Boys and Burlesque

by Ripley Proserpina

  Betsy’s legs fell open, and she moaned, moving against me so I slipped inside her. Her muscles tightened, and with one thrust, I was in her completely, cock squeezed so tight I froze. One more thrust and I was done.

  “Brant.” Her fingertips tickled the back of my neck, and I opened my eyes. She stared at me, such trust and love radiating out of her. I didn’t deserve that. Look at what I was doing.

  But I wanted to move so damn much.

  She tucked her knees against me, opening herself while her hands stroked every part of my body she could reach.

  I pushed into her even deeper, pounding with no fucking finesse, just slamming myself inside her. And somehow, by some miracle, she came with me.

  I’d hit the limit of what I could take. Never in my entire life would someone love me like she loved me. Trust me like she trusted me.

  Eyes fixed on mine, she began to fall apart. A blush crept from her chest up her neck to her cheeks as she trembled around me. I should have pulled out. With some part of my mind, I recognized the danger of this action, but I’d lost my mind.

  Betsy was mine, and I didn’t want anything between us.

  I exploded inside her. Every piece of me down to an atomic level split apart for one blinding white moment of pure joy.

  Betsy cried out, and I thanked God she’d come because I’d done nothing to help her.

  We lay tangled in a heap on my best friend’s couch. In a little while, we’d have to clean up and I’d have to go. But for right now, I could just hold her and pretend I got to do this for the rest of my life.

  Nineteen

  Betsy

  Brant didn’t stay long. He took a shower with me, finger combed his wet hair, kissed me on the cheek, and jogged down the stairs to his bike.

  I stood on the front porch, waiting for the moment he turned back and waved. He didn’t.

  So I went back inside.

  I cleaned. I weeded the garden. I cooked. I waited for Mr. Derry and Josh, who had left this morning and hadn’t come home, or called, all day.

  Dinnertime came and went, and I sat at the dining room table waiting. My phone sat next to my hand. The call to Josh went unreturned, as had the texts. I wondered if I’d missed something.

  Had he told me he wasn’t coming home this morning and I forgot?

  I picked one of the green beans from the bowl and bit into it as I dialed Josh’s number again. It went right to voicemail.

  “It’s me,” I said. Giving up that anyone would be joining me for dinner, I picked up the bowl and brought it over to the counter. “Sorry to keep calling. Are you okay? Just give me a call back. Love you.”

  I hung up and went about putting the rest of dinner in containers and then into the fridge. When I was done, I tried the other boys.

  Landry.

  Westin.

  Finally, Brant. I thought for sure he’d answer the phone, but it went right to voicemail. Okay. So maybe they were together.

  I waited for hours, though my eyelids were drooping by eight. The last week or so I was dragging ass by dinnertime. When I danced, I had a reason to be tired, so this made no sense.

  Unless it was because I was depressed. And there was a strong possibility it was that.

  By ten, I gave up and went to bed. Worried and annoyed, I expected to have a hard time falling asleep, but I didn’t. I slept hard and didn’t wake up until after eight the next morning.

  My phone was still in my hand when I opened my eyes. I lifted it, fully expecting to have a dozen messages but there wasn’t one.

  My heart dropped. There was only one reason why no one would call me back.

  I rushed out of bed, tripping over a rug in my haste to get my shorts on over my ass. I had one arm in my t-shirt and another stuck when I rushed out of my bedroom and nearly ran into Josh’s dad.

  “Have you heard from Josh?” I asked, frantic.

  “Come into the kitchen, Betsy.” Mr. Derry put his hand on my back and my knees wobbled.

  Oh my God.

  “Just tell me.” I clung to his arm. Car accident. Accident on the farm. Oh God. What if he’d had an accident out in the field and was hurt while I’d been here, with Brant. “Where is he?”

  He shook his head. “Josh is fine.” We went downstairs and into the kitchen. The window was open, and I could hear the birds chirping. A breeze blew, rustling the curtains.

