Chapter Five
Mallory is in the dressing room and hears the first chords of “Mercy” by Duffy, signaling that there are only two performances to go before it’s her turn.
She takes a peek out from the wings of the stage to check the audience.
They’re a kaleidoscope of New Yorkers, a mix of fashion kids, tattooed creatives, nightlife veterans, and curious first-timers.
The front tables are usually regulars who know the performers by name and dress in vintage slip dresses and leather jackets while sipping absinthe cocktails or doing shots of vodka.
Tonight, she sees a couple in matching eyeliner and fishnets and a table of obvious finance bros trying to pretend they belong.
The performer Cookies ’n Cream takes the stage.
Cookie is a petite, pretty redhead with the hips of a ten-year-old boy and the double-D breasts she bought when she still worked at Goldman Sachs.
Mallory loves watching the other burlesquers.
She was a fan of the art of burlesque before she dared try it herself, and the sight of an exuberant, creative, surprising performance can still take her breath away.
“Moxie, you should be in position,” Agnes says in a loud whisper. She’s making her rounds, on the lookout for any girls who might be goofing off with a smoke outside or one too many pre-show shots of vodka instead of getting ready to perform. She’s like a bizarro-world dorm mother.
As Cookie’s number winds down, Mallory takes a moment to block everything out.
She doesn’t have the patience to meditate, but the minutes before she steps onto the stage are as close as she gets.
If she doesn’t do a relaxation exercise, she feels sheer, unmitigated terror.
But once she’s performing, she’s fine: The music kicks in, and the darkness gives way to a stage light, and she tugs off a glove or a stocking to applause and catcalls and whistles.
The give-and-take between burlesque performer and audience is as much a part of the show as the exposure of any body part.
Tonight, she steps out in her elaborate Marie Antoinette costume, complete with towering blond wig, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs fills the room with the opening refrain of “Heads Will Roll.” The crowd erupts in laughter and applause.
They get it, she thinks, and that connection to the crowd fuels her through her act.
The energy in the room is buzzy and conspiratorial, like everyone’s in on the same delicious secret.
People lean in close over candlelit tables, phones are out only to snap a moment or two but mostly the crowd watches live, transfixed, whistling, whooping, and generally participating as much as they can without actually leaping onstage themselves.
Mallory languidly drapes herself over a chair, hiking up her dress to reveal her garter. The crowd screams and claps, and she turns to flash her ass. The heat of the stage lights on her skin feels erotic.
The song pulses toward its middle, and she resists the urge to race through her choreography.
She always experiences an internal tempo that’s faster than the one that’s best suited for the room.
Practice and discipline keep her focused; going too quickly isn’t fair to the audience, and the key to being a good performer is remembering that the audience is the most important part of any show.
Sometimes, people assume that being a performer means you’re a narcissist and simply enjoy being looked at.
But for Mallory, it’s not about being the object of attention so much as it is about being a part of something bigger than herself.
When the tempo peaks, Mallory tugs the dress’s easy-off seam—and she turns to face the crowd with bare breasts, her nipples covered with the sequined French flag pasties (the sight of which elicits yet another round of frenzied applause).
By now, her pussy is barely concealed by her white lace thong, but she doesn’t think about this as she stretches out one leg and trails her remaining glove down to her four-inch gold heels.
She slinks back to the chair, then kneels facing it before slowly lowering her head with a solemn, dramatic sweep of her body that she hopes elicits images of a guillotine. The crescendo of applause gives her a near-physical release.
Stage to black.
Behind the curtain, Mallory makes her way to the dressing room and passes one of the newer performers on her way to the stage: Violet Offender.
Violet is an edgy platinum blonde. She has short hair and lots of tattoos, the most notable of which are words tattooed below her navel and on her lower back: On her front, a tattoo reads Merci.
On the rear, a centimeter above her ass, it reads No Merci.
No Mercy!
Mallory averts her gaze as she passes by. Something about Violet unnerves her.
“Hey—that was very cool,” Violet says, reaching for Mallory’s arm. Mallory pulls back as if avoiding something hot.
“Thanks.”
“Listen, I’ll do the tip jar tonight.”
“Really?” Mallory waits for the catch. The tip jar is everyone’s least favorite job: At the end of the show, someone stands at the door in all of their near-naked glory to collect tips. Tonight is Mallory’s turn.
“Yes. Absolutely. Consider it a little birthday gift.” Violet gives her a wicked little wink.
Mallory hopes she’s not offended that she wasn’t invited to the birthday party.
They’ve rarely spoken, and Alec really only invited friends.
Maybe, if she really thought about it, everyone should have been invited.
But that’s a political way of looking at things, and it’s not in Alec’s nature to think like that.
Of course he would only invite people he knows Mallory likes.
“Oh, well—thank you.” Now Mallory feels bad for excluding her and makes a mental note to ask her to grab drinks one night soon.
“Hey, Mal. Great costume,” says Poppy, her arms full of discarded props.
Typically, they have a designated stage kitten to clear the stage after each performance.
It’s a rite of passage for a stage kitten to clean up after each performer, waiting for the day when she herself would get the nod from Agnes to take the stage.
But tonight they’re short, because their stage kitten was poached by a rival club, the Slit. “I love Cinderella,” she said.
“Cinderella? Oh—no, Poppy … it was Marie Antoinette.” Seeing no flicker of understanding, Mallory says, “Never mind.”
“Can you believe Jarod Marks is in the audience tonight?” Poppy says, stretching her long coltish legs. “He’s probably the biggest celebrity I’ve ever seen here. Although I heard it was crazy here back in the nineties …”
If Jarod Marks is in the audience, it’s suddenly not a mystery why Violet volunteered to do the tip jar: It’s the perfect way to meet him.
What an operator. Maybe there’s no need for drinks after all.