The line 'Fuck off!' and 'That woman is impossible!' is inspired by She's a star great fic A World of Fragile Things. Not mine.

Nothing's mine, just the sad, twisted plot.

Roxanne, you don't have to wear that red dress tonight
Roxanne, you don't have to put on that red light,
walk the streets for money, you don't care if it's wrong or if it's right
Roxanne... you don't have to sell your body to the night!


You dance for no one except yourself. It's the only thing you know to do besides fucking, and when you fuck you don't enjoy it most of the time. Men and their selfish behaviour: never excpecting their whores to finish. Or if they care a little bit they're satisfied with a faked, long, moaning climax, aclaiming them to be the best.

No, fucking isn't that fun whe you finish with sore muscles and a sore core, with cold, sticky sperm cooling in your thighs.

And you aren't naive nor innocent. You aren't Satine, a beautiful -aparently- damsel in distress. You never believed in the few fairytales that Marie used to tell you to sleep. You always thought that those stupid knights couldn't be more idiotic even if they tried, and those princesses were lazy whores. And you were glad that you never belevied in those lies, for when you and Satine were sent for the first time to dance in the Moulin Rouge.

You know you stopped believing in everything else when you were sold - 'cause you were- to a fat, ugly middle aged drunk, that fucked you so harsh that you bleed and the next day you could hardly walk.

You've never really enjoyed fucking, but it's your job and even whores got to eat. And it's safer there at the Moulin than in the streets, where drunks and criminals (and even cops and other respectable members of the society) would still fuck you, but you wouldn't be protected.

But dancing... oh, you've loved dancing since the first time that Chocolat began teaching you your first steps. You're way better than Satine, but you ain't half as beautiful as she is, you've always been the strange looking girl besides her scarlet hair, silky white skin and zaphire eyes. But you know you're better than her doing the splits and the can can, and, when he came, the tango.

You don't know his name, nor anyone who knows it. He's always the Argentinean, with his rough accent and misterious dark eyes, being a romantic fool with all the girls, calling them 'Mi amor' and 'Mi cielo' and 'Hermosa princesa' although none of them would know what it was if he didn't explain it later, causing sighs and giggles and orgasms for when his fingers work with his mouth.

But your relationship with him has been very strange during the years. You've fought him as a cat most of the times, specially those first times in which Toulouse arrived with him. He's called you a bitch, a whore and a 'ramera', whatever that means. But you only slapped him when he called you a romantic fool.

Hate him? No, you're not sure that you ever felt that for him. You hated that he felt so damn superior, even when he fell asleep screwing or walking or eating, that he gave winks and whistle to everything that used heels and a skirt (and inside the Moulin Rouge that included both sexes) and you hated that he had this sparkle in his black eyes when he saw you, as if he was laughing of a private joke about you.

But that first time in which you danced... if you had ever believed in magic, you'd have said that it was magic. For every single one of your steps and moves he was there, and by some strange thing (a miracle?) you trusted him not to let you fall when you jumped to his arms.

And then, something strange happened, because you saw his eyes again, and they were so intense, as if a black fire was inside them, making you shiver. And you never told Zidler that that night you both went to the back alley, and he raised your skirt and teared off your knickers and held you against the wall, fucking you. And you enjoyed it; his strongs arms holding your arse and his lips kissing your neck and licking the exposed flesh of your breasts, his ragged breath while you moaned - really moaned, for once- and when you arched your back, scratching it against the wall, you heard a 'mi amor' before he spilled inside you.

You never allowed anyone - specially yourself- to know that when you said your goodbyes (you calling him a lousy excuse of a fuck, and he calling you the best thing when there weren't any holes in a wall), you almost kissed him goodnight, because you both were smilling like fools. And when you were putting your make up in the mirror you saw you had - besides some marks of his teeth on your flesh- for once sparking blue eyes you almost blushed. You were almost glowing.

It was your secret since that day. Something only for yourself, because you still were a whore - and always was going to be- but sometimes you would be a normal girl shagging a friend, giggling like a little girl would when the Argentinean would have sex with you in the Moulin, telling him to hurry, because if Zidler found out that you had been giving free fucks he'd kick you out of the place. But then he'd go even more slow, his annoying smile against your neck while he assured that you were more and more aroused, until you had to bite your hand - or his neck or hand, what was closer- to stop from shouting.