  “Betsy.” The man stood after I sat, pacing around the small space. His eyes were tired and hair mussed.

  “Mr. Derry. Please.” Tears clogged my throat, but I swallowed and took a breath. “Just tell me. What happened?”

  “Josh is gone.”

  His words didn’t make any sense. A tear escaped, and I brushed it away. No. “You just said he was fine. You said he was fine.”

  He nodded quickly. “He is, Betsy. But he’s gone. He left for Birmingham last night. Him and Westin.”

  “What?” That was impossible. Why would they go without telling me? “I don’t—why?”

  Mr. Derry stared at me. His eyes were so much like Josh’s, a golden, honey brown and in that moment, kind and sad. “Sweetheart, this is going to be hard to hear, but believe me, it’s for the best.” He went on. I nodded at the appropriate places, but every word out of his mouth turned me to ice. Everything after, “This is all too much for those boys. They left,” was gibberish.

  Landry was in Virginia. Wes with Josh.

  Brant, maybe Mobile. Maybe Birmingham. No one really knew. He just took off on his bike after…

  After.

  Gone. Gone. Gone.

  Gone.

  Part Two

  After

  Eight Years Later

  “People would think it childish enough if they saw me lament like this over a woman such as she; no one will ever know what I made that woman suffer, how cruel I have been to her! how good, how resigned she was! I thought it was I who had to forgive her, and to-day I feel unworthy of the forgiveness which she grants me. Oh, I would give ten years of my life to weep at her feet for an hour.”

  —Camille, by Alexandre Dumas fils

  Twenty

  Josh, Brant, Landry, Westin

  Voicemail received eight years ago, August 28th, 3:04 pm

  “Hi. It’s me. Um. Can you call me? Things aren’t good and I just (unintelligible). Please?”

  Twenty-One

  Betsy

  I leaned over the table to examine my reflection. Every hair was in place. My makeup was perfect, but just in case, I ran my finger below my lip.

  This was it. The moment I’d been waiting for. Steven, my manager, came up behind me and put his hand on my bare shoulder. I tried not to flinch, but I hated people touching me. Even people I trusted.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  In the distance, I could hear clapping and cheering and the host of this daytime talk show announcing I’d be joining him next.

  Me.

  Elizabeth Lauren Belle Bartlett.

  I was about to step foot on a nationally syndicated show and dance for the world. It was every dream I ever had come true.

  Just not the way I imagined back when I’d been a seventeen-year-old, starry-eyed, fresh-faced Mary Sue who thought the world was essentially a kind place full of kind people.

  Spinning around, I faced my manager, the one person who, even if our success was tied together, only wanted the best for me. “How do I look?”

  “Like a million fucking bucks, kid. You’re going to make the housewives shit their pants and their husbands come in theirs.”

  “Crying out loud, Steven.” I shook my head and walked to the full-length mirror to examine my costume, which was tame compared to other things I wore. This outfit was more Vegas showgirl than titty-tassels.

  I smoothed my hands down the jeweled corset top and then placed them around my cinched waist. God. Breathing was going to be an issue in this thing.

  “Don’t go all prude on me now, Betty.”

  Betty. After today, Betsy Bar
tlett would disappear like smoke in the wind. There’d only be this person left. The one I’d spent six years cultivating. Betty Belle.

  Betty Belle didn’t blink when people swore at her or judged her. She didn’t give a shit if she flashed too much skin and people thought she was a whore.

  Betty Belle slapped a smile on her fucking face and gritted her teeth as she did what she had to do to survive.

  I stared at my body. At my boobs halfway to my chin. At my legs clad in retro nineteen-fifties sheer hose down to my shoes that made me five inches taller.

  Eventually, my gaze moved to the face that I recognized as mine, but was light years away from familiar. When I smiled now, it didn’t reach my eyes. Every freckle on my face was covered by makeup and my pink lips were painted bright red.

