3. Charlie
Charlie
Pole isn’t therapy, exactly. But it’s mine. The only place where my body feels like it belongs to me again, not to the church or the backwoods or the men who tried to pray and beat the softness out of me.
I love this city with my full body, it’s the first real breath I ever took.
Here I can wear the eyeliner and the cropped hoodie and the little silver hoops without waiting for the next fist or the next sermon.
I can disappear into the crowd when I need to and still stand out when I don’t.
Fitting in and blending in at the same time.
It’s the closest thing I’ve found to freedom.
Lucy’s already at the studio when I push through the door, bass thumping low through the speakers. She’s in her usual neon sports bra and leggings, legs wrapped around the pole like she was born there. She spots me and grins, wide and wicked.
“Late again, princess. Rough night with the ghosts?”
I flip her off, but my voice stays soft, the way it always does unless someone really pushes. “Just the usual. Dreamed I was back in the prayer room with the demons who run the church. Woke up tasting communion wine and shame of my very existence. You know how it is.”
She laughs, but her eyes soften the way only Lucy’s do. She was the first person I told about the conversion camp after I ran. Never flinched even once, and she doesn’t show me pity. “You want the slow playlist or the one that makes you forget your own name?”
“Slow,” I say, already peeling off my hoodie and heading for a changing room. “I need to feel it today.”
“Anything for you,” she says as I shut the door between us.
I get changed quickly and come out in my four-inch heels. She whistles low and long when I appear, spinning on the pole just to show off.
“Have I mentioned that I wish you were just a femboy who was straight?”
“A hundred times at least,” I laugh, striking a dramatic pose with one hand on my hip.
She sighs theatrically, clutching her chest like she’s in a telenovela. “I’m the textbook best friend in love with her gay bestie. It’s tragic. Shakespearean. I should get a cape and everything.”
“You’d look terrible in a cape,” I deadpan, walking over to the pole next to hers. “You’d trip over it and break an ankle, then I’d have to carry your dramatic ass home while you moaned about lost love.”
Lucy gasps, fake-offended. “Rude! I’d make it work. Black velvet cape, thigh-high boots, the whole villainess look. You’d be my tragic gay sidekick who pines for unattainable masc men with trauma.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning. “Unattainable masc men with trauma? Sounds like a very specific category on Pornhub.”
“Exactly! And you’re the star of it, baby.” She winks, then drops into a slow spin, hair flying. “Seriously though, if you ever decide to switch teams, I’ve got first dibs. I’ll even learn how to top.”
“You couldn’t top a toaster,” I shoot back, voice soft but dripping with mock pity as I grip the pole and pull myself up. “You’re too busy crying during Pixar movies to dominate anyone.”
“Hey! Wall-E is emotionally devastating!” She laughs so hard she almost loses her grip. “And for the record, I could absolutely top if the right soft boy begged pretty enough. You’d look cute on your knees, Charlie.”
I nearly choke on my own laugh, cheeks heating even though it’s just us. “Jesus, Luce. Buy me dinner first.”
“Fine. After class I’m buying you the greasiest halal cart food on the block, and you’re gonna tell me every filthy detail about whatever sad, broody man you’re gonna eye-fuck in group tonight.”
I freeze mid-spin, then recover with a little flourish. “I do not eye-fuck anyone in group.”
“Liar. Last week you spent forty minutes staring at that quiet tattooed guy like he was a rescue puppy you wanted to take home and fix.”
“He had sad eyes!”
“You have a type, babe. Tall, damaged, and emotionally unavailable. It’s concerning.” She grins, spinning upside down like it’s nothing. “Just promise me if you bring one home, you’ll let me vet him first. I don’t need another repeat of Derek-the-closeted-wall-street-wolf disaster.”
“That was one time,” I groan, dropping into a slow body roll. “And he only ghosted me because his mother found my lipstick on his collar.”
“Exactly. So next time we do full background checks. Including dick size. For science. You don’t want your poor evil cat to have a bad second daddy, do you?”
“Leave Sofia out of this.” I barely get the words out before I burst out laughing so hard I have to hook my leg tighter to stay on the pole. “You’re terrible.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
We keep trading shit the whole warm-up—stupid, filthy, ridiculous banter that makes the heavy stuff feel a little lighter. By the time the slow playlist kicks in and the lights dim, the nightmares feel farther away. Not gone. Never gone. But manageable.
