Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
“Welcome.” Danica uses a sex-goddess voice when she speaks into the mic.
The crowd–filled with what appears to be regulars–cheers.
“We’re about to get started, so let me go over the rules for anyone who’s new tonight. Keep your cell phones in your pockets or purses because no photography or recording is allowed. We do accept tips, but don’t interrupt the performance to give them to us–we’ll come out and circulate in the audience in the middle of each act. Cash is always appreciated. If you need more, there’s an ATM in the back corner. It is an interactive show, so feel free to laugh, applaud and show us your appreciation but keep it respectful. This isn’t a strip club, and you’re not going to see our tits. Everyone clear?” She turns her head to the side to give a coquettish smile and a bat of her iridescent blue fake lashes.
The crowd cheers again in agreement.
“Then, without further ado, I present, Black Velvet Burlesque.”
The music starts up, and we each come out to pose with our designated wooden chairs. I stand with my back to the audience, one foot on the seat.
The moment I take on my pose, I feel the power of it course through me. This power was what drew me to burlesque. It’s owning my sexuality. Using it to tease and taunt and show that I’m the one in control.
On the music cues, we change our poses. I straddle the back of the chair, then arch over the seat and split my legs wide. Next I stand on the seat and toss an arm into the air. Six rotations of poses, and then we start to move around the stage, swapping chairs and adding more movement. It’s a structured improvisation, but we’ve rehearsed it enough that I set my own part, so there’s no panic of not knowing what to do.
Not that I feel like panicking.
On the contrary, I’m filled with power and energy. I grow more confident with each whoop and holler from the audience, especially because I hear Flynn’s voice in the mix.
The next part of the dance involves us stealing the chair from another dancer–sort of a sexy musical chairs sort of thing, which gets laughs from the audience, especially when we start pulling pieces of clothing away from the other dancers in retribution.
We parade out into the audience. The sides of my skirt have been ripped away, so I’m showing flashes of my garters and black hose as I walk.
I collect one and five dollar bills from people’s fingers and give each one a smile or peck on the cheek or sometimes a trailed finger over a body part with my gloved hand.
I’m saving Flynn for last, but I don’t make it there.
I don’t make it there because the scent of cigar smoke fills my nostrils, and my brain goes fuzzy.
Metal screams in my head. My eyes roll back. I nearly drop to the floor. Or maybe I do drop to the floor.
I don’t know because I’ve gone completely blind. I can’t breathe. It’s so fucking loud.
And then Flynn is there. I can’t see him–I still see nothing at all–but sense his presence all around me.
He picks me up and carries me.
And then we’re outside.
The freezing Chicago air pricks my senses like a form of smelling salts. Vaguely, I become aware of the darkness. The sound of traffic. Flynn’s muttered curse. I’m on my feet, propped against the brick wall.
“Let’s get this open.”
I realize his fingers are frantically working the laces on my corset, so I can breathe, but the idea of being stripped, of having it fall off and expose me, renews my freak-out.
“No, no, no, no.” I turn and shove him away from me.
“Okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” He collects me smoothly in his arms again and holds me in a tight, unmoving embrace.
There’s safety here. In the stillness. The warmth of his body heat contrasts with the freezing cold air. After a few minutes, I register the steady drum of Flynn’s heartbeat against my ear. I lift my head from where I’d pressed it against his shoulder and blink up at him.
“Gospodi. I don’t even know what happened.” I burst into tears. “One minute I was fine, and then…blyad’–I don’t know.”
The back door opens, and Danica pokes her head out. “Nadia? Are you okay? What happened?”
“It’s all right. She just got a little faint,” Flynn lies for me. “I think her corset was too tight.”
I hurriedly wipe my tears and nod trying to make it look like I'm totally fine. Like I didn't just completely lose my shit. That was by far the worst episode I’ve had.
Was it triggered by my nerves? By performing?
Danica stands there with a hand on her hip. She doesn’t believe Flynn. Of course, it doesn’t make sense. But I don’t want to tell her the truth. I don’t want to get kicked out of the company. This is the first thing that’s really caught my enthusiasm–other than Flynn–since my captivity.