Drawing from my thatched basket of memories, I vividly recount an unusual night of performance at 'El Esplendor,' a famous burlesque club nestled in the heart of Bogota. At 51, I've danced on many stages and been gazed upon by countless eyes. But this memory bears a unique essence - it tells a tale of power, control, and the fine silk thread that binds the two. As a non-binary Colombian Burlesque performer, I've always felt a kinship with the unexpected. And that night, I danced entirely on the wings of the unexpected.

It started as another night of rebellion against the ordinary, where bodies moved with the grace of panthers under the seductive haze of dimmed lights. I was the Headliner, the star attraction. But little did I know what the universe had in its deck of cards for me. My act was the last, the grand finale. The spotlight was a harsh mistress but also a giver, casting me in a powerful aura that seemed to command a certain respect, a distinct authority. Thus began the power play, the battle for control that draws a concealed curtain over what's trending - the human allure for control.

As the music swirled around the room, caressing every soul with its rhythmic hum, a new patron walked in—a silhouette of arrogance disguised in costly attire, exuding an air of superiority. His undeniable presence was a challenge against my reign, a silent play of power exchange - the fulcrum of control oscillated between him and me, the night holding its breath in anticipation.

Now, when I say my dance is a weapon, I mean it. It is my statement, my language, my sword. That night, I danced like never before. Not for applause, not for cheap thrills, but purely to claim my dominance, to reestablish the hierarchy, and unapologetically so. Engulfed in a rainbow of lights, I moved, swayed, and twirled, tearing apart the arrogance that dared to contest my reign with the lethal potency of an artist. My dress, a glittering beacon, my moves, a wildfire. When I ended, the room was enveloped in deafening silence before erupting into thunderous applause.

And then, the sweet taste of victory. The man, once a potent threat, now reduced to another mesmerized face. I had won, clutching the reins of control firmly back into my hands. This was my kingdom, my stage, my power. The world of burlesque, contrary to what's trending, isn't a theatrical act for the weak-hearted. It's a battlefield where every dance is a duel and every performer, a warrior. It was a night of conquest and sweet liberation. It was a testament to how I, a fifty-one-year-old Colombian non-binary performer, tamed an adversary with my art. That night, in a burlesque club, I was both a seductress and a warrior—and it was exquisitely empowering.