“The usual,” I said.
Monica hurried off to finish her hair. You’ll often see a token bellydancer in a burlesque show, and after I introduced Monica to the troupe, Tish snatched her up immediately. She was the kind of bellydancer that producers love. She arrived early, she could dance with precise isolations or luscious undulations, and she always got the audience clapping along.
I glanced at the lineup next to the door. CHICAGO CABARET, SCARLET LET HER, BEA LICIOUS, VELVET CRUSH, GIN FIZZY, MONICA THE BELLYDANCER, POLLY WANNA, LOLA GETZ. I’d have two numbers between the troupe number and my solo to change. Transforming from frazzled therapist Anna Zendel to glamorous starlet Velvet Crush in half an hour was always an adventure. People think of the near-nudity of burlesque, not the substantial amount of equipment you need to make it look good.
“Does anyone have a scrunchie?” Lisa asked the room, holding her long red curls back with her left hand while applying blue eyeliner with her right. Some of the other women glanced up; others, intent on the intricacies of fabric tape, false eyelashes, or pasties, didn’t.
I kicked off my heels, hung my overcoat, and unzipped the skirt. In my stockings and blouse, I rifled through my bag for my red leather cosmetics case. I pulled out my silver pasties and swiped the back with spirit gum. They would need a few minutes to get tacky, and even though I didn’t technically need them until act two, they don’t adhere as well on sweaty, just-performed skin. I found the baggie containing my fishnets and gave them a quick once-over for runs. I always check them the day after a show, and again before I put them in my go bag, but it only takes one hole wrapped around a toenail to make you paranoid for life. It really cramps my strut when I feel like gangrene is creeping up my foot.
Next, I retrieved the baggie containing my garter belt. Bra and garter hooks are the natural enemy of stockings, so I stored them separately. I hooked the belt on, sat down, put on my flesh-tone nylon footies so my toes wouldn’t poke through the netting, and slipped the stockings up my legs.
It was always worth the extra thirty seconds to move carefully with fishnets.
I rolled up my pink sweater, tossed my bra into my bag, and swiped my breasts with an alcohol pad to remove any oil from sweat. Then I applied the right pasty, as high on the aureole as I could. Princess Farhana taught me that valuable trick: never go dead center. If the bottom of the pasty just barely covers the bottom of the nipple, it’ll sit higher on the breast, making your breasts look about an inch perkier than they would be without pasties. A little cover-up and powder on the bottom of the aureole, and the audience is none the wiser.
I was a young-looking thirty-two, but every little bit helped.
The door slammed open. “I just knew Billy Joel would fuck up my life someday,” Tish announced. She threw the door closed behind her and flopped into the chair next to me.
Tish, the fabulous Lola Getz, was even shorter than me, but you’d never guess it. Her voice was girlish, but she made up for it in volume. Her brown hair was cut in a bob that she used to create 20’s-style curls around her face. That face itself wasn’t classically pretty, but her rosebud lips were made for wicked smirks, and when she wore her dark eye makeup and false eyelashes, her hazel eyes looked almost like an anime character’s. And no one, but no one, could argue about the proportions of her petite body.
“Hi,” I said absently, affixing the left pasty. I hated changing in front of her. As a troupe director and lifelong dancer, I’m sure she’s seen it all, but her figure was so much cuter than mine. She already wore her glittery black corset. “What about Billy Joel?”
“It’s too annoying to talk about,” she said, and considered her manicure. “I don’t know what to do about this guy.”
“The one who didn’t call?” I asked.
“Well, he did,” she said. “But he totally doesn’t understand what we do. He wants me to give him a private show, and that would be, you know, weird.”
“So what did you say?” I started lacing my lightweight corset. I wouldn’t wear something that would press deep indentations into my stomach before a solo, but it had a nice shape, and it was surprisingly comfortable. Once tied, the red laces came to a nice bow in a V at the small of my back. Tying it was the tricky part. Lacing yourself into a corset isn’t always easy.
“I changed the subject,” she said. “Did you put on weight?”
I flushed. “Maybe.” I looked down, feigning concentration.
