Blue Angel

by Logan Belle

  She kissed Bette’s breasts, then made her way down her body to her stomach. When she got to her pussy, she licked the outside of it the way Bette had done to her minutes before. The scent of Bette was surprisingly exciting—foreign but familiar at the same time. She pressed her tongue against Bette’s clit, and Bette put her hands on the back of Poppy’s head, pulling her closer. Bette made a noise, and Poppy moved her tongue to the center of her, thrusting it as deep inside as she could, trying to fuck her with it. Bette’s hips moved rhythmically, and Poppy slipped her hands under her to grab her ass. She felt her start to come, could taste it. She moved one hand to her own pussy, fingering herself hard so she came just as Bette shuddered, her orgasm going on and on.

  She sat back on her knees and looked at Bette, who had one arm over her eyes. Her chest rose and fell heavily. Poppy’s own heart was beating hard. She felt around on the floor for her underwear and pulled it on. She was still wearing her blouse. Now the wig was bothering her, so she pulled it off. Bette looked at her lazily.

  “I like your pussy,” she said.

  Poppy had no idea what to say to that.

  “I was at a party earlier,” Bette said. “It made me so horny.”

  “Where was the party?”

  “The Standard Hotel. This insane room—the hottest people in the city were there. I told you that guy Billy Barton was worth making an impression on.”

  Poppy thought of the brunette Bette had pulled on stage last night. She suddenly felt uneasy.

  “Billy took you to a party?”

  “Not exactly. He was there, but it was that girl I brought on stage and her boyfriend who brought me. Alec—that’s his name—wanted to interview me for some article he’s writing for the magazine.”

  Poppy thought of the woman from last night—her plain clothes, her lank, brown hair. Suddenly, she felt sick.

  “So the party made you horny.”

  “It was the party, it was the conversation. I don’t know—maybe it was Mallory. I didn’t think she was that pretty at first but I found myself wondering tonight if I could get her into bed.”

  Poppy started looking around for her skirt. She didn’t know whom she hated more in that instant—Bette, or that stupid bitch from the audience.

  Bette sat up and smiled at her.

  “Thanks for meeting me here. That felt good.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Poppy said. “I’ll see you later.”

  She left the dressing room quickly, closing the door behind her. Outside, in the dark and empty backstage area, she leaned against the wall and put her head in her hands. When she looked up, she found Agnes watching her. The older woman shook her head at her slowly, as if saying, you poor fool.

  Mallory was propped up on pillows, working on her laptop, when Alec came to bed. She closed the computer.

  “Thanks again for coming along tonight, Mal,” he said, turning off his bedside light.

  “You’re going to sleep? I’m totally wound up,” she said. That was an understatement. The party, the conversation . . . the kiss in the bathroom. She felt as if she’d drunk three espressos. Or done coke. Not that she’d ever done coke, or would really know what it felt like. But she imagined it would feel something like the way she felt at that moment—like she was jumping out of her skin. Like she would never fall asleep. Ever again.

  She also felt turned on. And there was a time when, after a night like this, Alec would have been all over her. He would have told her on the ride home that she was the hottest girl in the room that night—and he would have meant it. But he was deep in his own head, something that happened a lot since she’d moved to New York.

  Maybe she was being oversensitive—not to mention hypocritical. After all, she was the one who’d let some strange woman kiss her. Although it barely could be considered a kiss. And besides, Alec always said kissing didn’t count—that a kiss to a guy is no more significant than a handshake.

  “You really want me to go to that show next Saturday night?” she asked.

  Alec rolled over to face her. “Yeah, of course I do. More detail will help the article. Any schmuck can go to a show. But how many people actually get backstage?”

  “Okay. Just checking.”

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No. I just don’t want our whole lives to start revolving around this.”

  “It’s one night out, Mal. I hardly think that qualifies as our ‘whole lives.’ ”

  “We spent my birthday at a show, then tonight I had to leave work early to sit there like a prop during your interview. Now we’re going again this weekend.”

