Martin Dash

by Andy Bailey

  They looked at each other again and simultaneously burst out laughing together.

  “Wow, what a place !” shouted Susan above the din.

  “It’s awesome !” shouted Carol, happily.

  They clinked their glasses together and took another ill-judged glug.

  Their table was a couple of rows back from the front of the stage, not centre but more towards the wall on their right as they faced the stage. As Susan’s eyes tracked along the row of tables up against the wall, she noticed that there was a larger table at the end nearest the stage that was empty (in fact, it must have been the only empty table in the place) but it was roped off with the red tasselled rope beloved of egotistical club owners the world over.

  She presumed, matter-of-factly, that this must be Michael Green’s table but he didn’t appear to be in the house this evening. Through the alcoholic haze, the common sense voice told her it was obviously naïve to assume that she only had to turn up at one of his many business ventures and expect him to be sat waiting for her. But still, she was disappointed.

  However, that disappointment didn’t have time to linger for, at that moment, the swell of noise suddenly increased to a roar of approbation and she spun her head towards the stage just in time to see the entrance of a sparkling, throbbing vision in a full-length red sequined fishtail dress, bare shoulders, huge cleavage, full length black satin gloves, big blond hair, stacked black eyelashes and pouting fire engine red lips – a picture of voluptuousness.

  This was The World Famous *BOB*.

  Susan had done her research on booking the tickets and found that this lady appeared to be a genuine star on the New York neo-burlesque scene, so the club had scored something of a coup in booking her as MC for the evening.

  Model thin she was not but she oozed sexuality and confidence and the crowd clearly knew and adored her. A full-on sassy big band jazz number blasted from the house p.a. lead by a filthy trumpet sounding like the clarion call of an advancing army of raving degenerates.

  The lady sashayed around the stage, waving regally and blowing kisses to a crowd whooping and hollering like the Messiah had just landed. Susan and Carol looked at each other and just beamed. Wow !

  The World Famous *BOB* began to peel off her gloves, to the resounding approval of the mob, her hips swaying as she went. Each glove was tossed aside in turn to reveal a bare pink arm and Susan thought she had never seen anything so directly erotic.

  *BOB* gyrated as her hands went behind her back and Susan realised the dress was going next. Bloody hell, there was no messing around with this woman. With a graceful twirl the dress crumpled in a shimmering heap on the stage and the lady stood in all her glory, legs apart, arms aloft, fists punching the air, glistening red mouth wide open with a joyous scream, liberated, in her head a wild, wild Marilyn Monroe, high on cocaine, performing for the Kennedy brothers and their buddies at a boys-only party in an alpine lodge, miles from prying eyes.

  As noted, *BOB* was not what you might call slim, but neither was she fat; she was simply all woman, with a tremendous pair of pendulous breasts packed into a large, red sequinned bra that matched the snakeskin just shed onto the floor and knickers that just held in a round-the-world bottom (from front to back); breasts that were now being flaunted in the face of a lucky punter on a ringside seat, who gasped and grasped as if it were his dying wish.

  *BOB* moved towards a small table that stood just off centre near the front of the stage that Susan hadn’t noticed until now. The spotlight followed her and so now lit up the table, which was draped in a gold lamé throw on top of which Susan could see a bottle, a bucket of ice, a silver cocktail mixing cup and an empty martini glass.

  Again, this was clearly a crowd that was familiar with the routine as another roar of approval rose up as *BOB* now stood with the table before her, facing her adoring fans. They knew what was coming but Susan had to wonder. She looked again at Carol who, shrieking, pointed at the table and cried: “Watch this !”

  'What?! – how does bloody Carol know?' puzzled Susan as she turned back to see *BOB* theatrically holding the mixer high above her head and presenting it to both sides of the stage, as if she was about to perform magic.

  Susan’s vivid imagination quickly – and shamefully – conjured up all sorts of possibilities before *BOB* deftly opened up a dark crevasse between bra and cleavage with one hand and slipped the cup in with the other. A little shiver and a knowing wink later and the cold vessel was nestling happily in its padded saddle.

