Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque)
Page 23
At the sound of her stage name, Mallory reflexively straightened her back. She tugged on her elbow-length white gloves to make sure they were easily removable, and straightened her headpiece. These were nervous, unnecessary tics. She was, as always, perfectly prepared for her performance. Maybe more so tonight than ever before.
The song “Puttin’ on the Ritz”—the synth-pop 1983 cover version—filled the room. The curtain receded to one side, and Mallory felt the heat of the stage lights bathing her in a red glow. From the darkness in front of her, the full house roared. She knew she was a sight in her costume, but this wasn’t a fashion show. Being a sight wasn’t enough. Burlesque was all about the reveal—revealing parts of her body, yes—but in doing so, eliciting a reaction from audience members that revealed something about themselves.
Mallory shimmied to the front of the stage, twirling the fluffy pink boa draped over her shoulders. She sensed the audience’s collective anticipation. Although she’d practiced on the stage many times, it felt dramatically different to be in front of people. In the months since the Blue Angel had closed and she’d stopped performing, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like to play off of a crowd.
As the song kicked up-tempo, she swiveled her heels in opposite directions, launching into an improvised Charleston. At the same time, she tugged off one glove, throwing it into the audience to an appreciative roar. She loved the way the pinkbeaded fringe on her dress moved with her hips, and she exaggerated her kicks in the front and back to maximize the dramatic flair of silk.
When the song came to the lyrics “walk with sticks or um-ber-ellas,” she retrieved a black walking stick from the floor and used the tip to tease off the spaghetti strap of her dress. With another shimmy, her breasts were exposed, her nipples covered in pink-sequined pasties with pink tassels. The audience shouted her name, and she let the dress fall to the floor so she was clad in only the boa, pasties, a pink thong, thigh-high white fishnet stockings with garters, and her black patent heels. She used the boa to tease the crowd, covering her breasts and then revealing them in flashes. She turned her back to the audience, holding the boa in either hand, stretching it across her nearly bare ass and rubbing it back and forth. Then she bent forward and moved the boa so she was rubbing it between her thighs from the front to the back. This whipped the crowd into a frenzy, and when she turned to face them again, she dropped the boa and shimmied her shoulders so the tassels on her pasties twirled dramatically.
The red curtain closed.
“That performance would almost make prohibition tolerable,” said Bette.
Mallory was breathless, and could only smile her thanks. She heard Alec retake the stage to introduce the next act.
“Another round of applause for Moxie, the sexiest flapper to grace the stage since Louise Brooks,” said Alec. The audience clapped. “Moxie, come on back out here.”
“What is he doing?” Mallory said to Bette in astonishment. “He’s interrupting the whole flow of the show.”
“Better go humor him,” Bette said with a smile. She handed her a black silk robe.
Mallory quickly covered herself and returned to the stage. A few people stood to applaud her.
“I don’t know how many of you are aware of this, but in addition to being The Painted Lady’s opening performer, Moxie is also the creative vision of the club and producer of the show you are seeing tonight. And I’m hoping she might take on one more role”—Alec paused dramatically—“that of my wife.”
Alec got down on one knee.
Mallory looked at him in shock. “Oh, my God, what are you doing?”
He pulled out a small black box and opened it to reveal a beautiful art deco, antique diamond ring. “Marry me, Mallory,” he said.
Mallory wasn’t sure if the low roar she heard was the sound of blood rushing to her head, or if it was the sound of the crowd, or if this was simply what it felt like to be truly shocked for the first time in her life. “Oh, my God,” she repeated.
“What do you say, Mal?”
Was this really happening? After all the years, the great sex, the jealousy, fights, uncertainty, missteps, soul-searching, and compromise, could it really culminate in this one perfect moment?
“Yes,” she managed to breathe. “I’ll marry you.” He stood up and hugged her. Through a blur of tears, she watched him slip the ring on her finger.
He held her tight, and all she could think was that she didn’t want this happiness to end. She had no idea how to leave the stage. She didn’t want to. She didn’t trust the magic of the moment to follow her into “real life.”
But on the stage, anything was possible.
APHRODISIA BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2011 by Logan Belle
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7419-9
ISBN-10: 0-7582-6161-6