  Alec turned the light back on.

  “What’s this really about?”

  “Nothing. I mean, I just told you.”

  “I think it’s hard for you not to be the center of attention.”

  She sat up. “What are you talking about?”

  “When we had the long distance thing while you were in law school, every time we got together it was like a honeymoon—we dropped everything to spend time together. Now that I have work and you have work, you’re upset that you’re not the focus of my undivided attention.”

  “That is so unfair. I do think there is a change in our relationship, but it’s not about my needing to be the object of your undivided attention.”

  “Then what? You said you had fun at the show last night.”

  “I did.”

  “But now you’re complaining about it?”

  “It’s the principle.”

  “You want to argue over principle?”

  “I don’t want to argue at all.”

  “That makes two of us.” He pulled her to him, kissing her face. She looked into his eyes, that complicated pool of blue and gray, and knew she couldn’t be angry.

  She was hopelessly in love.

  5

  Six months into her life in Manhattan, Mallory still couldn’t understand why people lined up all along the Upper West Side every Saturday and Sunday morning for overpriced eggs. The line outside of Sarabeth’s stretched half a block long. The only reason she was willing to put up with this insane Manhattan ritual was that Allison and Julie wanted to have a belated “happy birthday” brunch. Finding a night when all three of them were free was an exercise in futility.

  They had been best friends since freshman year at Penn, when they were alphabetically assigned the same dorm room for the pre-term registration weekend: Dale, Diamond, and Delmar. The 3Ds, they called themselves. Still going strong, seven years later.

  Her BlackBerry vibrated in her bag: a text from Allison: RU here? We’re in the front of the line and don’t want to miss getting seated—hurry!

  Mallory looked at the time: she was five minutes early, and Allison and Julie still managed to act like she was late. It was impossible to keep up with such compulsive, control freak overachievers.

  I’m in line half a block down. B right there, you early bitches.

  Allison turned from the front and waved to her. No wonder Mallory had missed them—they were dressed in nearly identical jeans and long black coats that blended in with the rest of the crowd.

  “Happy birthday, Mally boo!” Allison said, pulling her into a hug,

  “How long have you been waiting?” Mallory asked, slipping in line.

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Why did you get here so early?”

  “We knew there’d be a long wait.”

  The hostess waved them in, and showed them to a prime table near the front window.

  “Did you have a great birthday? I hope Smart Alec found something worthy of your twenty-fifth.” Allison had coined the nickname senior year, when she decided Alec was arrogant. “Arrogant, but hot,” she always said.

  “It was interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Allison and Julie echoed in unison.

  “Yeah, he, um, brought me to a burlesque show.”

  “Wow. Happy birthday to him,” Julie said.

  “Seriously. Where will you g
o on your anniversary? Scores?”

  “You guys are so harsh. It was fun! Seriously, it was something different, and I really had a great time. I mean, it was a show just like if we went to a play or something.”

  “Yeah, a play with strippers.”

  “They weren’t strippers—or, not the way you think. It’s very artistic—the music, the costumes . . . each dance was a narrative.”

  Julie and Allison looked at her like she was crazy.

  “Can I have a mimosa, please?” she asked the server.

  “Make that three,” Allison added.

  “I’ve actually been thinking about it a lot. And then last night Alec interviewed one of the performers for an article he’s doing. We went to this crazy room on the top of the Standard.”

  Allison nodded knowingly. “The Boom Boom Room. Fabulous space.”

  “Yeah. Well, we went there. And I don’t know—she’s very interesting. I’m going to a show Saturday night. You should come.”

  “No, thanks,” Julie said. “So not my thing.”

  “I’m in,” Allison said. “Can I bring someone? Or is this a bad idea for a third date?”

  Mallory and Julie looked at her.

  “Third date? You’re holding out on us! Who is he?”

  “He works for Bloomberg. We did this amazing event for the Mayor’s office at the Guggenheim.” Allison worked for a very glam, top-notch PR firm. Her BlackBerry was a who’s who of New York, and every guy she dated was wealthier and more connected than the last. “We just hit it off. What can I say?”