It’s just her insecurity, I reminded myself. Don’t personalize stuff that doesn’t belong to you. The past two times we’ve launched Chicago Cabaret shows, the reviews mentioned me as a high point. One of them mentioned Tish as a producer, but not as a performer. Ever since then, and especially since the Boylesque Incident, she’s felt the need to get her little digs in. To be fair, I did love my wine and chocolate, so it stung, and I couldn’t say “no” conclusively.
“He said he might come tonight.”
“Does anyone have a scrunchie?” Lisa asked again.
“Lisa, if anyone had a scrunchie, they would’ve said so the third time you asked,” Tish snapped. She turned back to me. “I hope she doesn’t do that reverse plough roll in her solo again,” she whispered. “It looks so awkward. You can see everyone wince.”
A knock sounded at the door. “Ten minutes,” Grant’s voice called.
Tish recovered her feet in one fluid motion and yanked the door open. “How’s the sound?” she asked.
I averted my eyes from the door.
“Good,” I heard Grant say. “I thought it would be harder than it is, but it’s really nice.” Adam had just installed a new sound system with wireless controls, which allowed Grant to emcee the show and then run sound from the wings. Tish had been on edge about it for weeks.
“Thanks, Grant,” Tish said, and headed back towards me and sat down. “So anyway, he’s kinda hot, but I don’t think he makes much.”
I hopped up and squeezed past her. “If you’ll excuse me,” I said to Tish, “I just want to catch him about my intro.”
“Uh, sure,” she said.
I grabbed my heels with my left hand and used my right shoulder to catch the dressing room door. “Grant,” I said, my feet tamping over the black floor.
He turned and smiled. “Hi, Anna.”
Oh God. He smiled.
I had no idea what to say. For the second damn time that day, butterflies overran me. The house lights from the theater spilled over his shoulders, illuminating his face when he turned to me. He was tall and gangly, with thick, dark hair in a messy ponytail, still in torn jeans and a faded t-shirt. His long-lashed eyes were impossibly dark. He had no idea how cute he was. It was adorable.
I need to meet someone I don’t work with, I thought. I’m not sure I’m ready, but this is awful.
“Hi,” I said, and decided on selective honesty. “Nothing important, actually. I just wanted to get out for a minute.”
“Gotcha,” he said. “Would you like a hand with that?”
“With wh – oh.” I realized I still held my corset laces with my right hand. “Yes, thank you.”
He stepped past me and I caught a hint of his cologne, spicy with a hint of leather. His fingertips brushed mine as he took the corset laces. I brought my hand near my stomach, clenching and unclenching a fist a few times, as I inhaled the backstage smells of dusty velvet and horsehair.
“How was your day?” he asked.
I barely felt the swift, economical movements of his hands making the bow, but shivered when one fingertip brushed my right scapula. Stage magic, I thought. Card tricks, sleight of hand, juggling. And music. He’s dexterous.
Stop thinking about his hands.
“Long,” I said. “Yours?”
“Good,” he said. Finished with the bow, he stepped to face me again. “I’m actually glad you stopped me; there’s something I wanted to ask you about.”
My breath caught in my throat, and I was momentarily grateful for the dim lighting because I kne
w my pupils dilated. “Fire away,” I said, carefully pleasant.
“Another theater troupe is doing a production of Movin’ Out here,” he said. “You know, the one based on Billy Joel’s music.”
My pulse sped up. Was he about to ask me out? But if so, why would he bring me back to the place we work together?
“So there’s going to be a piano on stage for about three weeks,” he finished
“That explains her – comment,” I said, catching myself before I said “snit.” “Tish isn’t going to like that at all.” I remembered her haranguing a student for forgetting to clear a chair from a previous act. She felt it looked odd to leave the chair unacknowledged during her own act, so she had to incorporate some chair work into her striptease. No one could tell it wasn’t planned, but she liked things to go her way.
“She wasn’t thrilled,” he said. “But if we can incorporate it into the show in some way, then there’s a reason for it to be there, and she’ll be fine. So I was wondering if you’d do a sketch with me.”
“I’d love to,” I said.
