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Authors: Logan Belle

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“No—the theme for Halloween this year is ‘Scary Tales,’ so this wouldn’t work.”

“Fairy tales?”

“No—
scary
tales. We’re going to do dark takes on classic stories. I want to do something with Snow White and Rose Red. In fact—now that I’m thinking of it—we might need you to dress in a bear costume.” She kissed him on his cheek. “I’m going to get changed. Meet you outside.”

“A bear costume? That’s not what I had in mind when I got into burlesque. I was hoping one of these days you would ask me to take my clothes off, not wear a furry suit. Although I am open to a merkin. . . .”

“Very funny. You’ll just have to leave that to us. Now let me get out of these sweaty clothes.”

The dressing room was filled with high school girls just getting out of pointe class. Their bubbly chatter reminded her of what it was like to be that age—life stretching ahead of you like an endless road, while the only things that mattered were right in front of you: grades, friends, and boys. She looked at them, all long limbed and fresh faced, and she envied them the simplicity of their choices. Of course, the idea of carefree youth was a retrospective illusion. She knew she had been filled with angst and doubts at that age. But she at least had the illusion that things would make more sense when she was a grown-up. No one had told her that things just became more complicated and less clear. But then again, even if someone had warned her, she wouldn’t have believed them.

She dressed in her street clothes, thinking about how ambitious she had been in high school: honor student, captain of the field hockey team senior year, editor-in-chief of the yearbook. Accepted at Penn, Cornell, and Columbia. With the certainty that she would be a lawyer, just like her father, married by age twenty-eight, with two kids just like her parents had, living in Main Line Philadelphia in a stone house with a creek in the backyard. Now look at her: she was a paralegal moonlighting as a burlesque dancer living with a boyfriend who might or might not have his eye on another woman. She imagined trying to explain that to her fourteen-year-old self.

Most of the time, she felt triumphant about her exciting deviation from “the Plan.” But when she thought about her former self, she wondered if she had chosen the right fork in the road.

One of the girls looked at her black, four-inch lace-up Dolce boots—a gift from Bette.

“I love your shoes,” she said, wide-eyed.

“Thanks,” said Mallory. “I like your jeans.”

They were simple Levi’s, perfectly worn, with a hole in one knee and a heart drawn around the hole in blue ballpoint ink. The girl blushed and went back to her friends.

Outside, Alec paced in front of the building talking on his phone. When he saw her he hung up and asked her if she wanted to go to Eli’s Restaurant or Gracie Mews Diner for lunch. She shrugged.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“Nothing. Either place is fine.”

“You seemed so happy when you got out of practice, and now it’s like you’re deflated.” The last licks of sweat on her body chilled in the October air. Alec took her hand, and she immediately felt calm. She never got tired of how it felt when his big hand enclosed hers, their fingers laced together in that practiced way. “Maybe this will cheer you up.” He handed her a plastic shopping bag with the Ballet Academy East logo on it.

“What’s this?” she said, looking inside.

“I saw it while you were getting changed, and I thought you could use it.”

She pulled out a black duffel bag embroidered with the pink letters BAE. The straps were pink, and the date of the current ballet season was stitched across the top.

“I love it!” she said. “That was so sweet of you.”

“Your old bag is kind of banged up and getting more wear and tear from all the shows at the Blue Angel.”

“This is true,” she said, smiling and unzipping the new bag. “I want to put all my stuff in it right now.”

His phone rang. She watched him hold the phone and couldn’t help but smile. Ever since he had used the phone to videotape himself fingering her one night, then played it for her while he fingered her again, she saw every iPhone as an erotic object.

She turned back to her new bag, but something about the tone of Alec’s voice speaking with the caller distracted her. Mallory could usually tell within thirty seconds who Alec was talking to, but not this time. His voice was oddly constrained, and he just said, “Uh-huh...Don’t worry about it....Not a big deal.” He glanced at Mallory but then away. “I think we have plans but thanks anyway.”

He was clearly in a hurry to get rid of the call and didn’t look at Mallory as he put it away.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Violet,” he said.