But then he, the damn writer, Christian arrived, and everything went to shit.

Satine was jaded, as much as you were after the years that had happened. The only thing she had now that you didn't was the wish to leave the Moulin Rouge, to become a really actress and fly away. You never understood that, because in those few memories you had of your mother - another whore- you remembered how hard it was for her to have customers out there in the street, chilling to the bone because of the cold winter breeze, and you had everything inside the walls the Moulin Rouge.

Certainly you weren't thinking of dark eyes and a rough-soft-velvety voice, but let's not go in there.

You weren't in love, and that was the only real rule that ever existed in your world. You just found it... good to have someone to have sex with because you wanted and not because you needed it. And the dancing, you enjoyed the dancing more than anything, because that was your own private world. You allowed him, sometimes, to enter it, and you were happy.

But then he came, with his foul ideas of beauty, truth, freedom and, the most dangerous of all, love. He came with his baby face and innocent eyes, soft manners and prince-like manners.

Too bad that he was as poor as a fly.

But he woke up dreams. The Bohemian Revolution was just a silly utopia that everyone was forgetting about, just proclaiming to follow it, but he really believed it.

He woke up Satine, making her believe that a whore could have love. Too bad that the duke wanted Satine so much. Maybe, if he hadn't desired her so much, the poet and the whore would have had a happy ending. But happy endings aren't meant for people that sell their bodies for money.

You laughed at them, and tried to remember Satine who she was, because she could ruin everything to everyone, and you loved the Moulin. But she wouldn't: she was captive behind innocent blue eyes

- You're cruel, Nini. They're in love! Let 'em be! - said the Argentinean one night.

- That's bullshit! I ain't gonna let their lust ruin us all!-

- You 'aven't seen the look in their eyes? - he said, finishing the drink, standing up and taking your arm, turning you towards his body. - Yes, there's lust, but there's also desire, love... 'aven't you seen it?-

He was asking you something else. His dark eyes fixed on your face, his hands on your bony hips. His rough hand caressed your face as if you were the most precious thing ever. You felt your breath catch, and your heart beat raised...

- There's no such thing as love... - you murmured, breaking the eye contact, but you could still feel his eyes on your face.

- ¿Entonces porqué te amo? - he asked.

You laughed, bitterly, mocking blue eyes on his, your smile mocking and cruel.

- You know I don't understand a shit of that fucking language. - you lied, because even if you didn't understand his language you could understand that softness, and the look in his eyes, because it was the same that you had seen hundreds of times on yours.

And that broke everything. No more shagging sessions with a friend, no more shouts and "fuck off!"' and "that woman is impossible!". There were laughs in your voice and absynthe on his, and dark looks of loathing on both eyes, and, if you looked closer to the mirror, you could see the longing.

But it was just a stupid phase. Until she died and the few things that weren't ruined suddenly were, and it hurt to see her die, it hurt, because maybe, maybe if she had had her fairytale, you'd have believed... maybe if Satine and Christian had been happy together...

But they didn't so you didn't, even if you had wanted to.

Never anyone found out that the tango that the Argentinean sang was about yourself, and not about a prostitute in Buenos Aires. But you did, and you hated him, because he knew that you would never give up your life, your freedom, because even if you had to fuck when you didn't want to, you could still dance.

And the both of you danced one last time. After the Moulin was closed and all of you, children of the revolution, were being kicked out, he came to you with that dark velvety voice of his and murmured his strange words in your head, your ears. And you danced another tango. No, no Roxanne's, another one, this one of a goodbye.

You knew you were never going to see him again. He'd probably go back to his country, marry someone, or make another romantic fool to believe in fairies. You'll probably die, let it be because of a costumer, or the absynthe, or a sickness - just like Satine- or because of a broken heart. But you know you'll always have one last thing.

A last tango, and dancing forever, expecting to find dark velvet eyes in the other men face.


Mi amor: My love.

Mi cielo: My darling.

Hermosa princesa: Beautiful princess.

Ramera: As you may have already guessed, it means whore.

¿Entonces porqué te amo?: Then, why do I love you?