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The night had dressed Punto Rosso, my favorite place in Milano, in its nocturnal gown of crimson lights and vibrant energy. In a year, I had turned from an uncertain 52-year-old to a prominent pole dancer, a staple in our corner of the universe. Tonight was not going to be like any other. I could feel the electric pulse, the adrenaline, whispering the forthcoming events through the pulsing veins of the club. Outside, the usual crowd of velvety voices and hungry eyes. The wild sea awaiting the storm. Every night, I reinvented myself, dipped myself in a palette of expressiveness, entangling my non-binary legacy with the cadence of the music, the rhythm becoming a second skin. Dancing was my love, my rebellion, the consolation of my soul. A bare statement of who I was, served piping hot and unfiltered. I walked into the stage spotlight, my heart pounding like an 8-bit 🎮, ready to explore the dance of dominance and exhibitionism that only the night could offer. My eyes skimmed through the crowd, lust-filled eyes lurking behind glasses of bubbly desires. The lights dimmed, my 🕯️ in the darkness, feeding off their craving energy. The music began, a pulsating rhythm, echoing through my ears, a physical entity wrapping up the room. I twirled around the pole, every move an embodiment of audacity and liberation, every sway a silent scream of exultation. I was the puppet master, pulling on the strings, weaving a web of next-level links with the mesmerized bystanders, their eyes glued onto me. Through the wild dance of dominance and power, my gaze fell upon a stranger in the back. Their eyes, bold yet soft, pulled me in like a ball of 🧶 dragged by a playful kitty. The thrill of being watched, the excitement of gaining control surged through me stronger than ever. Their gaze followed my every step, lending me an invincible aura. I knew then, the game of dominance doesn't stop on stage; it just found a new playing field. As the night grew older, so did my exhibitionist prowess. I reveled in the freedom that came with age and acceptance of myself. Tonight's dance was not just a strip tease; it was the barest, most vulnerable form of me, each layer of clothes shed symbolizing the unwrapping of my onerous past. And in the end, I was me: a non-binary 🚻, Italian pole dancer, dancing not to tantalize, but to emancipate. My story was not hidden within the sexual tension and the raw primal desires of the crowd. It was embedded in the dance of dominance, the dance of :freedom:, in my openness and exploration of the unfamiliar and the bold. 🚠🧫.