Mallory resisted the urge to say, “What the hell is she doing calling you?” Instead, she remembered Allison’s prediction that their relationship was doomed to fail as long as they were in the burlesque world; Mallory was determined for that not to be the case. She was going to stop being paranoid and trust her boyfriend. If Violet was getting out of line, she’d deal with her directly.

“Oh? What did she have to say?”

“She, um, apologized for upsetting you the other night.”

“I wasn’t upset.”

“Mal, you didn’t speak to me for almost twenty-four hours.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t know that.”

“You gave me dirty looks all throughout dinner. I think she got the hint.”

“So that’s it? She just called to apologize?”

“Yeah. And I guess as a peace offering, she invited us to the Jack Terricloth show at Joe’s Pub tomorrow night. I told her thanks but no thanks,” he said, finally looking at her and smiling. He took her hand again.

“Really? I’d kind of like to see that show.”

He stopped abruptly.

“You want to go to the show—the three of us?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Why not?”

Alec shook his head. “I’ll never understand you.”

“That’s right,” Mallory said, squeezing his hand. “You won’t.”

A
nother Saturday night, another
Law & Order
marathon.

It was getting to the point that if she didn’t have a show at the Blue Angel, Poppy and her girlfriend, Patricia, didn’t go out. Anywhere.

“I work hard all week, and you have shows a few nights a week, so let’s just enjoy some quiet time together,” Patricia said. It was true that Patricia had just made partner at the prestigious law firm Reed, Warner, and her work hours were insane. Poppy didn’t have a day job, and Patricia’s career afforded them a great lifestyle. Poppy understood that and appreciated it. The problem was, their “quiet time” together more and more involved lying around in bed watching television. As for sex—well, there was only the occasional rote session.

Poppy pulled the floral comforter up around her waist. Patricia passed her the bowl of popcorn without taking her eyes off of the television screen. Poppy took the bowl, put it on her nightstand, and discreetly checked her BlackBerry. No messages. Of course not. Everyone else was on their way out to having a good time.

Maybe this was what relationships always looked like eight months in. She wouldn’t know—she’d never had a serious relationship before. And who better to have one with? Patricia was her best friend; she’d saved Poppy from the loneliness she felt after moving to New York and feeling, for the first time, like just one of the crowd. She’d saved her from the pain of her unrequited crush on Bette Noir. And yes, her interest in Bette had started out as careerism, but the hurt she felt when Bette turned her attention to Mallory Dale had been far deeper than any sense of professional setback. But then Patricia took her in, showed her love—made her feel like she was a part of something special. Maybe that was more important than sex.

“Pass me the remote,” Patricia said.

Poppy dutifully complied, glancing over at her partner. It might help if Patricia did more with herself physically. She knew it wasn’t fair to make comparisons, but it was difficult when Poppy spent so much time in the sexually-charged atmosphere of the Blue Angel, with women who, while not all beautiful, certainly did the absolute most with themselves. But Patricia had literally never seen the inside of a gym, and for her a garter was a type of snake, not an undergarment.

“I kind of want to go out tonight,” Poppy blurted. Patricia looked at her in surprise.

“Really?” She flipped on NY1 News. “It’s cold tonight—look at that. Forty-two degrees. I say we stay here where it’s cozy.”

“Um, okay. I’m going to go on the computer and see if I can find a movie for us to see tomorrow.”

“Sounds good,” Patricia said, happily flipping back to
Law & Order.

Poppy pulled a cardigan over her sheer camisole from La Petite Coquette. Patricia was right about one thing—it was cold.

She turned on the light and the computer monitor in the office and locked the door. Removing her underwear, she sat in the desk chair and logged onto the Web site Fleshbot. She flipped through a few links to videos of women using dildos on each other, giving blow jobs, and even a strange fetish video of two women passing a small ball back and forth using only their assholes. None of this was doing anything for Poppy. She knew the only woman on the site who would help her get off was the porn star Stoya. With her alabaster skin, black hair, and tight body with perfect, small, pert breasts, she bore an uncanny resemblance to Bette Noir.