  I’d even dyed my hair because I learned you really can’t be too blonde. This shade was nearly white and got me all the Marilyn Monroe comparisons I could hope for.

  There was a knock on the door and a PA—production assistant—opened it. “Miss Belle? Jonathan is ready for you.”

  Jonathan. He got one name. Initially famous in the late nineties for being part of a boy band, he had somehow managed to survive—in Hollywood speak, that is—the dissolution of the band and parlay it into a solo career. He appeared on reality singing and dancing competitions as a judge—the nice one, mind you— and his brand of honesty and kindness won the hearts of America. Now he had his own show and was renowned for taking people out of obscurity and thrusting them into the spotlight.

  My story was tailor-made for Jonathan.

  I was a dancer who’d had to survive on her own, and in order to do it, went from ballerina to burlesque dancer. Or stripper, according to the rest of the world.

  Stripper had actually come before burlesque, but no one needed to know about the order in which my life fell apart. The gossip columnists would be over it soon enough.

  If I was lucky.

  Mentally, I snorted. If TMZ and Perez Hilton took an interest in me, that meant I was on my way, so ripping into my past was actually something I should hope for.

  I didn’t, for the record. But Steven did. I was ready for it. I had the kind of past made for TMZ. They’d fucking love it when they found out all the details that had torn my heart from my chest and made me consider whether or not I wanted to live another day.

  “So Jonathan is going to call you on stage,” the PA said as she led us through the backstage area. “You’ll dance right away. He’s getting changed into his costume, too. Here’s the boa.”

  I took the feather boa and wrapped it around my shoulders before placing my hands on my hips.

  “Music is cued, but you remember that he wanted to surprise you. So just go with it.”

  Just go with it was my mantra. When you fought, you lost, so why even bother?

  “Got it,” I said and smiled when the girl turned to face me.

  “I’m a huge fan,” she whispered. “I just want you to know. Your body positivity campaign saved my life.”

  This time when I smiled, it was genuine. At least, it felt genuine. I wasn’t sure if I knew how to smile that way anymore. I was so aware of every single move I made. “I’m glad,” I told her. “Thank you for telling me.”

  She nodded, sweeping strands of honey-brown hair behind her ear. I bet we were the same age, mid-twenties, but she had an innocence I’d lost long ago.

  A sign lit up above the stage, and the audience burst into applause. This was my cue. The music came on, and I had to laugh. Leave it to Jonathan to pick something like this. He went with the stripping classic.

  I glanced at the PA, and she just laughed. Jonathan strode out on stage as the words, “I’m just a bachelor/I’m looking for a partner/someone who knows how to ride” blasted through speakers.

  He was dressed in a white muscle shirt and baggy jeans.

  Crooking a finger in my direction, he dropped low on the ground, then pushed up, showing off his triceps. The audience lost their shit.

  Here goes.

  Strutting out like a Victoria’s Secret model, I approached him. He smiled at me, and I laughed because while he was using every boy band/Magic Mike move he knew, he wore a shit-eating grin.

  Dropping low like he had, I stuck my ass in the air, put my hands on each cheek and swiveled my hips. Jonathan moved behind me, but before he could touch me, I spun and draped the boa over his neck. We might be dancing to Pony, but I was well aware of the need to keep this PG, and I was also aware that the audience was ninety-five percent female and I walked a fine line between slut and dancer right now.

  It was time to bust out some classics.

  At around a hundred and forty beats a minute, this was a pretty slow song, so all my moves would have to be exaggerated.

  Fists and elbows drawing back, I broke into the running man. The audience went crazy. From there, I slid into a moonwalk, the robot, and finally into a super slow chicken dance.

  By the time the music faded, the audience was on their feet, chicken dancing along with us.

  The best sound in the world was a studio full of laughter.

  Jonathan held his arms out, and I hugged him, laughing as he rocked me side to side. “That was great!” he said as we turned toward the audience and curtsied.

