Maud’s, at least, had little separate dressing rooms for its acts, partly so that they could store all of their props. Evie’s mermaid tail, her pasties and body makeup, were already in the cubbyhole that Natalie and Laura were using for the night. They passed Carrie On’s dressing room, which was so full of huge feather fans, glittering hula hoops, showgirl’s headdresses, that Evie didn’t know how Carrie managed to wriggle her ample figure inside it. The next room was the opposite, just a few day clothes hanging on pegs, no props at all. Just a giant, shaved, black man, sitting on a wooden stool, wearing only a tiny black jockstrap that barely contained his privates, a jumbo-sized bottle of baby oil in his hand, dripping its contents over his body and working them in.
Evie stopped dead. She couldn’t help it. No-one could. She had broken up with Lawrence, but she had only moved one floor down, to a room in the big apartment that Natalie, Laura and the rest of the circus performers shared. So not only was there always the chance of seeing him – bumping into him on the stairs, on the sidewalk, in the subway – but the horrible idea that he had taken up with Autumn, his roommate, who was dying to get in his pants. She had been working up the sexiest act of her entire life while, simultaneously, not getting any herself; she and Lawrence had been hugely sexually compatible, had fucked like maniacs, and Evie was, frankly, burning up with the frustration of having him so close and not being able to – well, have him.
So it was naturally quite impossible for her to take her eyes off this huge, gorgeous, entirely-shaved, glistening slab of rich dark chocolate. His wide shoulders, his long muscled legs, his pumped arms seemed to fill the entire dressing room; sensing her stare, he looked up, his slanting dark eyes widening with interest as he looked her up and down as thoroughly as she was surveying him.
Oh, thank God! she thought, smiling with relief. He’s straight! Gay guys outnumbered the straight ones in this branch of the performing arts; and especially with his lack of self-consciousness at displaying his body, the statistical assumption about a man this handsome – and this oiled-up – was that he was very unlikely to be heterosexual.
‘Hi,’ he drawled, dripping more oil into his hand.
‘Hey,’ Evie said, leaning on the doorjamb. ‘Let me guess – you’re Jerome.’
‘How’d you know?’ he said, still rubbing baby oil into his stomach, which was so cut his abs were as ribbed as an old-fashioned radiator.
‘Sallie said Jerome gets the crowd hot and bothered,’ she answered, hooking her thumbs into the belt of her tight jeans. ‘I figured that had to be you.’
‘Damn right,’ he said, holding her gaze as his hand slid lower, to his groin area, where the narrow strip of black fabric slung around his hips held his fabric pouch in place. Its contents stirred, stimulated by the sight of Evie in a form-fitting t-shirt and equally snug jeans, plus Jerome’s caressing hand slipping down to his inner thighs, anointing them with oil; Evie bit her lip as her eyes dipped downwards, following Jerome’s huge hand as he dripped more baby oil onto his pink palm, his eyes never leaving her body as he stroked himself in slow circles, working in the oil.
In front of her, Sallie huffed out a laugh. ‘Jerome, this is Evie,’ she said. ‘She’s going on after you. Trying out for a slot.’
‘Hey, good luck,’ Jerome said to Evie. ‘I warn you, though.’ He sprawled back, spreading his legs, putting down the bottle of oil, wrapping both hands behind his head, his body six foot six of lean, dark, nearly naked, masculine perfection, his lips curving in a come-hither smile. ‘I tend to get the crowd pretty worked up. You think you can handle that?’
‘Oh,’ Evie said, the corners of her mouth quirking in response. ‘I’ve never met a . . .’ She sketched a pause, flicking her gaze up and down the entire length of Jerome’s phenomenal body – ‘crowd I couldn’t handle.’
He sketched a long slow wink as she pushed herself off the doorjamb, arching her back fractionally as she did so to show off her slim figure.
‘I bet you haven’t, baby girl,’ he purred as she walked away, a positive sashay in her step, down the corridor to where Carrie was indicating the room in which her costume was stashed.
‘Oh, shit!’ Evie exclaimed, remembering what the brief encounter with the insanely hot Jerome had briefly pushed from her mind: she needed to ring Paulie and tell him she wouldn’t be back for the late shift.