She found a link to a video of Stoya having double penetration—one guy’s cock in her ass, the other in her pussy at the same time. Stoya’s face was flushed with pleasure, and the guy on top had his hand wound in her hair, then he pressed a hand against her neck. Poppy clicked off—a little too much penis. She wanted to see Stoya alone or with another woman. She settled on some stills of Stoya with a woman identified in the tags as “Jizz Lee.” She clicked through the two dozen photos of the pair allegedly frolicking in bed the morning after the AVN Awards. Some with Stoya underneath Jizz, her breasts being sucked, a wicked smile on her lush lips. Others, Stoya on top, her hand between the other woman’s legs. Stoya and Jizz kissing, both smiling, either crazy about each other or putting on a good enough show for the cameras.

Now that’s what a couple should be doing in bed!

Poppy slipped her hand between her legs, her middle finger skimming her clit, then moving down to reach inside. She was amazed at her own wetness, and she considered stopping right there and going back into the bedroom to fuck Patricia. But then she thought of the last time they’d had sex, and how she barely had been able to come, and so she continued pressing her finger more deeply, looking at Stoya’s porcelain body entwined with that of the butch lesbian with the buzz cut. She closed her eyes, and Stoya turned into Bette, and it was Poppy’s body she was pressed against, her own breast being suckled by the dark-haired beauty. She imagined the feeling of her nipple between Bette’s teeth, half memory, half fantasy. She imagined Bette’s fingers expertly playing between her legs, her thumb on her clit, her middle finger inside of her—the way it had been that night a year ago. She could smell Bette, that vanilla and citrus perfume she had worn the first—and only—time they made love.

Poppy arched back against the hard desk chair, her hand working quickly in and out. Her breath quickened, and she felt the swelling in her pussy that told her the rush of pleasure was moments away.

“Poppy? Why is the door locked?” Patricia called out, knocking.

“Sorry—just a sec,” Poppy said, opening her eyes, looking at Stoya, trying not to lose the pleasure that was achingly close.

“See if that Colin Firth movie is playing at the Angelika,” Patricia said from the other side of the door.

Poppy kept one hand in her pussy, the other clicking furiously through the images on her screen. But it was a lost cause—her fledgling orgasm dissipated like a quickly deflating balloon.

“Can you just give me a minute?” Poppy snapped, surprised at her own anger.

Silence from the other side of the door.

Again, she wondered: Is this what it meant to be in a relationship? And if so, how much longer could she last?

The “pub” in “Joe’s Pub” was a misnomer. It was a lounge with a small stage that was made for intimate, high-quality shows. Tickets could be hard to come by, but Billy Barton’s seats were arguably the best in the house. Mallory, Alec, and Violet weren’t sitting front and center, but were instead in a booth that was wide and intimate, in the shadows but slightly elevated for a perfect view of the stage.

A waitress took their drink order.

“Anyone else drinking champagne? Let’s get a bottle,” Violet said. Alec looked at Mallory. So far, he had been deferring to her all night like she was his mother—about what time they left to meet Violet, what order they sat in (Mallory slid in first, followed by Violet, with Alec on the end), and now, what to drink.

“Champagne is fine with me,” Mallory said. She hated to admit it, but Violet was stunningly gorgeous, with her widely set green eyes, porcelain skin, and rosebud mouth. But the delicacy of her natural beauty was heightened by her extreme style, the white blondness of her boyishly short hair, the stud in her tongue, and her multitude of tattoos: she had a full sleeve on her right upper arm, an ace of spades on her shoulder blade, and a bouquet of—what else—violets above her left breast. And she certainly dressed to draw attention to herself, in torn black jeans, a black bustier top, and a leather jacket.

The musicians were already on the stage. Jack Terricloth and his bass player, Sandra, were seated on stools, facing each other. Mallory had read in some magazine that they were a couple and that they met when Sandra joined Jack’s band The World / Inferno Friendship Society. She knew the group had a cult following, but she’d never been to a show before.

Sandra and Jack began some banter. She was arresting, with big, blue eyes, dark lipstick the color of a bruise, and long dreds.