  “Name?”

  “Andrew. Goldmark.”

  “Jewish?” Julie asked. Allison nodded. “Your mom will be so relieved.”

  Allison had a bit of an obsession with Italian guys that had started during junior year in Florence.

  “It’s only been two dates. We’ll see.” When Allison said “we’ll see,” it wasn’t due to her worry that the guy would stop calling but that she would lose interest. “So can I bring him?”

  “Sure. I’d say seeing how a guy reacts to hot women wearing only tassels and a G-string is a good litmus test,” Mallory teased.

  “Hmm. I guess that raises the bar for me. Better make a trip to La Petite Coquette.”

  “I would never spend that kind of money on underwear,” Mallory said.

  Allison flipped through her menu. “If your boyfriend is bringing you to burlesque clubs on your birthday, maybe you should start.”

  The Blue Angel was transformed. Glittering, plastic snowflakes hung from the ceiling. Fluffy, fake snow dusted the floor; holly and tinsel lined the bar; and the dwarf Mallory had noticed the week before was now dressed like an elf.

  The clipboard woman at the door was dressed like the sexiest Santa’s helper imaginable, in a tight, short red dress cinched at the waist by a wide, black belt with a heavy brass buckle; white fur trim and bells hung off the quarter-length sleeves.

  “I think we’re on the list,” Alec said, giving their names.

  “How many people are you?” A woman with long white hair appeared from behind the curtain.

  “Three,” Alec said.

  “Who put you on list?” The woman’s accent was thick Eastern European. Russian? Polish?

  “Bette.”

  “She never listens. Only two guests per person. So one of you has to pay,” the woman said, then disappeared.

  Alec handed the door girl a twenty.

  “Enjoy the show,” she said.

  “I think you guys have a reserved table,” a woman said to them as they entered the main room. Mallory recognized her as the girl who picked up all the discarded clothing after each performer’s set. The MC had introduced her as “Kitty Klitty.” Tonight, she wore green sparkly antlers on her head, was topless, and wore a green garter that framed the largest bush of pubic hair Mallory had ever seen. “You’re Mallory, right?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Bette saved you guys seats. Over there—in front of the stage.” She walked off, and Mallory tried not to stare at her bare ass.

  “Interesting,” Allison said. “Andrew is going to be kicking himself for not coming. And I think I need a drink.”

  “Me too. I’ll get a round. But Mal, I want to prep you for backstage. Just take note of what everyone’s wearing, what they’re talking about, if there’s any debate about who performs in what order . . . any fighting over costumes . . . Are they drinking alcohol? Any details that make the culture come alive.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Alec kissed her on the forehead and left for the bar. Mallory read the one-sheet program on her table. It was green poster board with the drawing of a woman wearing a short elf costume, bending over far enough to reveal her ass, and pressing what looked like a flyswatter against one cheek. It read, Ho, Ho, Ho . . . Blue Angel Burlesque presents its third annual Holiday Spanktacular. Featuring: Bette Noir, Cookies ’n’ Cream, Scarlett Letter, Missy Pink, Poppy LaRue, Kitty Klitty, Dustin the Dwarf . . . and hosted by your favorite MC: Rude Ralph.

  “Glad you could make it. Ready to come backstage?”

  Bette stood next to the table in the leopard coat she had been wearing the first time Mallory saw her. Her lips were bright red and impossibly glossy, shiny like the pottery Mallory used to make in arts and crafts and coat with shellac. She thought how odd it was that Bette’s mouth had touched her own, but shook the memory away.

  “Yes. Are you sure it’s okay?”

  “Absolutely. Hi, I’m Bette,” she said, extending a hand to Allison.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Allison Delmar, Bette Noir.” Mallory felt a little ridiculous introducing Bette with her stage name, and she wondered what her real name could possibly be. She couldn’t imagine any “real” name suiting her.

  “Have fun,” Bette said. “It will be a great show.”

