Page 6 of Body Language (Mind, Body, & Soul #2)
Niveah
If pressure had a location, it was GivGold.
From the second you stepped on the black marble, you could feel it—sex appeal with security clearance. It wasn’t a regular club. It was a curated experience… and broke was not on the guest list.
At the door, security didn’t play. Big men in black with voices that didn’t rise, just cut straight through the noise. If you looked like you weren’t there to spend heavy or lose big, you weren’t getting in. Men. Women. Didn’t matter.
They weren’t letting any dusty, clout-chasing, screenshot-taking, section-hopping folks mess up the vibe. If you didn’t come to drop a bag or risk your last check at the blackjack table, security would look you up and down and hit you with a polite:
“Not tonight.”
And baby, I respected it. You could smell money in the air mixed with Cuban cigars, coconut body oil, and the faintest whiff of jealousy. There were no lines inside. No pushing. No yelling. Everything moved like somebody planned it down to the last bottle sparkler.
Arlette had the shit figured out. She didn’t just build a club.
She built a damn economy. She had bottle girls in rotation looking like art pieces.
Some of them were real servers. Some were just…
plants. Pretty girls paid to flirt and fish for high rollers.
Dressed like guests but really surveillance with lashes.
Their job was to find the men and women with money and make sure that money never left the building unless it was on a tip.
I’ll give her that. She thought of everything. I knew right then that it wouldn’t be long before GivGold became the spot in all of Antionette.
Not the biggest. Not the loudest. But the most intentional, and intentional is where the real money lives.
The cherry on top was that she set me and Ty up real proper with our own dressing room.
Private and away from the rest of the girls.
Full-length mirrors. Plush white chairs.
Scented candles burning. A little fridge with champagne and pre-cut fruit. Even our names taped to the door:
MissBehavior & MissCommunication — Private Suite.
That’s the type of shit I’m talking about.
It wasn’t a broom closet, but a space. A reminder that we weren’t just there to shake ass and disappear.
We were assets. And Arlette earned herself some extra brownie points in my book for that.
What started as a quick money grab, A lil “lemme slide through, hit a lick, and go home” type deal?
Turned to something permanent real quick…
I walked into the VIP room where the poker tables were already set up—green velvet, gold trim, and enough silence to hear your thoughts.
Nobody else had been allowed in yet, which was exactly how I wanted it.
I needed the room to myself. Time to stretch.
Time to breathe. Time to slip into another world, the one I always go to before I perform.
When I dance, I don’t just move. I escape. I have to because I’ve always loved dance. Specifically ballet.
It was one of the only things offered at my raggedy public school growing up, so I clung to it like my life depended on it. It became my peace, my prayer, my portal.
People used to say I was born to be a star. That I’d make it big one day. That I had the discipline, the lines, the stage presence.
And maybe I would’ve…But life had other plans. Bills don’t wait on auditions. And my siblings couldn’t raise themselves.
So, the pole became my Plan B that paid like Plan A.
Still movement. Still beautiful. Still me, just under different lights.
The room had a small stage tucked in the corner, but it was everything I needed.
One single pole standing tall under a spotlight. Elegant and intimidating, like it was watching me back.
I stepped closer, running my hand up the cool metal.
It wasn’t just a stage, it was where women like me turned survival into art.
Arlette told me to keep it classy, and that’s always been my preferred lane anyway.
I’ve never had to get naked to get paid. I sold fantasy. I sold control. I sold softness with boundaries. And I stayed booked.
I wore a nude leotard that hugged every curve like it was made for my melanin. Paired it with nude stiletto heels so sharp, they could slice a man’s intentions in half. Honestly, what’s better than nude on chocolate?
Glistening under the lights like God made me for that moment and whispered, “Take everything.”
I sat at the edge of the stage, took a deep breath, and began to stretch—slowly, deliberately, letting my muscles remember who the hell I was.
Not just a dancer.
Not just a sister.
Not just a hustler.
But a woman who could bend without breaking.
The lights were low enough to make my body glisten under the spotlight. I had already slipped into my flow, already disappeared into that headspace where nothing mattered but breath, movement, and control.
A soft R&B beat floated through the sound system. I hung from the pole by my ankle, slowly spinning, watching my world tilt and come back to center.
Men started filing in. They came in loud, like all men do when they’re trying too hard to make each other believe they’re not afraid to lose.
“Y’all already know I’m taking everything tonight,” one said, laughing as he clapped his friend on the back. “Whoever sits across from me? Just donate your stack now, ‘cause I’m feelin’ lucky as fuck.”
They kept talking, joking, flexing, slapping hands, and still found time to watch me.
I shifted into a superman hold, body extended out mid-air, heels slicing the air slow and deliberate.
I heard one of them mumble, “Damn, she's sexy as hell…”
I didn’t say a word. Just turned my head, locked eyes with him, then looked away like he never existed. I don’t talk when I dance. My body does all the speaking.
Another man chuckled. “Aight, she one of those. Don’t say anything. Just make you feel it.”
They kept watching, and I kept moving. Smooth, sensual, like I was made of syrup. Every swing, every hold, every grind down that pole.
Then maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the sway of my body.
But something broke open in them. Like they forgot I was there at all. Like I was the music. The light. The background of their boldness.
“That fool still coming tonight?” one asked, low but not low enough.
“Yeah,” the other one said, sliding into his seat. “His ass thinks he's slick. Don’t even know we already onto his play. Soon as he flash that bet, I’m baitin’ him and we cleanin’ him out.”
“Oh, he getting tricked tonight. Believe that.”
I kept dancing. But my ears? Wide open. My body rolled down the pole, back arched, knees bent, heels landing softly. I hit the floor in a slow crawl, flipping my hair like I couldn’t hear a thing. More men came in, dap’d up their friends, grabbed drinks, whispered side bets.
The dealer walked in next. Buttoned up, sharp as hell, “We ready to start?”
And then…
That voice.
Deep. Smooth. Calm like danger that doesn’t raise its tone.
“The most important player hasn’t even made it in the room yet.”
I was mid-spin, upside down again, but I felt it in my spine. The way that voice slid into the room and laid itself down like power.
I lifted my head, curious, because if your voice sounded like that—your face better match.
And Lord…It did.
He wasn’t flashy like the rest. No chains swinging. No loud colors. No diamonds fighting for attention. Just a crisp black suit. Tailored to the body of a man who worked out but didn’t brag about it. A fresh fade. And a beard that looked like God shaped it Himself.
What got me was …. He didn’t walk to the table first. He walked to me.
Direct. Intentional. Quietly arrogant in that way that rich, fine men who don’t need attention always are.
He stopped a few feet from the stage and just looked at me. Not hungry. Not thirsty. Just… curious. Present.
I never had a man look at me like that. Or maybe I just never wanted one bad enough to notice.
He didn’t throw money. Instead, he nodded to the man standing behind him. The man knelt down, opened a leather briefcase, and pulled out a thick stack. Fine ass mystery man bent down and placed it gently at the base of my stage. Didn’t say a word. Just rubbed his beard, smirked slightly…
And that’s when I saw it. The Shamballa bracelet.
Real ones know. 18k beads. Diamond-encrusted. Retail price is every bit of forty bands.
He rubbed his hand across his beard again, and I couldn’t help but follow the motion of his wrist. That bracelet glittered like it had secrets. And I wanted to know all of them.
My hips moved slower. My lock on him deepened. I didn’t even know his name…
But I already knew, I wanted him.