He grinned. “Great! I figure I can do one song as filler between two sets, and then if you and I have a good piece, we use the piano twice, so it won’t bother her that it’s there.”
“I’m so flattered you thought of me, thank you,” I said.
“Flattered?” he said. “I like your work a lot. I’ll call you this week?”
Before I could answer, the door to the dressing room flew open, its light silhouetting Lisa’s body. She wore a white, mens’ shirt open over her black lingerie: a simple black lace demi-bra, panties, and garter belt with stockings. No amount of rhinestones would ever make my butt as pert and perfect as hers. “Grant!” she said. She trotted out the door, followed closely by Monica. “Just the man I’ve been looking for. Do you have a hair tie?”
“Uh,” he said. “Just… only this one. You can have it, if you don’t mind I’ve been wearing it.”
“Yes yes yes!” she exclaimed.
He pulled it out of his hair, which spilled over his shoulders. It looked almost black in the half-light. A strand fell in front of his eyes, and I ached to brush it back.
She took the rubber band. “You’re a lifesaver,” she said. “I’m a little bit in love with you right now.”
He sputtered a laugh and looked at his shoes. I knew he’d turned a deep scarlet. “I don’t know how to respond to that,” he choked.
She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said, and dashed back into the dressing room.
“Uh,” Grant said, running his hand through his hair and looking at me. I’d never seen his hair down before; it drew more attention to the bone structure of his face. I almost fainted. “I’m, gonna –” He gestured towards the house. “First night with the wireless sound – Gotta – Um.” He pointed in the direction of the sound booth, turned, and fled.
Monica clasped her hands together and grinned, shoulders lifting, eyes closing, almost like a cat in a perfect sunbeam. “He’s so awkward,” she whispered. “It’s totally hot!”
“It is,” I agreed, leaning against the wall. “Too hot.”
“Well?” she said, looking at me. “Say something to him.”
“You say something to him.”
“Honey, I would wreck him,” she said. “I’m not gonna lie, I kind of want to, but he’s so skinny. There’d be nothing left of him. I need someone a little more solid.”
“You’re awful,” I said.
“I know,” she purred. Then she elbowed me. “You should say something, seriously.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think he’s into me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Have you seen the way he looks at you?” she said. “If I was you, I’d just crook my little finger and have my way with him.”
I laughed. “You think he looks at me like that?”
“You mean more than once per day?” she asked. “Jesus, yes.”
“We work together,” I said.
“So what?” she said. “You could be a hot duet, like the Dresden Dolls, or the Mezmer Society.”
“You know that none of them ended up with each other, right?”
“You could have cute little Vaudeville babies.”
“They don’t even work together anymore.”
“But none of them are you and Grant.”
I thought again of the hair falling into his eyes, the golden house lights spilling around his shoulders, and the way he ducked his head as he hurried to the sound booth. It is soundproof, I thought. I’m going to Hell.
I groaned. “I hate being a girl.”
She looked pointedly at my corset. “No one else hates that you’re a girl,” she said. “C’mon, let’s finish getting ready. If Tish is still talking, we’ll play Count the Histrionics.”
• • •
The last ten minutes before curtain always felt like an hour. Finally, it was time. The first number was a troupe chair piece to a brassy old song called “How to Strip for Your Husband.” Six chairs, three in each row, awaited us onstage. The lights dimmed and we made our way to perch sideways on the chairs. The lights came up, the music started, and the audience cheered.
Burlesque audience interaction is freeing and fun. You can talk about the instant gratification of hearing people cheer for what you’re doing at the moment, or validation, or affirmation, sure. I like the connection, the absence of the fourth wall. Instead of a play where we don’t acknowledge the audience, we’re feeding each other. There’s no other connection like it; just the immediate experience, crackling with energy, communication without verbal conversation. As we danced, the audience cheered and howled, which gave us that extra bit of adrenaline and passion to give back.