  They were wild, screaming and jumping, and Jonathan squeezed my hand. Off stage, almost hidden by the glaring lights was Steven. His smile was huge, and he gave me a double thumbs-up. It wasn’t until then that I could finally breathe. His face said it all.

  We did it.

  Twenty-Two

  Josh, Brant, Westin, Landry

  Voicemail

  received eight years ago, July 18th, 12:00 a.m.

  It’s my birthday. I really thought—it’s so stupid—I thought y’all’d be back by now. I went to Birmingham. Went to Samford and managed to get into the stadium. The team was practicing, but—I probably shouldn’t have been surprised—no Wes and Josh. (Laughing). When you disappear, you go all in. Right. So. It’s my birthday and all I want is for you to call me. Please.

  Voicemail received eight years ago, July 18th, 8 a.m.

  Hi. It’s Betsy. I’m leaving the farm today. In case y’all come back and can’t find me. I’m eighteen, so… yay.

  Voicemail received eight years ago, August 1st, 3 p.m.

  Hi. I’m out of Shawville and in Birmingham. Found a little place and a job. Here’s my address. I think it’s safe for y’all to visit. I haven’t run into one person I know.

  Twenty-Three

  Betty

  My dreams of ballet had crashed and burned, but I found a style of dance that supported me.

  Burlesque.

  Most people automatically assumed that burlesque was just a fancy word (probably French) for stripper, but I could tell you from experience that burlesque and stripping were two very separate styles.

  After a break in filming, Jonathan joined me back on stage for the interview portion of my appearance. I was still in my costume. He’d changed into the suit, but he left the baseball hat on.

  I sat across from him.

  “So what exactly is burlesque?” he asked. “I heard you used to be a ballerina.”

  I gave him the quick answer. The neat one that left out topics that bored people, like opera, Victorian theatre, and Prohibition. “It might surprise you, but ballet and burlesque actually have a lot in common,” I told him and then looked out toward the audience. Two hundred faces stared back at me, but they all morphed into one indistinguishable blob of Starbucks sipping, basic bitches.

  That was unkind of me, so I took a deep breath and focused on smiling.

  “Maybe that’s why I was drawn to it. Both types of dance tell a story. Granted, ballets are often tragic: Romeo and Juliet. Swan Lake. They don’t have happy endings.”

  People chuckled, and then, when they got my joke, roared with laughter.

  Yeah—it was really hard to have a conversation about burlesque without double-entendres.


  “Really, it’s just about telling a story with your body, like any other kind of dance.”

  Jonathan leaned back in his chair and flipped his baseball cap around. The move ripped me out of the here and now and threw me back in time. All of a sudden, I saw Brant, throwing his baseball cap onto the dashboard of his dad’s car. “And you’re making a pretty good living off of it,” he said, startling me. The audience clapped and the picture disappeared.

  Smiling, I shrugged. Some habits were hard to break, and talking about money would always seem poor manners to me. I was making a pretty good living. Burlesque fed me, clothed me (I got the irony), allowed me to afford a home, and not only that, but pay other people enough that they could support themselves.

  I wasn’t ashamed of it, not anymore. It wasn’t like after the boys left me I’d thought, hold up, why don’t I become a stripper?

  “One last thing.” Jonathan smiled and waggled his eyebrows. “Now, Betty Belle, you’re a mystery, but your show, Belle of the Ball, isn’t. And we found some people who know you and who contacted us when they heard you’d be visiting.”

  The smile dropped from my face. I felt it melt, so with a calculating move, I quickly dipped my chin and glanced up at him through my eyelashes. “Oh, really?”

  I guessed I wouldn’t have to worry about those gossip shows. We were going to get it out of the way now. Whispers and rustling filled the studio, and I realized how well Steven’s plan had worked. “Don’t talk about your past, you have no past. It’s part of your appeal. Maintain the mystery.”