And I’d better nail this audition, she thought grimly as she tapped the screen of her cellphone. Cause Paulie’s going to go crazy when I tell him he’s one girl down on a busy night. If I don’t get the job here, I’ll be lucky to have one to crawl back to at the Midnight Lounge. . .
* * *
Paulie had, predictably, thrown a fit. Yelling curses down the phone, telling her that if he even let her back to the Lounge, she’d be working the shitty daytime shifts from now to eternity, pointing out that the money she’d make doing burlesque was sweet fuck all compared to what she pulled in onstage at the Lounge – let alone what she could make giving private dances.
And Evie knew he was absolutely right.
What the hell am I doing? I want to make a ton of money. I want the big bucks, the high life, the rich men who come into the Midnight Lounge and pick out girls to set up in apartments and spoil the hell out of. I got one sugar daddy by shaking T&A on the Lounge stage – no reason I can’t meet a second just the same way. Lawrence broke up with me because he wanted to be exclusive and I couldn’t promise him that. I wanted to look for another rich guy and keep Lawrence as my hot piece on the side, just like before.
So I lost Lawrence, but my chances of meeting a big fat wallet on legs are way less likely if I’m doing burlesque at Maud’s. I’m turning into a performer, not someone you’d expect to be selling sex. What the fuck am I thinking? I must be insane!
But standing in the wings, her face and body made up in the shimmering green, silver and aquamarine tones she had spent the last few days designing for her mermaid look, neat little silver shells covering her small breasts, a matching silver thong her only other piece of clothing, her mermaid tail held carefully in her hand – to avoid smudging her body makeup – she could not have been more excited at the thought of embarking on this new career. Her heart was pounding as she listened to the audience gasp in excitement, and pictured them, in the space of a few minutes, making the same sounds for her . . .
I’ll be lucky! she thought, watching Jerome, who, amazingly, had curved his body into a perfect hoop and was rolling round the stage. This is a damn hard act to follow – he’s the hottest, sexiest contortionist I ever saw in my life . . .
Jerome’s body seemed to bound like a spring, popping out of the hoop into a handstand, the transition so smooth that even Evie, who had been a gymnast in high school, caught her breath, unable to see how he had done it. His legs were spreading wide in the handstand, the muscles of his arms bulging as he held his torso perfectly still, his legs now wide in a centre split; the audience whooped and cheered as the split opened further, his impossibly flexible hips allowing his legs to drop down on either side of his body, until, amazingly, his toes touched the stage.
The pose made his crotch bulge out even more. The audience whooped as he folded forward, his round buttocks now on full view, just a narrow black strip of fabric between them, his body so smooth that he must depilate on a daily basis – or maybe he’s had himself lasered, Evie thought. From her position in the wings, she could see Jerome much more clearly than the audience, the bright spotlights directly on him, and his skin looked like slippery, coffee-coloured oiled silk. She imagined running her hand over those buttocks, confirming for herself how velvety the skin was, stretched over those long, lean muscles like plump upholstery; her nipples perked at the thought, her lower body jerking involuntarily, a little dampness softening the thong between her legs.
Great, she thought. Take all this and use it in your act. Get as turned on as you can watching Jerome, and then slide down that pole pretending it’s his big black cock . . . the audience
always knows when you’re feeling the sex yourself, not just going through the motions . . .
She giggled under her breath, watching Jerome, who had now lifted his legs again into a handstand, and was raising one hand off the floor, tilting his body a little sideways to balance on one palm while he ran the other one up his torso, caressing himself, flicking his fingers under the edge of his jockstrap, teasing the now-screaming spectators with a reveal.
‘Evie!’ Natalie hissed. ‘You need to get up to the gantry!’
Evie snapped out of the sexual trance into which she had fallen, just another member of the audience dying to see the contents of Jerome’s posing pouch, and scrabbled over to climb the ladder at the back of the stage. Her act entailed her descending slowly down a pole, evoking a mermaid swimming down into the depths of the sea; it was more upper-body work than she had ever done before, because she was wearing the elaborately-painted Neoprene tail she had spent the last few weeks sewing and decorating. She couldn’t hold onto the pole at all with her lower body when the tail was on; everything was done with her arms and back, and if they couldn’t hold her, she’d crash to the ground and smash her face onto the stage. The sheer magnitude of the task she’d set herself was overwhelming, and as she sat down on the gantry and pulled on the tail, fastening it around her waist with the quick-snap Velcro ties she and Natalie had devised, a quick cold rush of pure fear ran through her at the prospect of what she was about to do.