“She’s hot,” Violet said to Mallory, nodding toward Sandra.

“Um, yeah,” Mallory said. And with that, Violet put her hand under Mallory’s short black dress, on her upper thigh. Mallory was startled and stared straight ahead, wondering if Violet’s other hand was on Alec’s leg and assuming it must be. She moved Violet’s hand off and shot Alec a look. He was focused on the stage, and nothing in his expression indicated that anything was going on under the table.

The duo on stage launched into their first song, and the champagne arrived. Mallory took a long swig and then settled back against the booth, trying to relax. Violet’s hand returned to her leg, her fingers now stroking her thigh up and down, until she reached the edge of Mallory’s panties. Mallory glanced over at Alec, and he winked at her. Mallory noticed that Violet’s left hand held her champagne glass, so there was no way she was touching Alec. She just wondered if Alec knew what was going on under the table on her side.

Violet’s fingers traveled to her inner thigh, then lightly brushed her pussy over her underwear. Mallory jumped up.

“Excuse me—going to use the restroom,” she said.

“Are you okay?” Alec said.

“Yeah. Sure. Be right back.”

But she wasn’t okay. She hated to admit it, but Violet’s touch was turning her on.

The bathroom was a single stall and was so dimly lit she could barely see her reflection in the mirror. It was difficult to tell if she looked pale and needed blush or if it was just the lighting. She was tempted to apply more but it was too risky—might look garish in better light. And then she wondered why she cared so much what she looked like. Why she cared if Violet found her attractive or not. Maybe it was because lately, she felt like the plain Jane in burlesque. She couldn’t keep up with the peacocking among the girls, and she was the one without tattoos, without dramatically colored hair or haircut, without nude photos of herself on Fleshbot. For her day job, or by street standards, she was remarkably attractive and maybe even edgy. But in the burlesque world, she was plain and demure. Even her tagline, the Burlesque Ballerina, suggested rarification or reserve, not raw sexuality. On the one hand, this was distinctive and as much a trademark as Violet’s trademark combat boots and body ink. But sometimes she felt like a part of her was still holding back, one foot in the real world in case she did not “make it” in burlesque—although by most standards she had already arrived with her steady gig at the Blue Angel, mentions in
New York
magazine and the
Village Voice
, and a thousand “friends” on Facebook and almost as many Twitter followers. But she wondered if she had the drive to become as big as Bette Noir or as buzzed about as Violet. And if Allison was right—that her life in burlesque would be the death of her relationship with Alec . . . well, that wasn’t a trade she was willing to make.

She dabbed a little Tarte Flush on her cheeks and headed back to the table, where Violet and Alec were locked in conversation like guided missiles. She pushed back the swell of annoyance in her gut and took her seat.

“Let’s get out of here,” Violet said, casually putting her hand on Mallory’s knee like she was a possessive girlfriend. Mallory bristled.

“We just got here,” she said.

“I got word of a pop-up at the Plaza. It’s one of Mischa Galit’s events. I say we blow out of here and check it out.”

Mallory had heard about Mischa Galit. He was a twentythree-year-old former DJ who had declared the New York velvet rope and bottle service club scene over, and, tapping into a network of tastemakers and beautiful people, had created an underground roving party scene of “pop-up” parties. They were in different locations every night, anywhere from a candlelit, abandoned building in China town to an art deco loft apartment in Soho to a suite at a five-star hotel. Mallory hated to admit it, but Violet had piqued her interest.

“That could be cool,” Alec said.

“Fine. Let’s go,” Mallory said.

Violet smiled. “Done. There’s just one thing: you need a hat to get in.”

“What kind of hat?”

Violet shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

“So we have to go back to our apartments, find hats, and meet out again?” Mallory said.

“No, of course not. We can stop by Village Costume. It’s just a few blocks away. And then we head uptown,” Violet said.

“Is it open this late?”

“It’s always open late on weekends. You’d be surprised how many people need a last-minute costume on a Saturday night.”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Mallory.

“My roommate at NYU used to work there. She told me that costumes increase your chance of getting laid by sixty percent.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Mallory.