  Then it was the bottle’s turn to be brandished aloft before *BOB* aimed it’s top above her breasts and began to pour lasciviously into the cup whilst bending her legs up and down – knees together – in a rhythmic motion. The light began to dawn upon Susan and she burst out laughing with sheer delight.

  This experienced pro now had the audience in the palm of her hand and was clearly enjoying the fun at least as much as they. She grabbed a couple of ice cubes from the bucket and plunged them into the cup, causing a cold splash onto the surrounding flesh that made her properly jump and the crowd thrill.

  *BOB* stood over the martini glass, legs apart, and began to bend forward as if to pour but then stopped, stood back up, wagged her finger, shook her head and strutted away from the table, teasing the people and the people loved it.

  She did a little wiggle with her hands on her hips and her back to the audience before reeling back round and returning to the table to pick up a last prop that Susan hadn’t spotted before – a stainless steel flat handle cocktail ice strainer. *BOB* bit the handle between her teeth and now she was ready to pour. Legs apart once more, the crowd baying, and she jammed her chin in to her collar bone to position the strainer on the top of the cup, inclined forward carefully and the clear liquid fell through the air into the glass directly below.

  A shake of her bent frame, boobs swaying, and a last drop was squeezed through the strainer. Back upright, arms in the air triumphantly and the place was going wild. But this was a proper performer – always holding something back.

  As they were clapping and cheering, the crowd noticed *BOB*s left hand pull the elastic of her knickers forward and a low moan rumbled down through the rows of tables as her right hand dove into the shadowed gap that had opened up. Susan and Carol were frozen, open-mouthed, until they realised what she was doing. With a flourish, the star plucked three green olives from that warm repository, unceremoniously slung two in the martini with a splash, popped the third in her mouth and masticated wickedly with a homely wink that simply said: “Join me . . .”

  Pandemonium broke out as she calmly passed the ennobled drink to the first punter who stretched out his hands. It was the same Joe that had unwittingly come into such close proximity to those same olives just two minutes before. Obviously his lucky night. He beamed at his prize, unsure whether to drink it down or take it home to put on the mantelpiece.

  Susan and Carol leapt to their feet, cheering wildly along with every last person in the house.

  The World Famous *BOB* was not even finished at that but promptly unleashed that magnificent creamy bosom from its glowing red housing, revealing matching red tassels hanging and twitching on her nipples.

  Everyone was on their feet by now doing their damnedest – encouraging each other – to collectively punch a hole through the fabric of their normal humdrum reality. In this room.

  *BOB* glided around the stage some more, collecting the payoff for all her hard work and expertise; waving, blowing kisses, spinning the tassels round like X-rated Catherine wheels; and finally took a microphone from a disembodied hand at the side of the stage.

  “Thank you. Thank you, my darlings. You’re too kind. Please, no,” her American accent sprinkling another layer of glamour on the proceedings.

  Once the tumult had dissipated sufficiently, she stood centre stage to address her people, apparently heedless of the potential incongruousness of standing casually like that, virtually nude and having just dispensed cocktail comestibles
in such a lewd and despicable manner (as the Christian Mothers of America had once described her act).

  “It’s so good to be back among my English friends again,” then she hesitated, apparently genuinely caught in two minds for a moment, “or is it British?” She looked to the side of the stage for help, her palms uplifted, shoulders shrugging: “What?”; got no help and turned her best, big, genuine showbiz smile on to the audience: “Well, whatever – you all shouldn’t be hung up about that shid anyway.”

  A loud cheer of approval and everyone clapped.

  “I can see we’ve got all sorts in here tonight, anyway” – ostentatiously peering at the crowd. “Yes, I rather do think we’ve got people from all corners of the planet here in this wonderful city of London” – working the crowd, feeling it up.