Not just that – I have to make it look as easy as anything. As if I’m swimming without a care in the world . . .
Jerome had, like the character in the PG Wodehouse novel, formed himself into a hoop once more and rolled away to tumultuous applause; the stage lights dimmed as two techs ran on to fix Evie’s pole to the centre of the stage, one below, one on the gantry with her, screwing it into the floor and ceiling, testing it by pulling on it with all their weight before they let go and gave her the thumbs-up that it was safe to commit herself to it. Heart pounding, she wriggled along the gantry, rubbed her palms into the tray of resin there for maximum grip, and took hold of the pole.
‘Hey! Baby girl!’
With a shock she looked down, over the edge of the walkway; Jerome was standing there, so tall she didn’t have that far to stare. His teeth gleamed in the darkness as he whispered:
‘Break a leg, okay?’
‘Thank you!’ she hissed gratefully. He was sweaty from his act, his skin glistening even in the dark, and the luscious scent of his body hung around him, mixing with the sweetness of the baby oil. It was as intoxicating as the scent of rich earth after rain, fresh and ripe, and it made every nerve in Evie’s body tingle.
Jerome’s head ducked as he slipped away, and the first beats of ‘Underwater Love’, Evie’s backing track, began to play.
This is it. No going back. She manoeuvred herself into position, twisting into a shoulder stand, her legs rising to curve around the pole, her hands in a death grip on the pole as she pushed herself off, her core contracting with everything it had to keep her in position as she began to work her way down, her legs undulating to move her tail in a slow swimming motion, her silvered blonde hair extensions tumbling below her. The audience gasped as the spotlight found her, high up in the air, seeming to slide effortlessly, headfirst, down the pole; she heard them catch their breath, their energy all focussed entirely on her and the moves she was making.
Excitement rushed through her, the adrenalin of performance kicking in, blood flooding to her head with the inverted position.
I’ve got them already, she knew. Now all I have to do is keep them with me . . .
* * *
Evie’s head was still spinning with excitement as she walked into her dressing room high on the success of her performance, the screams of applause, the people rising to their feet at the front to whoop at her.
And then she stopped dead.
Natalie and Laura had stayed to congratulate her when she came off stage, but then shot home: they had a day-long workshop to teach the next day and were grateful to be gone. Evie had expected the dressing room to be empty of everything but her own clothes and makeup. But sitting on the one chair in front of the narrow dressing table was Jerome, all six foot six of him, his long legs stretched out and reaching nearly to the opposite wall. Beside him was a bottle of champagne, and as she entered, he reached down and picked up two brimming flutes, handing one to her. Evie took it automatically.
‘To your good news,’ Jerome said, smiling a long sexy smile, leaning forward to chink his glass against Evie’s.
‘How did you know it was good news?’ Evie asked, taking a sip of the champagne.
‘Oh, I heard that crowd,’ Jerome said. ‘No way Sallie didn’t just tell you management’d be booking you in here again soon.’
Evie nodded; despite her attempts to be cool, she knew she was grinning from ear to ear.
‘It went really well!’ she blurted out, her entire body fizzing with happiness. ‘Did you watch?’
‘Oh yeah,’ Jerome said, grinning widely. ‘Up until you flicked off those shells on your boobs and threw them into the crowd. When I saw ’em all scrambling to catch ’em, I knew you’d nailed it.’ He took a drink from his glass. ‘And I went to get you some champagne to celebrate.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, overwhelmed. Evie hadn’t expected to be performing tonight, and she’d have called friends if she’d known, people to watch and hopefully to toast her success afterwards; you needed that, the comedown process, after you’d knocked yourself out on stage. Especially if, like Evie and Jerome, your act wasn’t just breathtaking, but potentially dangerous too.
