Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque) Read online

  “No. My editor needs the other one to cover the show for the magazine.”

  “That’s a shame,” she said, holding out her hand. “You know, my schedule is really looking tight next week. I hope I can fit you in.”

  He handed over the ticket.

  Outside, she dialed her phone.

  Mallory grasped the barre with both hands, her right leg extended on top of the smooth horizontal pole, arching her foot. She brought her right arm up over her head, bent slightly at the elbow, her face turning slowly toward it as she arched her back and slid her leg forward on the bar, extending her body into a long stretch.

  In the reflection of the floor to ceiling mirror, she could see the ballet dancer behind her, Nadia. They split the cost to rent practice space at Ballet Academy once or twice a week. Nadia was hoping to land a spot with a major dance company so she could make a name for herself. Mallory doubted Nadia had any idea about the type of performing Mallory did—or that the name she was making for herself was “Moxie.” Although when Nadia saw Mallory working on her new routine to the Marilyn Manson song, “Heart-Shaped Glasses,” she would start to realize her practice space partner wasn’t training for The Nutcracker. Usually Mallory saved her choreography for practice at the Blue Angel, but lately she felt the need to get away from the other girls.

  A knock at the studio door broke her concentration. She turned to see Alec waving outside the glass window. He waved her over.

  “What are you doing here?” she said breathlessly, opening the door. Cool air rushed to meet her, making her realize how sweaty she had gotten. There was no workout like ballet—not Pilates, not yoga, not spinning—nothing.

  “I want to take you to lunch. I know we have plans to meet later, but I couldn’t wait.”

  “I still have a half hour left.”

  “Mind if I watch?”

  “No, of course not. I’d kiss you but I’m gross.”

  “You’re gorgeous.”

  She shook her head and returned to the studio. Nadia was packing her bag.

  “I’m sorry. Is it bothering you that he’s watching? I can have him wait for me outside,” Mallory said.

  “Why would I mind? I’m all about the audience. I just have to run—practice downtown.”

  Mallory was amazed at the discipline and rigor of Nadia’s life. It was an endless chain of practice, rest, practice. She felt guilty complaining about how little time she had between her paralegal job and shows at the Angel. It was a cakewalk compared to what real dancers went through.

  Now that she had the room to herself, she slipped the Marilyn Manson CD into the ancient, wall-mounted stereo. She was glad she’d saved her old CDs and even bought new ones every once and a while just because of the practice space.

  She cued up the song, “Heart-Shaped Glasses.” It was her favorite song of the album, a dark, decadent Lolita tribute. The video featured a young Evan Rachel Wood, and it was rumored at the time that she had broken up Marilyn Manson’s marriage to the most famous burlesque star of the modern day—Dita Von Teese.

  Mallory’s idea for the “Heart-Shaped Glasses” routine was to play with the audience’s notions of desire or what is desirable. Unlike most acts in which the performer starts dressed and slowly removes items of clothing, she would start the routine naked—in just a G-string and pasties. Her character would wake up in bed, stretching and teasing the audience with brief glimpses of her ass, her legs, her breasts. She would have to figure out the best way to get a prop bed on the stage—maybe just a folded comforter and a cardboard “headboard” and pillows would do the trick. She would cover the comforter with heart pillows and stuffed animals, and these objects would partially obscure her nudity while she stretched in an exaggerated awakening. Then she would need a vanity table, and she would sit in front of that in just her G-string and pasties, and put her hair in pigtails.

  By that point, the audience might wonder what grown woman slept with stuffed animals and wore pigtails. And when she shimmied her breasts and pulled on her plain, starched white blouse and short, plaid schoolgirl skirt, the audience would begin to realize that they should not be desiring her. Mallory liked to find ways to provoke her audience, not just turn them on.

  Excited with her idea, she grabbed her bag and met Alec outside the studio, throwing her arms around him.

  “Um … you taste like salt,” he said.

  “I have a great idea for an act to a Marilyn Manson song.”

  “You and Marilyn Manson! I think his music is synonymous with sex for you because the first time you saw Bette perform, it was to one of his songs.”

  “You might be right. Whatever the reason, I’m pure inspiration, baby.”

  “What show are you planning this for? The Halloween show?”

  “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 t
his 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.”

  7

  Another 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.
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  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.