February 12, 2008
Notes to a Rockabilly Angel


So I gave my phone number to this girl last night. She hasn’t called, but color my fingers deep and vibrant sanguine with optimistic crossing.

Last night, I went with a friend and his wife first out to dinner and then to The Slipper Room for some burly-cue. It was pretty standard burlesque fare, which is to say that it treaded between the painful and the sublime, and when it was truly empyrean, it was both. The best piece by far was one by Miss Julie Atlas Muz, who is apparently a very big deal in burlesque, though she’s a tiny thing on stage, all densely packed muscle and sinuous curves. Her skin lies so tight over her flanks it’s like her hips have hospital corners.

“Breaking the Law” by Judas Priest may not be the first song that pops into your head when you think about dancing naked for strangers while making social commentary, but Miss Julie worked it. In the song’s 2:33 span, I counted four, maybe five laws that Miss Julie broke as she slithered, pranced, jetéd and jiggled on the stage. Beginning dressed in a loosely interpreted convict’s uniform of broad black-and-white striped top and shorts, a juvie-center sneer planted on her face, Miss Julie took the stage, pulled a cigarette from her bodice and lit it. Then, cigarette in mouth and eyes narrowed, she defiantly shredded a dollar bill into pieces and flung them like confetti. Retreating to the back of the stage, she denuded her self to pasties and a black jock strap. After a few Trocadero-style ballet moves, she ripped off the pasties and the latex below, grinned, and dropped her jock strap and turned her back on the audience.

She then bent over and rhythmically spread her ass cheeks to the lyrics. “Bwa bwa-bwa ba-bwa,” her ass sang. One or two lines later, she turned to face us, slumped over her pelvis, put a finger or two on either side of her labia, and made her pussy sing the same tune, thereby bringing the house down while being in violation of the following laws: smoking in a New York City bar; performing topless in an unlicensed nightclub; performing naked in a nightclub that sells alcohol; and possibly lewd and lascivious behavior, depending on your interpretation. It was, in short, a performance brilliant, transgressive and hott.

I laughed hard at Miss Julie and clapped heartily, but I didn’t give her my full attention because sitting across from me was this rockabilly goddess with short-chopped bangs, milk-gleaming skin, and total tool for a boyfriend. This woman had been making eyes at me for the whole first few acts and then suddenly stopped because, I think, she noticed that my group had noticed her looking at me and smiling.

“That girl over there is devouring you with her eyes,” said my married friend.

I know, I said. It’s wicked cool, I said, and looked back at her. She had been flirting shamelessly, doing that thing where you make your eyes run the length of your object’s body like a lambent flame. She did that—ran her eyes up and down me and then she met mine, paused and smiled. I could have leapt over the stage and dived into the depths of her cool cleavage. I sat there smiling at her, trying not to be too self-conscious and creepy, and probably failing, as the acts went on. Her boyfriend pawed at her thighs and her hands, but she shrugged him off and angled her body away.

My heart jumped.

And she was young and fresh and had these pencil thin eyebrows and looked like she should be posed in leopard print and black thigh highs next to a hi-fi; she had that Betty Page thing going on, and that dumb-ass boyfriend stroking her, and she was looking at me and smiling so warmly that even my friend noticed.

And then she stopped. I sat there watching the show, distracted, divided, the image of this girl’s sweet white flesh lobbed into the forefront of my frontal lobe. I willed the boyfriend to leave.

Get up, get up, get up, I said to him in my head. Just. Get. Up. I watched a girl with fantastic tattoos and a pointy tongue and sweetly perverse perma-smile take off a corset to the song from…something, and I listened to the MC make fun of My Girl’s walking tool of a boyfriend, and I laughed, but I kept on willing him to leave, and then, suddenly, he did.

Joy. Numb and shaky with nerves, I took a piece of paper out of my purse and wrote my digits in purple pen and clear handwriting. I stood up, walked across the room, and put the note in her hand. Our eyes me, she took it. I turned and walked away, toward the bathroom, where the boyfriend was. I stood behind him. I considered complimenting him on her luminous and milky beauty. I didn’t.

When they left, her eyes lingered on mine. I watched her leave and regretted that I hadn’t written something else on the white slip of paper, this blog’s address, maybe. My blog could be my pimp, I thought. It would be the gift that kept on giving. I regretted not paying her some beatific compliment or giving her some curt command. I regretted not giving her another reason to call me, something to make her clit switch-twitch like fringe on a tassel. I regretted not being more forthright.

Last night, and early this morning, as I lay in my bed tingly with the lucid dreaming, I saw her face get impossibly close. I felt her kiss and tasted her fruit-flavored tongue. I gripped her hair in my fists and I torqued her head to bare her throat. I ate the white flesh of her neck, the tender flesh of her inner thighs, the succulent flesh of her labia, the thickening flesh of her clit. In my bed, I felt her pussy tighten around my fingers as she came, this embrace of wet velvet and black-light paintings. I saw her hide our fucking from her tool of a boyfriend, and I felt her skin under my palms. I smelled her in my bed when I woke; when I woke, it was her warm body that pressed the sheets like a carnal snow angel.

She hasn’t called; she probably won’t. I’ll stop thinking about her, eventually, but today she lingers, fresh as paint.


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