She was actually hugely grateful to Jerome for being here to congratulate her, to share a drink with her. Otherwise, she’d just have been folding up her tail, wiping off her body makeup, and getting a very late L train home.
But, meeting Jerome’s dark, slanted eyes, she had the sense that she wasn’t going home for some time yet . . .
‘Might as well close that door,’ Jerome said. ‘And why don’t you go ahead and lock it too?’
Evie looked at him, fluttering her long fake silvered eyelashes.
‘And why would I want to do that?’ she asked him flirtatiously.
‘Because I thought you and I could get it on, babe,’ Jerome said frankly. ‘You feel like a little celebration?’
Evie drank some more champagne, the bubbles tickling the back of her throat.
Do I? she wondered. Am I ready for it? I still miss Lawrence so bad it hurts. But fuck it, Lawrence is probably screwing Autumn’s brains out. Maybe he’s doing her in the shower right now, the way he did me. And Jerome’s so hot he sizzles.
Evie turned round and leant against the flimsy wood dressing-room door, pushing it closed with her butt. Though Jerome was sitting and she was standing, he was so tall he was at eye level with her, and she looked at him, taking her time. He was ridiculously handsome; slanting dark eyes, high cheekbones, a straight, flaring nose that drew the eyes down to his full lips, whose colour was a deep, dark plum at the edges and blossomed into a rich tempting pink at the centre, like a fruit you couldn’t wait to taste.
Jerome let Evie look him over without saying a word. He sprawled there, legs wide, drinking champagne from a glass that looked small and fragile in his huge hand, a smile on his lips, so sure of her answer that he didn’t need to prompt her any further.
Fuck it, Evie thought. What am I going to do, spend the rest of my life moping after Lawrence? We don’t want the same thing. And there’s a hot, hot guy sitting in front of me, just waiting for me to say yes. Plus, he’s right: I’ve got stuff to celebrate.
I’d be nuts to turn this down.
Not taking her eyes of Jerome’s, she reached out with her left hand and turned the latch of the door, locking it. And then, with a swift, practiced shrug of her shoulders, she slipped the robe off her shoulders, letting it slide down to drop on the floor. Beneath it she wore only her G-string and the silver dust tha
t still clung to her skin like body paint.
Jerome finished off his champagne in one go, putting the glass on the dressing table. His hands went to his crotch, stroking his cock through his track pants, showing Evie the full dimensions of it.
‘Babe, you got me rock-hard already,’ he drawled, smiling at her. ‘Hard as fucking wood.’
Jerome wasn’t heavily, obviously muscled: a contortionist couldn’t be, because he needed to be as lean, as stretched-out, as possible. But to hold the positions he did, he had to be strong, strong as tensile steel, and the veins showed on his forearms as he worked on himself, the light gleaming on his dark skin and striking crimson and auburn lights from the sheen of sweat at his neck, on his bare shaven scalp.
Evie walked towards him till she was standing between his legs. She reached down to replace his hands with her own, but to her surprise, Jerome gently pushed her away.
‘I got a way I like to do things,’ he said, patting his thigh for her to sit down. ‘You wanna hear about it?’
‘Sure,’ Evie said, taking a seat on his impossibly long leg, watching his hands come up to cup the small points of her breasts, relishing the contrast of black on white, of the fact that his hands were so large they almost covered her entire chest. She arched into them, and Jerome cupped her more firmly, stroking her nipples with his thumbs, the slow steady gesture showing the pink pads of his fingers, the paler skin on his palms.
‘What I like to do to start proceedings off with a bang,’ Jerome said, stroking her so she started to moan in pleasure, ‘is eat pussy. I really, really like to eat pussy. You down with that?’
He was so close to her now that Evie could lean forward just a touch and kiss his plummy lips, those full soft lips that no white guy could possibly possess. She brushed her mouth against his, relishing the yielding, cushiony feel, and whispered:
‘Sure, Jerome. I’m down with tha—’
Boom! The next thing she knew, she was spinning in the air. Jerome had grabbed her ass, picked her up and lifted her effortlessly, his big arms bulging as he threw her into the air, turning her round, catching her waist as she hung upside down, her legs pointing up to the ceiling.
Naughty Bits Page 3
