‘Have you seen Véronique D’Erotique before?’
‘Oh, yes. I saw her in the Carrousel de Paris last year and the Paradiso in Amsterdam three months ago, but never here. We are friends, you know? We don’t see each other socially that often, but barely six months goes by when we do not see each other in some way or other. Also – we have performed together on the same bill from time to time.’
‘Here in London or in Europe?’
‘Never in London. But we’ve done a lot of the big European festivals together: The Helsinki Burlesque Festival, The Polish Burlesque Festival – those were last year – and Antwerp, Munich and Stockholm this year. She’s always different, always changing. She’s amazing – a real inspiration. There’s no one quite like her.’ She leans forwards and places a hand on my leg. ‘She’s very beautiful and has an exquisite figure. But I wish she wouldn’t – you know.’
‘What?’
‘She’s always been a little too fond of certain of life’s pleasures. Things that could be bad for her. We’re meant to be her friends, you know? But we never talk to her about her problems. It is foolish, I suppose.’
So this is turning out to be work after all. ‘What sort of problems?’
‘I heard whispers that she is drug dependent in some way and has been for a few years now. No details. Just rumour. It may be all nonsense, of course. You know how people are. I hate gossip. If it isn’t true, it would be beschamend to talk to her about it, you know? Embarrassing. She might be hurt and I would never want to hurt her.’
I feel as if Rikki has just walked in the room. I’d like to talk to her a little more about this, but Johnny Fuego has just reappeared on the stage, bombards us with a little hilariously vulgar stand-up and introduces Miss Strawberry Sapphire, who strides onstage in a pink leather trench coat to the Peter Gunn Theme, while being systematically and teasingly stripped by two similar-looking female assistants, who shortly get the same treatment in return. Johnny’s description of her as almost-too-voluptuous was accurate: her tassel-twirling is a breathtaking work of art.
This is more choreographed than Kitty Bourbon’s act, is enhanced by a spectacular, complex and sophisticated light show and is more blatantly and powerfully sexual. Strawberry has a more knowing, smirking presence than Kitty, and does a lot of winking and lip-licking.
The two assistants (if that’s the right word) appear to be constantly running their hands over Strawberry’s body and Strawberry reacts with shock, displeasure and reluctant eye-rolling delight: though from this close, I can see that they’re not actually touching her at all. Obviously well-rehearsed and all part of the tease, I guess.
Throughout the performance, Anouk keeps her hand on my leg, giving it a barely perceptible squeeze whenever Strawberry has an item of clothing removed or makes a provocative gesture with her body.
Earlier, I was thinking that I liked this place. Now I’m definitely going to move in.
14
CHAQUE BOUTON LCHE
By the time Miss Strawberry Sapphire has finished her act, Anouk has moved her chair closer to mine and is rubbing my arm. It’s getting hot in here in a way that no air-con can fix. I order some more drinks.
‘Did you like her, Daniel?’
‘Big girl. Very sexy. Great hair. Lovely mouth.’
She laughs. ‘Yes. And she’s exciting to watch because of that. She was far more – what do you say – fetishistic than Kitty Bourbon. A bit like Mimi Mustang. Do you know her? More aggressive, too: this can be a turn-on for audience members of each sex. There are certain types of clothing that can be sent into orbit by a figure like that. I am the same: extra-large bust, small waist, wide hips.’
As if to demonstrate this (as if my imagination wasn’t already doing it for her), she removes her fluffy red top and drapes it over the back of her chair. Thankfully, the bullet bra she’s wearing is a longline version and stops just above her navel. It is strapless, though. I visualise unclipping it.
She has great shoulders and back muscles and I can see what she means about her waist. It makes me smile: there aren’t many venues where you can sit down in what is virtually your underwear and no one takes a blind bit of notice. She crosses her legs again. I take my jacket off. She runs a hand through her hair. I think about changing a car tyre.
‘So is your act similar to hers?’
