Guava 6, Blue Raspberry 26: Beat Control
Title: Beat Control
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Guava 6 (all the live-long day), blue raspberry 26 (brainwashing) malt (icthusfish's easter egg), rainbow sprinkles (Joy).
Word Count: 500
Rating: PG.
Summary: The beat is in her blood.
Notes: Title from a Tilly and the Wall song. For this weekend's challenge; a female character's relationship with music.
Joy wakes up dancing.
People say, when she talks about it, that this is an exaggeration. They say no one wakes up dancing. She says they have never been her, have never heard the music of the radio, blasting from her alarm, pounding in her blood, have never felt their toes point and their legs stretch, eager to be dancing.
When she was a girl, she danced, always. She danced in church when the choir sang-- her parents, indulgent as always, started to sit in the back pew so she wouldn't distract anyone. She danced in stores when the music came over the speakers. She danced in the car to the radio, albiet in a severly limited fashion since she couldn't move her feet.
Her parents are wise as well as indulgent. The moment she was old enough, they enrolled her in ballet lessons.
She took more, as she grew. Jazz, tap, swing, ballroom. With a partner or without, with an audience or without, the music burns in her blood and moves her feet, sets her heart pounding with the drums.
She is the one in the front row of concerts, dancing with her head thrown back and the percussion beating through her body. She is the one tapping her feet to the rhythm. She leaves her boyfriends in the dust.
She didn't go to college, because college had no dancing in it, no music to guide her feet. She went straight to the stage, got a job in the chorus on some show. She thought she'd love it.
She quit after two months.
It was the choreographers. Joy hated doing the same steps, hour after hour, day after day. She hated having someone tell her how to dance. It is so hard to be obedient, to follow the plan when the music tells her otherwise.
Stripping seemed only natural, under the circumstances.
Not to anyone who isn't Joy, apparently. Her parents look at her askance, though they don't say much that she remembers. Her friends from high school laugh at her. But on that stage, when she's dancing, she can do anything she wants. She doesn't have to worry about being sexy; her legs and her tits and her long blonde hair do that for her. She only has to turn off her mind and let the music take control.
Sometimes it's a letdown, when she opens her eyes at the end of a set and sees all the men who only see her body.
But sometimes the music is still there, still slamming through her blood. Sometimes she thinks of nothing but the moving air across her skin, the strength in her muscles, the way every part of her goes precisely where she wants it. On those days, she is the luckiest girl in the world, because she gets paid three hundred dollars to dance and dance and dance.
She'll never stop dancing. The music won't let her.
She's glad of that, though.
She hopes it never goes.
Main Story: In the Heart
Flavors, Toppings, Extras: Guava 6 (all the live-long day), blue raspberry 26 (brainwashing) malt (icthusfish's easter egg), rainbow sprinkles (Joy).
Word Count: 500
Rating: PG.
Summary: The beat is in her blood.
Notes: Title from a Tilly and the Wall song. For this weekend's challenge; a female character's relationship with music.
Joy wakes up dancing.
People say, when she talks about it, that this is an exaggeration. They say no one wakes up dancing. She says they have never been her, have never heard the music of the radio, blasting from her alarm, pounding in her blood, have never felt their toes point and their legs stretch, eager to be dancing.
When she was a girl, she danced, always. She danced in church when the choir sang-- her parents, indulgent as always, started to sit in the back pew so she wouldn't distract anyone. She danced in stores when the music came over the speakers. She danced in the car to the radio, albiet in a severly limited fashion since she couldn't move her feet.
Her parents are wise as well as indulgent. The moment she was old enough, they enrolled her in ballet lessons.
She took more, as she grew. Jazz, tap, swing, ballroom. With a partner or without, with an audience or without, the music burns in her blood and moves her feet, sets her heart pounding with the drums.
She is the one in the front row of concerts, dancing with her head thrown back and the percussion beating through her body. She is the one tapping her feet to the rhythm. She leaves her boyfriends in the dust.
She didn't go to college, because college had no dancing in it, no music to guide her feet. She went straight to the stage, got a job in the chorus on some show. She thought she'd love it.
She quit after two months.
It was the choreographers. Joy hated doing the same steps, hour after hour, day after day. She hated having someone tell her how to dance. It is so hard to be obedient, to follow the plan when the music tells her otherwise.
Stripping seemed only natural, under the circumstances.
Not to anyone who isn't Joy, apparently. Her parents look at her askance, though they don't say much that she remembers. Her friends from high school laugh at her. But on that stage, when she's dancing, she can do anything she wants. She doesn't have to worry about being sexy; her legs and her tits and her long blonde hair do that for her. She only has to turn off her mind and let the music take control.
Sometimes it's a letdown, when she opens her eyes at the end of a set and sees all the men who only see her body.
But sometimes the music is still there, still slamming through her blood. Sometimes she thinks of nothing but the moving air across her skin, the strength in her muscles, the way every part of her goes precisely where she wants it. On those days, she is the luckiest girl in the world, because she gets paid three hundred dollars to dance and dance and dance.
She'll never stop dancing. The music won't let her.
She's glad of that, though.
She hopes it never goes.