BURLESQUE

I walked through the door and paid the man five dollars and showed him my ID. I stuffed two fives into my wallet and kept the other one out in hopes that the Lone Star I’d eyed was cheap. I let her keep the spare one and began sipping.

The room was a graveyard. A nursing home could’ve rivaled this energy. I sipped my drink and looked around. An older couple in a booth, another loner, the doorman, the bartender, and occasionally wandering in, the cook. I started to regret showing up early. Ten minutes to showtime and this is it. I couldn’t bear to be stuck at the bar like a chump. I slipped outside to smoke a cigarette out of boredom, then came back in to the same modest crowd.

“Y’all don’t mind if I take this seat, do you? I figured I’d grab it while the gettin’s good.” I made quick friends with the strangers and we talked until a man in purple facepaint and elf ears came up on stage and announced that the show would be starting in fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes to go. The DJ played old soul music and the disco ball above reflected little spots of light in every direction. The buzz of my Lone Star had faded and silenced. By now I was riding pure curiosity.

“You have my permission to KILL anyone who tries to take this spot.” My new friend gave a thumbs up and I headed for the bathroom. The lipstick stains on the wall reflected in the mirror indicated that this was a place of drunkenness, lust, and SIN.

Thank God, I’m home.

The troll came on stage and announced that the show would be starting. He went over the rules: no souvenirs, no touching, and tip your bartender and the dancers. The first performer was the man himself. For the next twenty minutes, discarded garments and small bills flew through the air. Tastefully displayed bodies, both big and small worked the stage. Skin normally hidden was exposed for all to see, but not so much skin that there was nothing left to the imagination. The final performer made a show of her flexibility, contorting herself around a chair. Then after her, there was a break between sets.

Before the crowd had even stopped clapping, I was out of my seat with a cigarette between my lips. I strutted towards the backdoor and lit myself some reprieve. The DJ’s voice carried outside, talking about some sort of raffle.

I was joined by my new friends, who evidently knew the girl running the whole show. She’d put this whole thing on as a fundraiser to pay for her truck’s repair.

I smoked the rest of my cigarette, but I had started to notice something troubling: I was starting to sober up. This was a bad sign. I went inside and ordered another beer. The bartender kept the tip and I exchanged a five for more ones. Finishing the beer outside in the cool night air, the girl warned us that the next set was starting and I rushed back in. I claimed my front row seat as the first performer went on.

The next twenty minutes had passed similarly to the last. A girl would get up on stage, strip something off, toss it away, and the crowd would lose its collective mind. I was buzzing again and having a good time. But there was something missing. This wasn’t the usual depravity of a strip club, no. This was far more tame.

We clapped along to the last dance. The ringleader did a slow tease while her friend played an acoustic guitar. The crowd reared up with every layer she peeled off. And the more she showed, the rowdier we got. Boards smoldered beneath her as she set the stage on fire. The flame rose, peaked, and simmered as she sauntered off.

No time to cool off. Now was the final event. A redheaded dancer in a cowboy hat announced that they would be raffling off a group lapdance to the highest bidder. I heard “TEN DOLLARS” behind me, then “FIFTEEN” from somewhere else. Sure, I’ll play the game. How much do I have left? I peeled open my wallet. A single bill remained. I knew I wouldn’t win, but I could jack up the price and get this girl’s truck fixed a little faster, so I held up my twenty and declared my bid.

“Do I hear twenty-five?” The redhead cried. The audience was silent.

“Twenty-five?” Wait. Oh, shit.

“Alright, twenty dollars!” My new friends fist bumped me and clapped me on the back as I quickly came to terms with what I had just bought myself into. I’d never expected to win. I was totally unprepared. Once I got up on that stage, there was no telling what those girls would do to me. They could rip me apart in the best and worst ways possible. The imagination runs wild, but the racing of the mind is cut short. The cowgirl came to take my money and I thought of how much I had burned that night. Not a ridiculous amount, but much more than I had intended on cigs, booze, and girls. But I’ll never change. Money well spent.

The girl asked my name and I proudly answered. She pulled out a blue chair and invited me on stage. I skipped the steps and put my black boots directly onto the platform. A prime opportunity to gloat. I sat in the chair and smiled at the audience. They smiled back, but were quickly distracted by the girls surrounding me. The lights had focused on me and I started to feel a lot smaller. I hadn’t noticed until now how big these girls actually were. Not in stature, but in presence. The troll hyped the audience up, telling them that they should be jealous of me and reaffirming how lucky I was. This is what winning feels like. A warm forehead and a queasy stomach. I felt long nails run through my hair and I started to get nervous. There was no eject button. My ass was planted in this seat until they were finished with me. The ring of girls tightened around me and the troll threatened to come up last.