‘No, no. Well, yes. In some ways. I like to wear corsets to show off my waist and accentuate my bust. Long gloves are a favourite of mine, too. There’s an art to taking them off. It can be made to be almost as erotic as removing stockings. But my act is more flirtatious, more debauched, I think you could say. I like to show pleasure on my face as I strip. I want the audience to see that I am pleasuring myself as I perform.’ She stops and laughs. ‘Oh dear! My English is still not perfect. I didn’t mean it in that way.’
Sure you didn’t. I smile at her. ‘I know. Please go on.’
‘Véronique always says that I am placing too much emphasis on my bust, but I tell her that it is just part of the fun. It’s meant to be fun, burlesque, you know? I like it to be quite funny. In my current act, I crawl towards the audience at the end, as if I am a wild animal. I snarl at them like a beast. I think it looks good for the way the breasts hang, yes? Listen – why don’t you come and see me? Let us exchange numbers. I will text you when I am performing next.’
Just as our drinks arrive and I’m thinking about taking holy orders, Johnny Fuego reappears, this time in a green lamé suit and black panda eye makeup. He’s also wearing a French beret, which I can find no explanation for.
As he strides onto the stage he glances at Anouk and does a pantomime double-take.
‘You and me are going to have words, missy!’ he hisses, which gets another big laugh from the audience. I don’t think I’ve ever been anywhere which has such a great, friendly atmosphere.
As he rips through another five minutes of bawdy patter, I’m suddenly aware of another presence to the left of the stage, standing next to the lighting guy. This is almost certainly a security heavy of some description: grey sharkskin suit, grey shirt, dark blue tie with a wide knot. No earpiece, so I have to assume he’s working independently of the guy at the door and whoever else may be on security detail here.
He’s well over six foot tall, chunky build, greased-back brown hair, weighs about two hundred and twenty pounds. His eyes are on Johnny Fuego, but he’s not laughing. In fact, I fancy he’s looking rather disgusted. Maybe Johnny isn’t his cup of comedy tea.
I could be mistaken, but I think this guy is probably Miss D’Erotique’s personal heavy. Perhaps she’s had trouble in the past of whatever type and has someone who drives her to and from gigs and also acts as a bodyguard. He certainly wasn’t present during the last two acts. Perhaps he’s taking a look around for potential troublemakers. I keep an eye on him while appearing to watch Mr Fuego. His dead, piggy eyes are everywhere and I wonder what or who he’s looking for, apart from obsessive fans with an uncontrollable libidinous nature.
Anouk is laughing and has squeezed even closer to me. She still has her hand on my leg. I take a sip of my drink and place a hand on the inside of her thigh, above her stocking top. She doesn’t look at me, but crosses her legs, trapping my hand between them. She leans over and whispers in my ear.
‘I am going to get a tattoo done tomorrow while I am here. This country is the best next to France and The Netherlands. Would you like to come and hold my hand?’
‘What time?’
‘My appointment’s at midday.’
‘What are you going to get done?’
‘Just a small one. Two cherries. It is a fertility symbol. They say it resembles the colour of a woman’s lips. Others say it represents a woman’s lust, or her ability to inspire lust.’
‘Where’s it going to be?’
‘The inside of my thigh. Where your hand is doing all that squeezing right now. I’ve never had one before. I just felt the time was right. My sister had one last year. I�
�m always copying her!’
Mr Security takes a slow walk around the venue. Occasionally a brief, wintry smile spreads across his face when he has to squeeze past someone or get out of someone’s way. I get the impression that if someone gave him permission to let rip in here with a machine gun it would be the happiest day of his life.
‘Where are you going to get it done?’ I ask.
‘Soho. It is a good place. Highly recommended. We can meet at the shop, if you like.’
I’m just about to ask her the address, when the stage darkens, with only a single spot lighting up Johnny Fuego’s panda face.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, prepare to be dazzled, prepare to be possessed, prepare to be eaten up and brutally spat out by the enchanting, the alluring, the bewitching, the ravishing, the edible, the succulent, the wickedly over-ripe…’
He pauses, to wind up the audience just a little more.
‘…the indecent, the very, very beautiful, the one and only Miss Véronique D’Erotique!’
