I’m given my cue.  The first chords ring in the orchestra pit and the percussionist steps onto the pedal, thumping out a rhythm on the bass drum.  It sounds like angry natives rallying in the jungle.  The warning grows louder and closer with every beat until the Master of Ceremony takes the stage.  The music comes to an abrupt hush as he grabs the microphone.

“And now, the Kit Kat Klub is proud to present the one, the only … Rita LaRue!”

I check my wig, fluff the marabou feather boa draped around my shoulders and step into the spotlight.  It blinds me to the audience; only smoke and the clink of glass alert me to their presence.  A fortunate thing, really, because this is my first time on stage . . . as my tarted-up alter ego.

The music resumes, drowning out the applause.  I strike an elegant pose near a Doric column made of cardboard and let the boa slide down my arm.  It coils onto the floor and I step over it, extending a long leg from the slit of my silver lamé gown. Keeping in time with the sultriness of the melody, I close my eyes and glide over the floor just as I have done a thousand times before in the safety of my living room. 

I can hear the catcalls and whistles, but their faces are shrouded in the dark.  If I can’t see them, then they don’t really exist.  They can’t see me tease them, dropping one item after another to the floor.  There’s no one to catch the glove sent flying into the dark or to appreciate the sway of my hips.  It’s only me, sweating under the lights, lost in the imagery that the music conjures.

As the song draws to a close, I’m left with only a merry widow and a pair of stilettos.  Shall I unlace the ties and let it fall, or leave the blackness clamoring for more?


2 Responses to “MY INNER BURLESQUE”

  1. I really enjoy your writing and look forward to reading more and looking through your old posts.

  2. Beautifully written. I felt like I was watching an old movie. My advice is to always leave them clamoring for more.
    jj- Javajune’s blog

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