“I think we’re ready to show off our performers!” my mother shouted from her red throne near the stage. “Who wants to see our dentist, Dr. Zoe Castille, in black leather? You do? What about our kindergarten teacher, Erez LaToya? He’s here, too, and he’s in a flashing dress and red heels and ready to, you guessed it, sing!” More cheers. “We even have our heart surgeon, Sanjay Patal, and his husband, bone surgeon Mike Herschbaum, here in their tassels. No, you won’t see either of them dressed like this when they get their knives and axes out and open you up, now will you? Let’s get Lady Whiskey’s T and A Christmas Burlesque Show started!” She fluttered her white feathery wings again. “Our first performance of the night is…”
I stepped off the stage and pointed at the group who were the first act. “You’re up!” I announced.
My mother’s red dress shimmered, her halo glowed, and the show began with a bang.
In a private area of the office, surrounded by red curtains that we had set up as a dressing room, I gaped at myself. Logan stood right beside me. Onstage, my mother continued her silly banter and off-the-cuff jokes, the music blared, and the performances started and ended, the audience delighted. I stared at myself in shock. We’d had three mirrors set up so the burlesque performers could see what they looked like before heading to the stage.
As everyone was supposed to dress in a burlesque style, they were decked out in towering hats and fishnets, high heels and knee-high boots, colorful satins and silks, sequins and wings,flapper dresses and corsets, wobbly but huge headdresses, and heavy, sparkly makeup.
I was decked out in…almost nothing.
“Oh no oh no oh no,” I breathed. I could not look away from my barely dressed self.
“Oh yes oh yes oh yes,” Logan said, eyeing me up and down. He was in a black suit, a black hat with a red feather, and a red “boa constrictor,” otherwise known as a feathered boa, as planned. The feathered boa would dramatically fly off at the beginning of our routine. A long red silky scarf was wrapped around his neck. “I don’t think my heart is beating, sweetheart. I may need to get Sanjay in here to operate.”
Stacy had designed and sewn my costume. I had trusted her and my mother!Trusted them!Stacy had taken my measurements, but the bodice was way too small. My boobs were almost bursting over the top of a teeny tiny gold-sequined flapper-style dress. It was too short, too. One could almost get a peek at my ya-ya. I was wearing fishnets and knee-high shiny red boots. Was this even burlesque?
“How about we go upstairs and skip the show?” Logan said, his voice quite jolly. “Please? Pretty please?”
“Logan!” I snapped. “I am barely decent!”
“I think you look sexy.”
“I am half naked, Logan!” I snapped, once again.
“I can see that.” His eyes dropped to my cleavage. “Looks good!”
“My boobs are half out! When you start spinning me around, they will probably pop out, and I’ll be arrested. This is a size small! I haven’t been a size small since middle school! Maybe not even then. We have to fix this!” My breathing was not normal. We were act number fourteen. We were expected onstage in minutes. “We have got to get me covered up. Now! RIGHT NOW! Logan, please.” I turned to him. “Help me.”
He saw my panic and lost the lusty expression. “Okay, honey.” He stared at me and my half-naked body—analyticallythis time.
We had to do something. Anything. I was not going to dance on a stage worried about my nipples surprising everyone. This was a family show!
He said, “Huh,” then he took off his long red silk scarf. He studied my burgeoning boobs.
“I can’t keep the top part up!” I pulled on it. “It’s gaping!”
“Hang on.” He went to the office supplies in the cabinet and got a stapler and scissors. He cut the scarf in half. He stapled one end to the top of my bodice, with about ten staples, then flung it over my shoulder. He stapled the other half the same way, threw that over my shoulder, then tied it in a big red bow at the back of my neck. I felt my boobs yanked up.
“There ya go, fair Bellini. Your boobs are fully covered and tucked in.”
It was true. He’d done it. My boobs would not pop out and make a scene. They were covered by the scarf. Next problem. “My skirt,” I said, pulling at the hem. “Way too short. You can almost see my ya-ya.”
“Your ya-ya?” Logan smiled.
“Logan, this is not funny.”
“No.” He put a stern expression on his face. “This is not funny. This is a serious situation. We do not want a wardrobe malfunction. Let me think. I got it.” He hurried to his office and came back with a black dress shirt. It was huge because he is huge. He cut two wide strips, then stapled the strips to the front and back hem of my skirt, making it about nine inches longer. Then he took scissors and created a three-inch fringe.
“What are you, a clothing designer?” I asked as he carefully cut. “You made me a hippie skirt.” I twirled around when he wasdone. Where my gold dress ended, the black hippie fringe skirt began. “I like it.”
He grinned. “You would have made a cool and groovy hippie, Bellini. The lights are down out there, so no one will notice that we’ve pieced you together with a stapler. I liked it the other way better, but what Bellini wants, I’ll provide.” He dropped a kiss on my lips. “But tonight, upstairs, you’re wearing the original.”
I turned to the mirror. I was not naked at all. I don’t like to think of myself as overly prudish, but I did not need my boobs on the loose, and I did not need my bottom showing. I was wearing fishnets, but still. I sighed with relief. “Thank you, Logan.”
He bowed. “Always at your service, m’lady.”
I took a breath and smiled at him. His eyes were gentle and patient. Eyes that I’d been looking into since I was in kindergarten. I heard my mother introducing each act, adding her saucy, spicy jokes, the laughter and clapping loud.