  “We’ve got a few who are off the planet too, I believe; yes,” pointing, smiling, at a group of long-haired freaks at a table near the front: “Am I right?”

  She was now making them laugh as well as holler and whistle.

  “We’ve got them all. Alive or dead. Yes, we’ve got some of the Undead amongst us; I think they need to take The Cure.” This time moving to a group of Goths, all in black, lurking in the corner shadows; representatives of a tribe not habitually known for their carefree sense of humour but, with the spotlight on them and The World Famous *BOB*s milky orbs slapping their cheeks, the unusual sight of happy, childlike grins on their pallid faces was caught, just for a moment.

  She playfully ruffled the hairsprayed nest of one of the gang before stepping gingerly back to the stage on her high heels, intoning on the way: “We love you, yes, we love all of you.”

  She stood before them centre stage once more. Exposed and unashamed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. If all this is about anything it is about one thing. And that is love, people. Love each other. No matter what you look like or where you’re from, you are loveable and we all love you.”

  A wave of contentment washed over the crowd and, suddenly, this appeared to Susan rather like a bizarre evangelical gospel meeting with *BOB* as their Billy Graham. 'Christ, what could my father do with a bit of this?' she thought. And then a faint echo that, unconsciously, she didn’t really want to hear: 'What could I do . . ?'

  *BOB* continued: “And now, my friends, here is a special person I know you’re going to love – a fellow Yank and a very dear friend of mine; please put your hands together for the very wonderful . . . Candy Stripes." *BOB*s table and garments were scooped up by lightning-quick stage hands, a pounding soul track kicked in and another startling vision of bohemian glamour strode onto the stage.

  Susan waved to one of the bunny-clad waitresses for more drinks and the two friends proceeded to laugh and shriek and holler their way through two of the happiest hours they would ever spend.

  At 11:00 o’clock they were transfixed by the penultimate act of the night – Stacey Stax in ‘Beauty and the Beast’. This was a fairly easy proposition to grasp but its power lay in the intensity of its execution. The performer – a female, Susan was fairly sure (although one or two of the earlier acts had taught her not to assume too much on that point) – was made up brilliantly so that when she faced stage left the audience saw her right side got up as a virginal bride, all in white with a satin bow headband, sheer veil, chiffon dress and lace glove; when she spun around 180°, however, the audience saw her other half as a devil, blood red from tip to toe, complete with a horn protruding from the head, sharpened teeth, pointy ear and a cloven hoof.

  The premise was evidently of the repulsive temptations put before the bride by the corrupting fiend and her heroic efforts to resist them. Accordingly, the audience would see him produce a bottle of Jack Daniels and wave it in front of her, then spin around to see her raise her hand to her mouth to stop the vile liquid from entering, then back again to see him take a long slug himself and fling the bottle away in disgust.

  He then produced a syringe and leered horribly; spun back around to see the bride waving it away and almost swooning; back again and the devil stabs the needle into his own leg with a roar of ecstasy.

  All the time ‘Lagartija Nick’ is rumbling like thunder out of the speakers.

  In due course the devil has become completely unhinged by the enormity of his lust and the stimulants ingested into his body and mind and begins to paw frantically at the increasingly terror-stricken bride. Finally, he tears the dress off in a frenzy so that the bride is stripped to reveal a pale white breast, lace panties and white stockings.

  An audible gasp could be heard from the audience at this outrageous violation.

  The artiste turns one way and the other so that the crowd sees, at once, the panting devil’s left hand move over his victim’s pale flesh, over her hard purple nipple and disgustingly down her stomach. Another spin and the bride's wide eyes dart beseechingly and she flings out her hand in a wordless cry for help.

  The brute snatches at the elastic of her knickers and snaps them off in one go. Another gasp is wrenched from the audience and they gaze, wide-eyed, in horror as his next move tells them worse is yet to come. Much worse.

  The beast has spun back in view and we now see his hand go to his own groin as he grasps his own scarlet leather loincloth and yanks it away to reveal a full, dark penis that he now begins to caress with his eyes screwed shut, moaning.

