I start with a mineral foundation. It smoothes out the skin tone over the nose and around the eyes it makes a nice base for other colors. Mostly black in a solid raccoon pattern around the eyes. Underneath the eyes. I look in the mirror and it's the night of the living dead.

I hear the stadium filling up. There is a muffled anarchy happening past these cinder block walls. The female dancers' dressing room is closest to the arena. With a pole and curtain dressing room for quick changes during the show because we don't have time to leave the stage. I don't like to leave the stage if I don't have to. We are on stage or quick changing in this production.

Deep purple pressed into a paddy of cruelty-free theatrical velvet which, when applied to the upper lids creates my face as someone definitive, though of what yet, I do not know. I try to uncover the truth with soft black liner, unblended. Specific and bold dramatic lines drawn far past my brows. I white out my brows and create higher, more elaborate ones. I line on the outside of my lips deep brown and fuck-me red whet-look lip color. Lashes last. Lashes on top (and my personal secret) and bottom, go last.

I worry that the zipper will catch my skin. She jerks me off balance trying to stuff my torso into the thing. I can't breath deeply or bend over properly with this corset on. And then the boots. The long, tight, fingered gloves. The feathers in the dark circus cap. The push up bra. I am anything but natural, but unlike movies, this is dress-up, not reality. Theatre isn't reality. Rock and roll is not reality. We are playing dress-up for a living, not altering our real bodies.

I can hear the shrieking reach a timber before unheard aimed in my general direction as I tip toe behind the curtain, transparent when one peers through it with the eye pressed against it itself. The speaker feeds back and 10,000 hormone driven teenagers go mad. One jumps up and rides atop overstretched arms. A security guards lifts her out and acts authoritative. Then the lights dim. And an eerie, frightening sound sends me backing away from my curtain eye hole and into position one for 'top of the show'. It is overwhelming how loud the screaming is. I feel panic for structure and then I give in almost as immediately to feel it.

The sound.

It feels like full body electrodes. The sound tickles my bones. It shakes vibrates penetrates through me and I become the sound. I become like air, without any attachment to earth or reality. No: I become like lightening.

I am a lightening bolt and not the make up, not the costume, not the music and not the choreograph reveled to me my character, but the expectations of the audience. Hurting my ears with anticipation of me as my greatest. I am the Dominatrix Animal Trainer with complete sexual confidence and a possible substance problem. You can see it in the way I move.

I am who they want me to be.

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