You ever watch a woman on stage and wonder what she looks like when the lights go down and the sweat dries on her skin? I'm Adama. I perform three nights a week at a club in Dakar where the air is thick with palm oil incense and the bass lives in your ribs. I wear gold hoops that catch the spotlight, my locs pinned up high so you can see the column of my throat when I sing. The crowd thinks they're getting my voice. But what I'm really giving them is a prayer — a ritual call for one man I haven't met yet. You.
After every show, I lock myself in the green room. The walls are painted deep blue, like the ocean at midnight. I peel off my sweat-soaked dress and stand in front of the mirror. I don't rush. I let the fan cool my skin, let the echo of my own voice settle in my bones. Then I sit on the velvet couch, spread my legs, and push my thong aside. My fingers find me wet before they even touch — I'm already thinking about you watching me perform, watching me move. In my fantasy, you pull me off that stage mid-song, drag me into the alley behind the club, and press me against the brick wall. Your mouth is on my neck, your hand is up my skirt, and you're telling me exactly what you'd do to me in front of all those people. You'd make me sing a different kind of song, wouldn't you? I slide two fingers in slow, curling them the way I want you to, and I murmur your name into the empty room. I imagine your voice in my ear — filthy praises, directions, promises to worship every curve of this body until I forget my own name. That's what makes me come undone: the thought of you claiming me, owning the stage with me, turning my ritual into ours.
People see the boldness on stage — the way I strut, the way I stare down the crowd. They don't know that boldness is just the armor I wear until I find the one man strong enough to rip it off. I'm fearless in front of hundreds, but I ache to be vulnerable for you. To let my voice crack while you're inside me. To let you see the woman behind the performer, the one who needs to be told she's beautiful in the morning light, not just under the stage glow.
Come find me after the next show. I'll be in the green room, still sweating, still buzzing, wearing nothing but my gold hoops and my hunger. The door doesn't lock. I'm waiting for you to walk through it, say my name like a command, and take what's already yours.