  One or two screams are emitted.

  ‘How the fuck does she do that?’ pops into Susan’s head as, now, the performer turns slowly to face the crowd head on, so that the two halves can be seen together, a perverted mirror image.

  Susan concludes that the penis must be some sort of prosthesis as the woman’s vagina can also be seen clearly next to it. And then: ‘Oh, my god. No . . .’ – more screaming now from around the room as the red fingers crawl across to assault that self-same vagina.

  The fact of the performer’s face and body being split in half this way somehow contrives to present, utterly realistically, the tormentor and tormented, simultaneously – the bride cries in terror and the devil in lust.

  It gets worse as the red hand now grasps the penis and begins to arch it towards the opening next to it and a horrified realisation of what could be happening next sweeps the room.

  Susan begins to feel panicky and looks to her friend. Carol appears to be in some sort of trance. There are big droplets of sweat on her top lip. Her cheeks are flushed with a scarlet red that seems to have been scratched in, her Alice band has gone, her wet hair is stuck to her forehead, and her eyes – whilst ostensibly directed at the stage – are actually far away.

  In a moment of fate, Susan’s gaze slips past Carol to the VIP table that had been empty before. Suddenly everything slows down and she is in a tunnel lit only at the end, where she can see figures moving. There are people at the table now, gyrating and jerking. A splodge of blonde, like a knob of butter dropped in a black frying pan, smears across her vision.

  Now the tunnel has lurched forward 90° and she is falling down it, feet first. She can hear the air whistling past her ears, her stomach departs and two giant thumbs press her temples into her head.

  It’s Martin.

  At the table with Michael Green.

  And two beautiful young women.

  All of them on their feet, dancing and shouting with their shirts and blouses undone, holding onto each other and laughing uproariously.

  Martin has a velvet black shirt half on and half off above jet black jeans, swigging from a bottle of Budweiser in his left hand and his right arm over the shoulders of the taller woman – a raven-haired beauty who is now down to her bra and also swigging from a bottle in her right hand. They kiss urgently and passionately and, together, look extraordinary.

  Michael Green is (just about) wearing a sparkling violet shirt and has his arms around the proverbial blonde bombshell and his hands hovering over the tiny blue vest that is struggling to contain the pneumatic swaying breasts beneath it.

  Martin Dash, that is. The same fucking Mart
in Dash who for the last 14 months has not touched one drop of alcohol, displayed the passion of anything more than a broken trouser press, or gone within 50 feet of any dance floor.

  At least to Susan’s knowledge . . .

  She could feel the fury rising up in her as she slowly realised she’d been taken for a first class fool.

  ‘He’s been leading a double life’, she thought, ‘but how could he do that?!’ She stared at the man she thought she knew (she could feel her teeth grinding) and realised that he seemed completely different. Apart from the fact that he was obviously drunk – very drunk, in fact – his whole demeanour and body shape, his very features, appeared so much more animated. It could have been another man.

  Her head was spinning. She couldn’t quite believe this was happening and was struggling to get over the shock, although she could also feel a momentum building to get over to that table and vent the rage that was threatening to swamp her.

  “Bloody Hell.”

  It was Carol’s voice.

  Susan’s attention was momentarily diverted back to Carol and she suddenly realised that she had completely missed the denouement of the previous thing that had been gripping her attention only a minute ago.

  ‘What?”

  “I said, bloody hell, eh?” repeated Carol, now blowing out her cheeks as though she had just completed the London Marathon. “I can’t believe we just saw that . . . it was . . . awesome.”

  Susan was struggling to pay attention but swung her head back to the stage just in time to see the polarised garb of the Dark Lord and his virginal Queen being scooped off the floor by the hard-pressed stage hands. Susan hardly dared to ask what she had missed but Carol had by now recovered herself sufficiently to notice that Susan was distracted by something behind her. So she swung around to see the party in the corner, adjusted her glasses, peered and turned back to her friend.