Page 5 of A Certain Appeal
My heart skitters. I smile, mortified I’ve been caught ogling, and pivot back to Ming. She’s in the process of shedding her robe, the boa already draped across the front of the stage. A roll of her shoulder eases the robe down her bicep. She arches a coquettish brow, inspiring another whistle.
I give myself a count of ten as I study the crowd, gradually making my way back to He of the Appealing Jawline.
He’s still watching me.
Pleasure ripples through me, sending a flush across my cheeks. I suppose I have a decision to make.
There’s a general congeniality expected of my interactions here. I’m more than happy to provide it, but I don’t actively court specific attention. The line between playful flirtation and legitimate interest can get thin in any situation, and when the one flirting is in her underthings, folks can get the wrong idea.
Early on I was a little more accommodating. I shared my Insta handle and accepted some phone numbers, but it always went south after a few DMs. Guys assumed I’d “perform” for them, or that I’d be game for nudity in other public situations. One fellow proposed we meet up at a bar, which, my date eagerly shared upon my arrival, washosting a wet T-shirt contest. Fortunately, I’d brought Ming with me. She and I enjoyed a robust sampling of top-shelf cocktails on the guy’s tab before sneaking out the back while the audience was being probed for volunteers.
Tonight, though, with these particularly appealing facial features taking me in so intently, I’m willing to stick a toe over the line.
I smile, letting the slow spread hint at more interest than I’d usually reveal. His eyes dart to Ming. I shift my focus her way as well, watching the performance but also giving my new friend the opportunity to look me over.
Ming’s moved on to her sequined strapless gown. She teases the zipper down her side, holding the bust to her chest as the back of the dress peels away, revealing pearlescent flesh and the crimson rhinestones studding her bra band and shimmy belt. She dances her fingers over her ribs, trailing them sensuously along the indentations. With a shift of her hips, she drops the dress to expose her bead-draped backside.
I do a tease of my own, playing along my skin on the off chance there are eyes on me. Tipping my head to the side, I let my fingers light along my collarbone and slide up to my throat. I reverse the route and repeat the cycle, keeping the motions idle. It’s a move straight out of Burlesque 101: employ your hands to direct the audience to imagine their hands in place of your own.
I catch him watching me again. His look is cautious but direct, and when our eyes meet, he doesn’t avert his gaze.Bold move, Mr. GoodFace.
I jerk my chin toward the stage, giving him a hard time for missing the main event. He frowns, brows low, and I laugh. I can’t help it; he looks baffled.
Again, I turn to Ming: she’s in the process of removing her bra. Shetakes her time, and the band repeats a few measures of the song, heightening the tension until the reveal. Flicking open the final hook and eye, she tosses the rhinestoned double-D cups toward the band. The upright bassist plucks the glittering garment as it sails above his head, draping it over his shoulder and resuming playing in one graceful movement.
Applause fills the room, and Ming shimmies her shoulders, sending her nipple tassels spinning. As the audience celebrates her mammarian prowess, she lifts her arms overhead and flexes her left pectoral. Her implant-enhanced breast jumps, the tassel spinning independently of its mate. The room overflows with gasps and appreciative whistles.
Johnny announces, “Folks, give it up for Ming DyNasty!”
Ming bows, her feathered headdress sweeping the floor, and plucks the boa from the stage. She situates it with a practiced shrug, arms outstretched, the feathers draped over her like a Christmas garland. She grins, head high, inviting the audience to drink her in.
As masterful as her peels are, this final beat is my favorite part of any number Ming performs. Stripped down, she is a lavish creature, all luxurious curves and extravagant, delicious joy. Her smile is a summons to join her in celebrating the sensory delights of life, every inch of her body’s softness a compelling case for indulgence.
With a demure step, she descends the stage. There’s an audible scraping of seats as awed diners make way for her, a Moses in pasties parting the Red Sea. I let her pass, then cut through the path she blazed to the stage.
Johnny arrives behind me and begins some filler chatter while I loosen the long hanging silks for the Twins’ aerial routine. As I work, I’m conscious that this is my staring partner’s first unobstructed view and perform the task with more emphasis on form than expedience.When I bend to retrieve Ming’s gown, I shift my hips, exaggerating the arch of my back as I rise. Imagining his gaze gives me a little charge, playful but exciting, adding a new high to a regular night at the show.
Johnny’s banter trails off, and I brace for my intro. The spotlight is warm on my back as he says, “This scantily clad spark plug behind me is our stage kitten, Kitten Caboodle!”
I saunter to Johnny with Ming’s gown and robe draped over an arm. “Johnny Ryall, you usin’ my name in vain?” I rest an elbow on his shoulder, adjusting my stance to a three-quarter turn to highlight both northerly and southerly assets.
“Just wanted to introduce you, kitty cat. Crowd, say hello to Kitten.”
The audience plays along, responding with a hearty, “Hello, Kitten!”
I twinkle my fingers at them, though I can barely make out anyone over the spotlight.
“As stage kitten,” Johnny continues, “she’ll be tending to the stripper sheddings, but that’s not the only time you’ll be seeing her. At the break, Miss Caboodle will make her rounds with oodles of goodies for you to choose from—tassels, pasties, playing cards, good stuff for young and old. Take something home for the kiddies.”
I nod along until Johnny dismisses me with a wink and then cross to the band. Ming’s excellent aim was not reserved for her bra, as both her gloves and her heavy, beaded shimmy belt ended up on band members. The latter could have been a problem, though, and the drummer grumbles as he unwinds the belt from where it tangled around his neck.
On my way back through the audience, a guest pushes out hischair, blocking my way, and I wait as he rummages beneath the table. I’m directly across from Mr. GoodFace, who’s raised his hand like he’s trying to flag down a waiter. A tall blond guy by the bar waves in response and moves toward him. I’m momentarily chagrined to see the men hug, but the quick exchange of back pats is more friendly than intimate.
The man in my way scoots in his chair, wielding his recovered napkin victoriously. Johnny announces the Twins, kicking off the girls’ progress to the stage, and I finally get to the dressing room. Ming rests against a makeup station, dabbing between her breasts with a paper towel. A few feet away, Jane lounges in an office chair, turning side to side as he hums along to the music upstairs.
“Ming,” I say, remembering the drummer’s complaint. “Be careful. Dion would rather not be garroted by your shimmy belt.”
“Eh?” she asks, patting delicately at an armpit.
