Show night. Rushing to get everything together. Surveying the crowd. Adrenaline in my veins. Every time it’s the same: my life depends on it.
My fans always described my appearance as “striking,” sometimes “eclectic,” and if I’m lucky, “sexy.” I think it’s the electric blue eyeliner and the way sheer fabric clings to my abs like I vacuum-sealed it there. No one handles a microphone like I do. No one can dance like I do. And I know it. And I love it.
I always spare a few minutes to admire myself before showtime. Ugh, every night I outdo myself. My stage manager oggles me with the same expression as ever; he’s completely captivated. He’s staring. If he could see himself, he would be so embarrassed. The self-awareness he lacks is endearing, really! But that’s not what matters. I look so good that nothing else is real to him. He can only see me. That’s what matters. And a couple nights ago he said he was “straight.” What a joke.
Finally, I step onto the stage outfitted in stilettos, a choker, and a vicious grin the devil gave me himself. I grasp the mic — it can feel my sharp acrylics digging in. Showtime.