Each sway of my hips, the coy smiles, even the suggestive flick of a feather boa, they were all interpretive dialogues in the language of erotica. The stage was my canvas, my body the paintbrush, the aroma of anticipation the paint. The desire was palpable, the human connection real, their gaze on me, almost a palpable touch. As the heavy silk of my kimono slid down the curve of my shoulder with calculated slowness, I could almost inhale the collective breath the audience held. The tension - that beautifully exquisite tension - was a caress, a tangible entity that lifted me, guided me. Yet it wasn't just about baring my flesh, it was about exposing my vulnerability, my truth. About harnessing the power in surrender, wielding that raw, emotional intensity like a whip, cracking open the facade of my audience to reveal adult links of their own hidden desires and hushed fantasies.
I didn't just dance. I played with the tension, the anticipation, drawing it out, teasing it, until it was a pulsing, living thing. I was not just a burlesque performer, age 47, of Korean descent and of non-binary identification; I was an artist, unveiling truths and eliciting emotions that were often left untouched in the cold corners of their consciousness. The stage would empty, the lights would dim, but I would leave behind a lingering echo of desire, a memory of surrender and strength, an imprint of my performance that clung to the skin and whispered to the senses long after the final bows had been taken. Because this... this was my art. This was the world I designed and reveled in, the world where I was unabashedly, undeniably, unapologetically Jules.