In my favorite moment, the girls from the back row joined us in the front row. Lisa and I each had one hip on the chair. We would make eye contact, and our touching shoulders would shrug up and down together. After that, I would get up, and she’d take the chair, knees forward. I would straddle her lap, and she’d put her hands on my bottom. Then I would do a deep, upper body circle to the back, allowing my hair to sweep the stage. Don’t get me wrong, that part was hot too, and I’m certain that plenty of guys liked seeing three pairs of women do it simultaneously. I liked the eye contact and shrug better, though. It looked like sharing a naughty secret.
“It’s a pretty good crowd,” Sasha said in the dressing room.
“They are,” I agreed. I heard Grant’s voice over the tinny speaker as the other girls trooped into the room. He did some stage magic and audience banter to give Pip time to change and the stage hands time to move the chairs.
A good emcee is critical to educate the audience, sustain the performers’ glamor, and keep the show moving. Two of Tish’s beginning students, Trixie and Frenchie, wore cute lingerie and picked up the discarded articles of clothing. I always thought that was a nice touch. I found it depressing when burlesque artists picked up their own clothes after a routine. It totally shattered the illusion of the larger-than-life character.
I moved quickly, struggling to keep my hands from shaking. Grant wouldn’t start the music without me, but I didn’t want to hold things up. Everything about my costume was black, which made it a pain to make sure I had everything in my bag. I slipped off the ruffled panties and pulled a lacy slip over my spangled G-string. I swapped my corset for a lacy bra that allowed the silver pasties to glimmer through, zipped up my skirt, and pulled on my babydoll t-shirt. I added strappy heels, grabbed the faux leather jacket, and made it down to the wings before Sasha danced halfway through her piece.
I craved the solo time for the quiet in my head. When I really connected with the dance, the chatter in my mind stopped, and I was just movement, energy, perfect clarity. That’s what made an off night so frustrating to me. If the music skipped, or if something went wrong with my costume, if I forgot my choreography and couldn’t recover, it wasn’t the embarrassment that got to me. It was being within grasping distance of that silence a
nd not quite catching it.
My dad told me that meditation would give me the same clarity. I hated sitting still and noticing my thoughts going by. I wanted the electric serenity of melding with the music.
Sasha’s music ended. The audience roared. She blew them a kiss and strutted off stage, patting my butt on her way past me. Grant headed onstage and egged them on, amping their energy. I rolled my shoulders up, back, and down, lengthening my spine, feeling the cat-that-ate-the-canary expression wash over my face.
I always put on the character before the audience can see me. You’re not performing just during the music. You need to sustain the illusion the entire time you’re visible to the audience. They won’t buy a dazzling performance if you slouch onstage like a drunken sasquatch.
“I love a good classical tease,” Grant said. The audience cheered in agreement. “I do, I love it. But let’s face it – there’s something great about a really dirty song.”
They howled.
“Next, we have a woman after my own heart—”
You would say that, wouldn’t you?
“Velvet is soft, but – let’s just say she’s good with contrast.”
They howled again.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Velvet Crush!”
As they cheered more, he walked offstage. The lights dimmed. He grinned at me and held the curtain open. I squared my shoulders, strutted onstage, and posed, heels of my hands in line with the tops of my glutes, my back to the audience. I drank in the last quiet, expectant moments between the applause and the lights.
Tom Waits’s drawl poured through the speakers, and the lights rose. The drums thunked punctuation, and I bumped my right hip up.
“YEAH!” shouted someone in the audience. Good.
The drums thunked again, twice, as I contracted my right glute and released it while contracting my right inner thigh, which created a sharp lock in my right hip and drop in my left. The song took off, and the audience was cheering, howling, whistling. I rolled my hips as I pivoted so the audience could see me and grinned at them. Then I moved my hand to the zipper on my skirt, and started playing with it, half-unzipping and re-zipping the skirt. I turned to face the back curtains, opening the skirt out so it was flat to the audience, just hiding my butt. I winked over my shoulder, sliding it side to side. They cheered like mad. No one expects you to take the skirt off first. I tossed it aside and strutted towards them, hands on my hips, showing off the lace slip and garter stockings. Next, I slithered my leather jacket down my upper arms, rolling my shoulders at the audience. Looking over your shoulder subconsciously makes people think of a breast’s curve.
The Tease (The Darling Killer Trilogy) Page 3