The applause and cheering is so loud that I can feel the pressure against my eardrums. Johnny exits stage left. The venue lights dim. Anouk rubs her leg against mine. I can hear the black curtains opening, but can see nothing at all on the stage, which is still in total darkness. Then small points of white light start twinkling, like a miniature storm of fireflies or snowflakes: spiralling, sparkling, appearing, disappearing. I want to put my hand inside them. How are they doing this? Lasers? I decide not to worry and just sit back and enjoy it.
The music starts: two slow, repeated notes on a double bass. It must be the anticipation, but the blackness of the stage, the swirling luminosity of the spooky lights and the two bass notes are already electrifying by themselves.
The stage lighting gradually increases until we see her, sitting on a black velvet chaise longue, looking straight ahead, both hands clasping her right knee, totally immobile. The audience goes wild. It’s immediately obvious to me that she’s far more ravishing than any of her photographs come close to suggesting. It’s as if God’s girlfriend has just materialised on the stage.
Her straight black hair is in a short, layered bob, flattering that heart-stopping, heart-shaped face. Compared to the other two acts, she’s barely wearing any makeup at all: just a dark red lipstick on those full lips, a thin layer of kohl around her eyelids and a light dusting of copper eye shadow. It’s more than she needs.
Everything she wears is black: an underwired lace camisole with shoulder straps and a separate suspender belt, seamed lace stockings and the thinnest of G-strings. I can’t see too clearly but I’m guessing those are seven-inch heels. There is also a slim silver collar around her neck with an O ring at the front for all the fetish fans. She acknowledges the audience reaction with a brief flash of humour in those beautiful, big eyes, and then it’s gone.
The music develops into a cool, exotic, lazy jazz groove with choppy synth strings. She slowly stretches her arms out, then brings them in hard to the sides of her body, using the balls of her hands to casually caress herself from her hips to her breasts and then back down again. As she does this, she turns her head to the right, bares her teeth, and looks agonised and aroused at the same time.
‘What’s this music?’ I whisper to Anouk.
‘It’s Chaque Bouton Lâche by Lucie Bertillon. Véronique lip-synchs to it. You’ll see.’
Back on the stage, Véronique starts to sway in time with the beat. She runs her hands over her breasts and then clasps her fingers behind her neck, tossing her head back, pushing her chest out, licking her lips, biting them, rolling her eyes, slowly grinding herself into the black velvet. It’s all for show and yet intimate at the same time: as if you’re spying on a woman who isn’t aware she’s being watched. The small points of white light are still floating around, but now she’s being artfully lit from the side and from beneath, giving a tantalising glimpse of her body through the black lace camisole.
Both of her feet are planted firmly on the floor, the heels giving definition to her calf muscles. She spreads her legs wide apart, grasping her thighs from the inside, her shoulders moving sinuously up and down drawing the eyes to her breasts once again. Then she mimes to the sultry French vocal that has begun.
‘Mon cœur est troublé lorsque vous êtes à proximité / Un frisson sur ma peau rend mon corps en feu.’
She closes her eyes and brings her thighs together, trapping both hands in between them, her body rocking back and forth, her eyes rolling up into her head with the pleasure this motion is giving her. Then she suddenly jerks her head back, teeth clenched, as if in the throes of climax. People start whistling and cheering. Something changes with the music and I can feel the bass notes hammering my chest.
‘Ma peau blanche a besoin de votre caresse / Je veux votre caresse / Ai besoin de votre caresse.’
The bows on the camisole shoulder straps are untied, agonisingly slowly, one after another. There are no cute or funny glances; no winking at the audience. This is serious and, as a result, far more enticingly erotic.
‘Déshabillez moi / Spoliation moi / Commencez lentement il me brûle.’
Anouk leans over and whispers in my ear. ‘Undress me. Despoil me. Start slowly so it burns me.’
I don’t need the translation, but it was enjoyable just the same. She squeezes my leg hard. I hold the back of her neck. She inhales sharply. I have to admit I’m getting overwhelmed. I look for a waitress so I can order some more drinks. I can’t see any, but I can see Mr Security again, back near the lighting guy, looking puzzlingly underwhelmed by the whole thing.
