Blue Angel

by Logan Belle

  This performer was nothing like Bette, who led with her sexuality. This woman, with her slow, delicate movements, was like a ballerina. The music moved toward its first crescendo, and the dancer pulled off the sides of her skirt, revealing them to be, in fact, large fans.

  The audience in the video howled and clapped, and while that made perfect sense at the Blue Angel, it annoyed Mallory while she tried to take in this performance.

  The dancer used her fans to conceal her body, at one point cupping one overhead and one underneath so that she was like a baby bird just beginning to emerge into the world.

  “That’s the Clam Shell,” Bette said. “I’m going to show you how to do that next.”

  Mallory barely heard her. She was mesmerized.

  The music peaked again, and this time the dancer pulled the fans apart to reveal her body. She wore a spangled bikini top and bottom, and she gyrated her body like a belly dancer. The audience screamed and hooted, and again this seemed entirely inappropriate to Mallory. This woman deserved silent reverence.

  When it ended, Mason spoke first.

  “Is that you?”

  “No!” Bette said. “But tomorrow night, that will be her.” She nudged Mallory.

  “Cool,” Mason said.

  Mallory looked at them like they were both crazy.

  When they rode the elevator back upstairs, Mallory checked out her reflection in the mirrors. She straightened her back and held her fingers loosely posed in “ballet hands.” She remembered, as a child, how her teacher explained to her that the best way to remember ballet hands was to pretend you had to hold a fluffy cotton ball between your thumb and middle finger without crushing it.

  She could tell Bette had never danced ballet.

  “How did you get started doing this?” Mallory asked.

  “It was a random thing. I was at NYU, stripping and nude modeling for tuition money.” She said this casually, as if she had said she had been waiting tables. “One of the photographers came to see me strip, and then she invited me to see a show at the Slit. I thought it was cool. The photographer introduced me to Penelope Lowe. She’s this rich society brat who owns the club. I auditioned but didn’t get it—they always want girls to do crazy things like stick knives up their pussies, and I was just trying to learn how to perform. It was a disaster. “

  “But if you needed money, why would you leave stripping for burlesque? Strippers must make so much more money. You told me Agnes barely pays.”

  “I think the idea started one day when I was reading a magazine I found in the trash compactor room of my building. One of my neighbors had a subscription to every magazine you could imagine—Vogue, W, Vanity Fair, Us, Cosmo . . . I think she worked for a magazine or something. Every few months she left a massive pile in the trash room. I always read Vogue and W because I ripped out the best photos to hang in my apartment. This was before I could pay for prints. I love photography, you know.”

  “Yeah. The first thing I noticed in your apartment was the photographs.”

  “Anyway, there was a gorgeous editorial spread of Marilyn Manson and Dita Von Teese at their wedding. It was gothic, and the spread looked like they were covering a royal wedding of the underworld. Dita Von Teese wore an incredible, dark violet Vivienne Westwood gown. I’ve never seen anything like it. But the point is, they never would have featured her so prominently if she were a stripper. But she was a burlesque performer and had made a name for herself doing a routine in a giant martini glass—props can be a big part of defining yourself as a performer, but we don’t have time to get into all that now. Anyway, I knew that was what I wanted and what I would go for: the Vogue spread, the celebrity wedding. A name of my own. You don’t get that as a stripper. When a celebrity marries a stripper he marries a punch line. But a burlesque performer . . . she’s a creative equal. So I eventually made a name for myself at the Blue Angel. The only thing missing was the famous boyfriend. And believe me, a few musicians and actors have come through the Angel. I knew I could sleep with them once or twice. But I’m not good enough at faking it to have a whole relationship with a guy.”

  “I guess that’s where Zebra comes in,” Mallory said.

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “I thought you said she was your soul mate, and you were in love and all that.”

  “She is. I am.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she just conveniently serves as the famous lover you need to take you to the next level of your career,” Mallory said.

  “Oh Mallory—you’re such a cynic. Look, I am crazy about her. And there is the potential for something real there—I know it. But yes, it helps that she is an extremely visible celebrity. That’s part of the attraction.”

  “That’s not what makes a relationship work.”

  “I know, hon. Not for you. And it’s great that you and Alec have been in love since you were kids. There’s a purity to that.But it’s more complex for me. I’ve never been in love before. And I know that being with a woman like Zebra is my best chance at feeling in love and getting what I want out of life.”

  “Being in love is the best feeling in the world—better than any audience can give you,” Mallory said. She felt tears coming. “I miss him so much.”

  “I know you do. But you had a good conversation this morning. Things will work out. But put him out of your mind for now—we have fan dancing to learn.”

  It was eleven at night before they finished.

  Mallory sat on the couch, every muscle in her body aching. She had spent the past six hours learning variations of the bump ’n’ grind, tassel twirling, glove peeling, showgirl posing, and ten different fan dance techniques. She was grateful that Bette had taken the time to show her the Ms. Tickle performance—when she had moments of feeling that she was just going through the motions with no end in sight, she drew upon the mental image of that magnificent dance, a dance that pulled all the pieces together to make magic.

