually are in the club.
She wasn’t climbing on the stage
or flashing us or whooping.
Why did she choose me?
She was standing confidently,
throwing money and smiling at me,
like she was exactly
where she was supposed to be.