Véronique stands and whips the camisole top off in one quick movement, throwing it across the stage. This bit of drama gets big cheers. Unlike the other performers, she isn’t using anything to cover her nipples: no tassels, no pasties, but she has applied a little makeup to darken them.
She clasps her fingers behind her neck again, with predictable results on her upper body. She inhales and exhales torturously slowly, making her breasts rise and fall. I can see her stomach muscles tighten and relax. Her eyes are closed; there’s a pained expression on her face. She bares her teeth and snarls as she slowly makes her way to the front of the stage. I flick the collar of my shirt to cool myself down a little. I see Anouk lick her lips.
‘Une pièce à la fois / Tellement lent / Tellement lent / Mon amour.’
Once again, she slowly caresses herself, stroking her thighs, her hips, her belly and almost, but not quite, her breasts. She turns away momentarily, to give the audience a glimpse of her bottom, which she taps lightly, then she spins around to face them again.
‘Je me sens à vos yeux / Leur regard sauvage.’
She’s right on the edge of the stage now. She gets down on her haunches and nonchalantly unclips all eight suspender straps, her legs wide apart. This must be killing her thigh muscles. The suspender belt is unclipped, yanked off and gets tossed into the audience. I can hear cheers and look behind to see one of the Dusty Springfields holding it up in the air.
She lies on her back, takes her heels off, raises her legs and starts work on her stockings, her movements getting more and more provocative, her back arching, her head rolling slowly from side to side.
‘Je vais voir des bas noirs drapés sur une chaise.’
Each stocking is pulled down and stretched from her toe to her hand before she releases it. I think this must be quite a skill to master. The white dancing lights have become multi-coloured. A tiny but constant shower of silver glitter falls down from somewhere above the stage. This is like the Cirque du Soleil of burlesque.
Once both stockings are off, she turns over so she’s on all fours, stretching and writhing, pushing her bottom back with a slow, grinding rhythm, perhaps to receive an invisible lover. She pants, rolls her eyes and bites her lower lip. She grimaces and squeezes her eyes shut. The stage lights are in tune with her movements, getting more and more frenetic as she gets more and more salacious.
‘Chaque défaite de la
sangle / Chaque bouton lâche.’
Anouk whispers her translation again. ‘Each strap undone. Each button loose.’
Véronique gets to her feet once again. The only item she’s wearing now is the G-string. Without the heels, I can tell she’s petite: maybe a little over five feet. I can’t take my eyes off her body: the full, flushed, high breasts, the firm thighs. I can see now that she’s covered in some sort of oil or lotion. The glitter falling from the ceiling is sticking to her and a couple of rotating spotlights cause her whole body to sparkle. She hardly moves. She just stands there like some beautiful alien, eyes tightly shut, her arms straight at her sides, her hands bunched into fists, her body goose pimpled and trembling, as if she’s lost in some sort of pre-orgasmic rapture. She continues to lip-synch. It’s probably the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen onstage in a nightclub. It may well be the sexiest thing I’ve seen anywhere.
‘Jusqu’à ce que je suis tout ce qu’il ya / Nue devant vous une fois de plus.’
Anouk gently places the back of her hand under my chin and closes my mouth. My teeth click together.
‘Déshabillez moi / Spoliation moi / Commencez lentement il me brûle / Une pièce à la fois / Tellement lent / Tellement lent / Mon amour…’
She opens her eyes and glances down to where I’m sitting. She briefly frowns and her face registers both surprise and alarm. She was expecting to see Rikki. She recovers and turns her back on the audience, walking slowly to the back of the stage, untying her G-string and carelessly, casually, letting it fall to the floor. She returns to the chaise longue and sits where we found her, looking straight ahead, both hands clasping her right knee, totally immobile. The music stops, the stage goes black, the audience goes berserk.
‘Oh wow,’ says Anouk, clapping furiously. ‘She’s so utterly fantastic. I love her.’
The lighting goes back to normal and the background jazz comes on again. I’m exhausted. I order some more drinks.
Femme Fatale Page 14