  And then there was Bette’s choreography for the Baxter party performance. Just watching it had left Mallory breathless. The dance was a perfect combination of Ms. Tickle’s grace and subtlety and Bette’s signature, fierce sexuality. It was the most ambitious performance she had ever seen, and she felt like a fool for thinking she could just step in to Bette’s place.

  “You think I can do that? Why didn’t you tell me it was the most intense performance I’ve seen yet? I’d imagined something simple, like your Alice in Wonderland dance. Oh, my God, what have I gotten myself into?”

  Bette opened a bottle of red wine.

  “Don’t stress. See, that’s why I didn’t want to show you at first. Just take a step back and think of the pieces of the performance. It’s just the things I showed you strung together. And the costume helps, doesn’t it?”

  Luckily, Bette’s black satin corset and black Ostrich feather skirt fit Mallory almost as well as if they had been made for her. The only thing she didn’t have was shoes, because Bette’s were too small, but they would find replacements at the Hustler store on Sunset. Even Bette’s black sequined pasties were the right size because they both had small, delicate nipples. “I really appreciate your doing this for me, Mallory. It was a stroke of genius, and it’s giving me the chance to have something with Zebra. So here—cheers. To friends and lovers.”

  They touched their glasses together.

  “And to tomorrow, the debut of Moxie.”

  “Wait—what’s the date tomorrow?” Mallory said.

  “I don’t know, February 3? Why?”

  “Unbelievable. That’s the retake date for the bar exam. If I’d done what I was supposed to do and gone for it again, I would have been up tonight cramming for that test.”

  “Did you forget?”

  “No! I would never forget something like that if I had any intention of retaking the test. But I knew a while ago—maybe even subconsciously as long ago as the day I registered to take it again—that I wasn’t going to. And so tonight, instead, I’m cramming to le
arn your performance. How crazy is that?”

  “I guarantee tomorrow is one test you will pass—big-time.”

  “Bette, I can never thank you enough for opening my eyes to all of this. I was so stuck before. I couldn’t even admit to myself how much I was second-guessing my decision to be a lawyer. I really thought Alec was the one who would have an interesting career. I was just settling.”

  “Do you think you want to do this for real?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Audition for the Blue Angel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not interested?”

  “Let’s see how things go tomorrow night.”

  “I wish I could see it! I just hope someone records it with a phone, and it ends up on YouTube.”

  “Don’t even say that!” She could just imagine Alec hearing from one of his friends that she was naked on YouTube.

  “It’s no big deal. We all end up on there eventually.”

  “That cannot happen tomorrow night!”

  “Why? What difference does it make?”

  “I swore to Alec I was just here to relax—that I had nothing to do with the party.”

  “Why did you say that?”

  “Because at the time, it was true!”

  “So tell him you’ve decided to perform. Not a big deal.”

  “It is a big deal. He broke up with me because of the night you and I hooked up. He blames the Blue Angel for my losing my job at the law firm. The combination . . . you, the club. He sees it as a threat. I’m lucky he took the news that I’m out here with you so calmly.”

  “Guys are such babies. They can dish it out, but they can’t take it. I’m so glad I don’t have to deal with that bullshit. I mean, don’t get me wrong. Women come with their own crap. But it’s crap I can at least understand.”

  Mallory put her head in her hands. “I’m exhausted. I can’t believe I’m going to try to do this tomorrow night.”

  “Get some sleep. All this stuff will sink in overnight. You’ll wake up owning it. Trust me.”

  Bette kissed Mallory on the forehead.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I’m spending the night with Zebra. I’ll be back first thing in the morning to take you shoe shopping and to run through the routine a few more times before my flight to Vegas. Sleep well, Moxie.”

  19

  The Lincoln Town Car pulled up to a mansion perched on the edge of the Pacific Ocean.

  When Bette had told her that the Baxters had a beach house, Mallory had somehow envisioned something quaint and rustic like her parents’ summer home at the Jersey Shore. She was not prepared—although she should have been—for the sight of the Italian Renaissance mansion, with its triple-arched entrance flanked by palm trees. Her stomach tightened like a fist.

  The night had begun a few hours earlier, with the phone call from Bette to Justin. She’s told him she was sick, but that the redheaded burlesque dancer he’d met at Voyeur was happy to perform in her place.

  “He was fine with it,” she told Mallory from her cell phone. She was on Zebra’s private plane waiting to leave for Vegas.

  “I guess he had to be, considering the party starts in three hours.”

  “No, he was really okay with it. He said he remembers you from Thursday night, and you’re hot. He asked if you wanted to hang out at the party before you perform but I told him no—just to send a car for you to arrive a half hour ahead of time. That’s what I always do. If you want to stay after and mingle, that’s fine, but I never see the audience before I perform.”

  “Okay,” Mallory said. She knew she would not want to mingle with the audience at all—not before, and especially not after.

  “Break a leg,” Bette said. And then she was gone.

