The Queen of Ultra Miami (music video) (Patreon)

Hey there, gorgeous. Yeah, you—don’t pretend you’re not already hooked. I’m about to take you on a wild ride, so buckle up.

Hey there, gorgeous. Yeah, you—don’t pretend you’re not already hooked. I’m about to take you on a wild ride, so buckle up. My name’s Sasha, and right now, I’m standing in my bedroom, the Miami sun pouring through the window like it’s begging me to come out and play. Ultra Miami’s calling my name, and I’m getting ready to own that festival like I always do. You’re gonna wish you were here with me, trust me.

Picture this: my room’s a vibe. The walls are this deep, rusty orange with a subtle texture that makes the whole space feel alive, like it’s pulsing with the same energy I am. My bed’s all crisp white linens, but let’s be real—it’s not gonna stay that way after tonight. There’s a sleek wooden nightstand with a modern lamp throwing a warm glow across the room, and above my bed, a framed piece of art—some abstract thing I picked up at a flea market because it screamed me. The air smells like coconut and vanilla from the lotion I just slathered on, and my speaker’s blasting a playlist of Zedd, Alesso, and Tiësto. I’m swaying my hips to the beat, already feeling that festival rush in my veins. God, I love this shit.

I’m in front of my full-length mirror now, trying to decide what’s gonna make every head turn at Ultra. My body? Oh, honey, it’s a masterpiece. I’ve got these sculpted arms—biceps that pop when I flex, veins running like rivers down my skin. My abs are carved, six little ridges that say I don’t mess around when it comes to training. And my legs? Thick, powerful thighs that could crush a watermelon—or a man, if I’m in the mood. I’ve been dancing since I could walk, and it shows. Festivals are my kingdom, and the dance floor’s my throne.

Right now, I’m slipping into this silky orange robe with white floral patterns—it’s open in the front, showing off my curves and this plunging neckline that’s basically a dare. But this is just the warm-up. For Ultra, I’m thinking something bolder. Maybe that turquoise halter top I’ve got stashed in my closet, the one with the deep neckline and those big buttons down the front. Pair it with my high-cut denim shorts, frayed at the edges, and a neon pink bikini peeking out underneath. Add my black choker, a stack of beaded bracelets, and that fingerless glove I’ve been saving for a night like this. My nails are already glossy pink, my ponytail’s high and tight, and my makeup’s on point—shimmery eyeshadow, long lashes, glossy lips. I’m a walking festival fantasy, and I know it.

I twirl in front of the mirror, letting the robe flutter around me, and I can’t help but grin. Ultra Miami’s gonna be insane—thousands of people, lights flashing, bass so deep it shakes your soul. I live for that shit. The way the crowd moves like one big heartbeat, the way I can lose myself in the rhythm until nothing else matters. I’ve been to dozens of festivals—Electric Zoo, Tomorrowland, you name it—and every time, I’m the girl everyone remembers. The one tearing up the dance floor, hips rolling, arms up, sweat dripping down my back like it’s a goddamn performance. Because it is.

But let’s get to the real fun, shall we? Sure, I love dancing, and festivals are my lifeblood, but there’s something else I crave even more. I love the hunt. Finding a guy in that sea of bodies, locking eyes across the crowd, and knowing he’s mine before he even says a word. I’m not shy about it—I see what I want, and I take it. At Ultra, it’s like a buffet of options: tanned surfer types with that easy grin, broody DJ wannabes with tattoos snaking up their arms, or maybe some clean-cut guy who’s way out of his depth but too mesmerized to care. I don’t discriminate—as long as he’s got that spark, that hunger in his eyes when he sees me move, he’s fair game.

Last year, I spotted this guy near the main stage during Martin Garrix’s set. Tall, dark hair, wearing a tank top that showed off his shoulders. I danced my way over, letting the beat guide me, until I was close enough to feel his heat. “You lost?” I shouted over the music, smirking as he fumbled for words. By the end of the night, he was following me back to my Airbnb like a puppy, and let’s just say he didn’t leave until the sun was up. That’s how I roll—confident, in control, and always leaving them wanting more.

Tonight, I’ve got my sights set high. I’m picturing him already: maybe he’s got that scruffy festival beard, or maybe he’s all clean lines and sharp jaw. Doesn’t matter. What matters is how he’ll react when I catch his eye. I’ll be out there, dancing like the world’s watching, my body cutting through the crowd like a blade. He’ll see me—how could he not?—and I’ll reel him in slow. A glance, a sway, maybe I’ll brush past him just to feel him tense up. Then I’ll lean in close, my lips brushing his ear, and whisper, “Are you going to look for me?” Oh, he will. They always do.

Back to the mirror—I toss the robe aside and start pulling on my outfit. The turquoise top hugs me just right, those buttons daring someone to undo them. The denim shorts slide up my thighs, and I adjust the pink bikini straps so they peek out just enough. I grab my accessories, layering on the bracelets, snapping the choker into place. My ponytail swings as I turn my head, checking every angle. Perfect. I’m a goddamn vision, and Ultra’s about to bow down.

I’m almost ready now. My phone’s buzzing with texts from my crew—“Where you at, Sasha?” “You better not ditch us for some guy again!”—but they know how I am. I’ll dance with them for a while, lose myself in the music, but when the night peaks, I’m on my own mission. I spray a little more perfume—something sweet and sultry—then grab my wristwatch and strap it on. Gotta keep track of time, right? Though honestly, once I’m out there, time’s just a suggestion.

I take one last look in the mirror, smirking at my reflection. This is it—the calm before the storm. In a few hours, I’ll be in the thick of it: lights strobing, bodies pressing in, the air thick with sweat and anticipation. I’ll dance until my legs ache, until the crowd’s chanting with me, until I spot him. And when I do, I’ll make sure he knows who’s in charge. I’ll pull him close, let him feel the heat of me, and ask, “Are you going to worship me?” If he’s smart, he’ll say yes. If he’s lucky, I’ll take him home.

So, what about you? You out there somewhere, reading this, imagining what it’d be like to be the one I choose? You think you’ve got what it takes to keep up with me? To match my energy, my fire? I’m heading to Ultra Miami tonight, and I’m on the prowl. Are you going to look for me? Are you going to worship me? Better decide quick, babe—because once I’m out there, I don’t wait around. Catch me if you can.