  Bette took her by the hand. She felt the other patrons staring at her, and she glanced at the bar to try to catch Alec’s eye, but he was talking to the white-haired Polish woman.

  “Who is that older woman?” Mallory asked.

  “Agnieszka Wieczorek. She’s the owner. And ballbuster extraordinaire. She used to be a ballet dancer and is very into the art of performance—which is what I love about the Blue Angel versus some of the other clubs in town. But she doesn’t like a lot of the modern music the neo-burlesquers use. She has to loosen up about that because I think the audience enjoys it more than traditional stuff.”

  Mallory didn’t understand what Bette was talking about but nodded anyway. Still knowing the club was owned by a former ballerina gave her a heightened respect for it.

  The dressing room was smaller than Mallory had imagined it would be. She had anticipated something like what she saw on E! or NY1 News during Fashion Week, backstage areas at fashion shows with rows of mirrors and organized racks of clothes and maybe a bottle of champagne or two. But the space was smaller than Mallory’s living room, and looked like a drag queen’s closet had exploded. Shoes, boas, makeup kits, wigs, bottles and aerosol cans, and undergarments the likes of which she had never seen before were strewn everywhere.

  “Hey, everyone—this is Mallory Dale,” Bette said. “She’s here to observe us in our natural habitat. Her boyfriend is writing an article for Gruff.”

  Mallory got a few half-interested hellos—and a death glance from a blonde standing in the corner. Mallory recognized her as the dancer who’d opened the show last week.

  “Are you sure I’m not intruding?” Mallory said to Bette.

  “It’s fine. Just sit over there.” She pulled a folding chair from against the wall and Mallory sat quickly, wishing she could turn invisible.

  “Where’s the airbrush?” a well-endowed blonde with a Mohawk asked the room. Someone handed her an aerosol can, and she proceeded to spray her legs.

  “What is that?” Mallory asked Bette.

  “It’s like panty hose—in a can. Makes your legs look flawless.”

  “Really? That’s amazing.”


  Bette looked at her like she was from another planet. Mallory reminded herself to stop talking and just observe. She watched the women apply false eyelashes, body glitter, and feathers in their hair, watched them fasten wigs on their heads, climb into shoes that seemed more like stilts, fasten stockings with clips and hooks, and pull their bodies into tight corsets. It was as if these women were a different species, one that knew how to use plumage and pots of glitter and paint and delicate garments to make themselves something greater than women—they were the physical embodiment of the very idea of womanhood.

  And they seemed to have no problem displaying their womanhood; even with Mallory, the interloper, in the room, no one seemed to think twice about walking around in just underwear and bare breasts, or in the case of one curvy brunette, nothing at all but red patent leather heels. She supposed nudity was not a big deal to them since it was their job to take their clothes off on stage every night. But just hanging out with their coworkers like that? And a random stranger?

  She was even more surprised when the MC, Rude Ralph, entered the room carrying a bucket of Stella Artois, and no one made any effort to cover up.

  “Missy, you’re changing your number to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’?”

  “Yes—and Scarlett is going to go before me.” Missy Pink was dressed like a giant snowflake.

  “Okay, but that’s it—no more changes. I’m getting the music queue set.”

  “No more changes,” the curvy brunette said, making a cross my heart gesture. Ralph handed out the beer.

  “And for you?” he said to Mallory, offering her a bottle.

  “Oh—thanks,” she said.

  “Are you being reprimanded? Sent to the corner for a timeout?” he teased.

  “Um . . .”

  “Yes—she’s been very naughty. I just might need to spank her. Now go,” Bette ordered, and ushered him out the door. Mallory waited for Bette to glance her way, but she didn’t. As soon as Ralph was out of sight, the dancer turned her attention to applying false eyelashes one by one. Mallory thought of the time she’d tried false eyelashes on Halloween, and she just glued the whole set on at once—like a fan of lashes stuck on the rim of her eyelid. It had looked terrible, and she took them off before she even left the apartment.