  Pulling up to the entrance, the car circled a Venetian fountain surrounded by Bentleys and Ferraris. Mallory would have given anything to have Bette riding shotgun, even just to walk her inside. The only two thoughts that helped mobilize her out of the backseat of the car were that first, she was not Mallory Dale tonight. She was Moxie, and no one would know anything different. Second, the sooner she got through the performance, the sooner she would be home in bed so she could wake up the next morning to a flight that would take her home to Alec.

  “I’ll be waiting here when you’re ready to leave,” the driver said, opening the door for her.

  She grabbed the bag with her costume in it, a large Juicy Couture overnight satchel. It was Bette’s, and someone had personalized it for her with the word Noir in pink rhinestones. Or maybe she had just found a bag that came that way.

  “Welcome! Are you a guest or a performer?” a woman greeted her in the entrance foyer.

  “Performer,” Mallory said.

  “What’s your name?” She looked at a clipboard.

  “Mallory . . . I mean, Moxie.”

  She spoke into a headset. “Moxie has arrived.” And then, “Mr. Baxter will be right with you.”

  Justin appeared. He wore a black suit, black shirt, and black tie. He looked the way some of the slick agents looked standing with their A-list clients at the Academy Awards.

  “Hey, Moxie. So glad you could fill in for Bette. Is she doing okay?”

  “Yes. Fine. She’s . . . resting.” On Zebra’s jet.

  “Poor thing. Was it something she ate?”

  Mallory missed Alec with a sudden pang. If he were there, he would have deadpanned, “Yes, something she ate really got to her,” and they would have shared a private laugh.

  “I’m not really sure,” Mallory said.

  “Well, you’re an angel for stepping in at the last minute. Everything you need should be in the dressing room upstairs. I have hors d’oeuvres and a few bottles of Perrier and champagne but if you want anything else, just let Maria here know. You’re on in a half hour. When you’re ready, Maria will call the party producer to escort you to the performance area. The producer has your song cued up, so when you step onto the floor it will be ready to go. It’s not an actual stage, so there’s no curtain or anything—I hope that’s okay. I mention it because it throws some of the girls at first if they don’t know. But trust me, it works beautifully. We’ve done dozens of shows here, and by the end the girls tell me they like my room more than any club.”

  “Thanks. It will be great, I’m sure.”

  “Can’t wait to see you out there.” He kissed her on the cheek, and left her to climb the stairs alone.

  Mallory stepped onto the performance space, which was a wide, hardwood floor that had surprisingly professional-looking lighting overhead. It had the effect of obscuring the audience somewhat. She knew the space was surrounded by tables for ten and that still more people were milling around, but she couldn’t see specific faces the way she could see the front row at the Blue Angel.

  She positioned herself with her back to the audience, so they were looking at the intricate lacing of her corset, her arms outstretched in long black gloves. Her hands were shaking so hard she wondered how she would be able to remove the feathered skirt.

  The first beats of the Peaches song “Lose You” overtook the room. She couldn’t tell if the crowd fell silent or if the music was covering the sound of voices, but either way, between the lights and the music she was able to get her mind in the game.

  When the lyrics began, she spun around twice, walked toward the front of the “stage,” and slowly peeled off one glove. Bette had choreographed a lot of spinning in the dance—she said the song begged for movement—and with each turn Mallory had to get her hands in position to remove another section of her costume. The one thing that was excruciating to her was that at the very end she had to remove her pasties. Bette had told her that Justin liked full nudity in his shows, but she could get away with just being topless since she was new and only filling in for her. But to compensate for this, Bette had added a spanking to the ending: Mallory would turn her back to the audience in a final turn, while wearing only a white sequined thong
, bend over, and hit her ass with a black paddle.

  The audience was quieter than the Blue Angel audience, but they clapped and occasionally whistled as she moved through the first steps of her performance. She pulled off the section of her skirt that doubled as fans, and she moved into her Clam Shell pose. She exaggerated each gesture, careful not to rush through the motions. She was again grateful that Bette had showed her the Ms. Tickle performance, which gave her the confidence to have moments of near-stillness.

  She used one fan to obscure her waist and then removed the rest of her skirt, tossing it aside. The audience clapped their approval. Now the hard part: she did another turn, dropped the fans, and unzipped the side of her corset, then turned again, removing it in one motion. She felt a rush of heat through her body in those first moments standing there in just a thong and the pasties. She froze for half a beat, then forced herself through the motion of twirling the tassels. The audience erupted in applause and whistles, and something clicked inside of her; she stopped hearing Bette’s instructions in her mind, and she moved because her body launched into the steps as automatically as her lungs pushed out each breath. A sense of absolute control came over her, control of the room, control of herself. It became a game to elicit noise from the audience, and by the time she had to remove her pasties, she was happy to have some way to up the ante.

  The music built to its finale, and she took two more turns, getting her ass in position for the audience to have a full view of her spanking. She reached down for the carefully placed paddle, then brought her arm out in an exaggerated motion before smacking her ass hard enough to leave a mark. Bette had told her she was lucky she was fair skinned—it wouldn’t be hard to get a red mark. Mallory had to trust her on that. From the shrieks of the audience—no more polite clapping, it was full-on yelling now—she could imagine they were seeing something.