I lose myself in the music and the burn in my muscles, every spin and drop another quiet fuck-you to the people who tried to carve me hollow.
When we’re both covered in sweat and panting, we drop down to the floor mats and lean against our respective poles facing each other. My thighs are burning in the best way, chest heaving, the silver hoops in my ears cool against my flushed skin.
“So, want to go out tonight?” Lucy asks, wiping sweat from her collarbone with the hem of her loose shirt. “There’s this new queer night at The Spot. Cheap drinks, good music, and zero chance of straight boys crying about their feelings.”
I shake my head, still catching my breath. “I’m going to group, and then tonight I am going to focus on my painting. I think I need it after that nightmare.”
Lucy’s grin softens, but she doesn’t push the idea.
She never does. That’s why she’s Lucy and my best friend in the entire world.
“Fair. You want me to walk you over? I can be your emotional support and silently threaten anyone who looks at you funny. I’ll scare them off with my superior upper-body strength and great thighs. ”
I laugh under my breath. “Tempting. But I think I can handle walking a couple blocks. Besides, doesn’t that bartender you have your eyes on work at The Spot?”
She shrugs. “He’s hot, but the ‘ma’am’ thing does things to me I’m not proud of. Last time I almost begged him to let me follow him into the backroom. And he might be gay. Maybe you should hit on him.”
“Maybe you should find out,” I suggest with a smile.
“Maybe I will,” she shoots back with a wink.
I take a long drink from my water bottle, finally starting to cool down. “I should get ready to leave.”
“Same time tomorrow?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Lucy stands first, offering me a hand up even though we both know I don’t need it. She pulls me into a quick, sweaty hug anyway, her chin resting on my shoulder for a second.
“Have a great day at work and text me after group if you need to vent, or if any of the haunted boys are extra pretty tonight,” she murmurs. “I’m serious about the intervention if you try to adopt another sad one.”
“I’m not adopting anyone,” I mutter into her hair, but I’m smiling because we both know it’s true, at least partially.
“Sure you’re not.” She pulls back and taps my nose with one finger. “Have a great day. Remember: you’re healing, not their therapist. And if anyone gives you shit, you have my permission to go full sassy.”
“I’ll keep it to a low simmer,” I promise.
She grins, already grabbing her bag. “That’s my good girl. Love you, princess.”
“Love you, too, disaster.”
She blows kisses in my direction before she bounces out the door.
After she’s gone, I head for the showers.
The hot water feels amazing on my sore muscles.
I scrub off the sweat and let the water run an extra few minutes while I contemplate life and how it can change for the better, even when you think you’ve reached the lowest of lows.
Then I slip out and dry off, before pulling my cropped hoodie and ripped jeans back on. I reapply a little eyeliner because it makes me feel more like me and leave the small hoops in my ears. The chipped black polish probably needs a touch up. I’ll do it later.
By the time I step back onto the street, the city has shifted into full mid-morning mode.
The people who actually slept are on the streets, rushing to work or grabbing coffee, and the air is thick with street food that makes my stomach rumble.
I stop by a vendor and pay for a hot dog, topping it with everything he has at the stand.
I take a huge bite, smiling with mustard at the corner of my mouth.
God, I love this city. Every messy, loud, beautiful inch of it. Hot dogs for a late breakfast… the south could never.
I wipe mustard from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and keep walking, the morning sun warm on my face even if the breeze off the East River still carries a bite.
The nightmare tries to creep back in as I cross the street—the dim prayer room, the weight of adult hands on my shoulders, the low chant of “deliver us from perversion”—but I shove it down with the last bite of hot dog.
Not today, Satan. Not when the city is this loud and alive around me.
I’m here. I’m completely myself. I’m wearing eyeliner at eleven in the morning, and nobody’s staring like I’m about to burn in hell. That alone feels like winning.
I head for my part time job at the art supplies shop.
Honestly, I only work for Mrs. Lovelady because she gives me the damaged art supplies for free when she marks them out.
Sometimes I think she marks good ones out because she wants to make sure I have all the colors to choose from.
She’s sweet and lonely. So we get along well.