“They save the best for last!” I hollered. The troll affirmed me and started the song. I put my hands on my thighs and waited. Now the real show had begun.

The cowgirl was first. She let me wear her hat and put on a good show for the crowd. It was a quick reminder that all of this was for them, not me. But I was going to have myself a good time anyway. Next was the girl in the black cloak and the mask. I saw the nails and said “don’t hurt me now!” but it was too late. She grinded the hell out of my right thigh, bringing my hand up to her chest and holding it there as she worked. Now, don’t squeeze. She turned around and took my hands into hers before running those long, scary nails down my cheeks. She rode my left bicep and cleared out for the next girl. She made quite the show of taking her stocking off, wrapping it around my neck, then shaking her chest in my face before stealing my hat. She gave it back only for the next girl to take it, put her hands on my knees and do some kind of “sexy” pushup between my legs. So far all the dancers, except for the one, had been pretty tame. I got the feeling that this woman was holding herself back. She snapped her eyes up to mine and bore into me with her gaze. If she were to cut loose, she could probably do things that would make even the most perverted of men blush. But we’re here to be classy, right?  The leather-clad girl came next. She worked the bottom of her onesie against my lap and charmed me with words I couldn’t quite hear. It could’ve been as innocuous as “your fly is open” but I smiled like a fool all the same.  She cleared out quickly, but the last girl was yet to come on. The noise of the crowd shrank and the music faded. All I could hear was the slow, ominous KLICK… KLACK… of her heels against the hardwood stage. I didn’t even notice someone adjust my hat when she came into view. She had her hands on her hips. Assessing me. Plotting. Planning my demise. She put her head between my feet and lifted her legs up and around my arms. Now I was trapped and her hips were gyrating her best asset against my chest. She sat on my lap and moved my feet. I crossed them and she fought me until her head was between my knees. She put her right foot onto my right shoulder, then did the same with the left. She lifted her legs straight up, then let them fall to the side. She somersaulted her head between my knees and her ass into my neck. I looked out at the crowd from between her spread legs and winked to my new friends. THIS is what winning felt like. Not nervous excitement. More, a resignation to the situation and a willingness to roll with it. The troll was right. Those drunken faces in the audience are jealous of me. And they should be. I had been smiling for so long that my mouth was dry and I couldn’t bring my lips together. She got down just as the song ended.

No time for the troll, disappointingly. The crowd cheered, we all took a picture together, and then the cowgirl kicked me off stage. The whole thing was over in less than five minutes. Now what?

The smile was still stuck on my face. My friends congratulated me one more time as I smoked my last cigarette with them. I tried to talk to the ringleader before I left, but she was too busy.

I wanted to know more about her truck, but also, I wanted to know how she did it. What do you tell yourself before you climb up on that stage? Where do you find the confidence to take off your clothes in front of strangers? Why can you do it unafraid?

None of the girls on stage were what I’d call “traditionally beautiful.” Sure, they were easy on the eyes and knew how to use their bodies, but they weren’t the fit, blonde, tan dancers that you’d expect to find in one of the high-end clubs in the city. But this wasn’t a strip club. This was a burlesque show. It’s not about a lascivious display of bodies. It’s about performance.

In a strip club, the moves of the dancer telegraph to you outright what her body can do. There’s no room for speculation or imagination. Her movements are clear.

In a burlesque show, the moves aren’t overtly sexual. A dancer’s body is still showcasing a capability, but the capability isn’t strictly lewd. It’s saucy, sure. But it’s tasteful. It’s art. And the art was various.

No two bodies were the same. And the variety made the whole show. The lapdance is where the two worlds met. No matter how you cut it, a girl grinding her ass against your lap is still erotic. But this isn’t some seedy strip joint designed to bleed your wallet dry of every dollar. This was a local bar. The faces in the crowd were no longer strangers. They were comrades. It could have been any of us up on that stage, but I bid the highest. There was plenty of cash in the crowd, but everyone balked. They asked “do I really want to get up there?” And I never did. I had no expectation of being the winner. No deep desire to sit high in that chair. So the whole experience goes to show: good things tend to fall into your lap. Especially when you’re charitable.

Twenty dollars could buy you one lapdance in a cheap strip club. At a burlesque show, it could get you six.