Twisted

A. F. Cronin

May 2006

They all took final bows together while we, the men in black, were exorbitant with our applause. The dancers pranced into the mist-ring and a gaggle of pixie-like adolescent girls scrambled around the stage area and cleared their discarded attire. A few burlesque clowns ran across the stage pantomiming an x-rated Punch and Judy routine. It made no sense, but we laughed anyway.

The stage was cleared and Shania strutted out of the mist-ring and toward center stage. The silver pole descended slowly into the floor. "It always makes me sad when it goes down like that," she rasped. We laughed wildly at her joke. She gave us a wink. "Did you like my girls?"

We all stood up and roared our approval. Shania’s eyes twinkled with amusement at our unabashed enthusiasm for the magical burlesque show of which she was the Queen.

I must note something here, and I think I speak for all of us men in black. There was nothing even remotely pornographic or titillating about this performance. There was nothing lurid, nothing degrading, nothing puerile, and nothing dirty. It was a joyful performance, filled with love. The performers simply and enthusiastically embraced and expressed the sheer delight they felt at being beautiful, erotically charged women that could run and skip and dance and strut so exquisitely and so flawlessly and be so admired and appreciated for just being what, at their core, they were. They performed with such ebullience and vivacity that it was the purest, most spiritual, most profoundly joyful aspect of the feminine that strutted on the stage in front of us. And we, the men in black, adored them for doing it. It was a really good show. And the best part of it, my exquisite Beatrice, had yet to perform.

Shania had to raise her hands to shut us up. The music stopped and silence fell over the room. She said, "Here is something very special for you all-- the astounding Beatrice!" Shania sauntered into the mist-ring as the light dimmed and became low-angled amber rays streaming across the stage from left to right. We all settled into our seats and waited for the next sensation. A hard-edged drum roll blasted away the silence, and a heavy metal ballad started up. It had a searing guitar lead running over a rhythm designed to make you want to sway to it with a lit cigarette lighter held above your head.

Then, from the mist, she appeared.

She slipped out of the mist-ring at its furthest upstage point and she walked toward us slowly. Warm, low-angled light caressed her body and her white skin was slick and shiny with oil. Shadow and light rippled on the slick surface of her skin as she walked. She was astonishingly lean, and she held herself like an Amazon warrior, taut, powerful, and proud. Her red stiletto heels gave her the gait of a big, stalking cat, and the tiny red "G" string accentuated the feral swing of her hips. Her abdomen was ripped and it curved up to her individually articulated ribs where the tiniest red bikini-top covered her exquisite, dewdrop breasts. Her face was beautiful and her hair was bright blue with short bangs in front and pulled back in a long, high ponytail that looked like a horse’s tail. Her wolf-eyes sparkled as she brazenly eyed us as she moved across the floor.

She reached center stage, stepped out of her stilettos, and raised her hands over her head. Her muscles rippled with the movement. She threw herself forward and began a series of fantastic cartwheels and tumbles and summersaults. A trapeze dropped from the ceiling and parallel bars and a vaulting- horse rolled out of the mist. She used them all. And each routine was more astonishing than the last one, the perfection of her physical form and her powerful and graceful articulation of the movements was as pure, and beautiful, and mysterious to see as the colors bursting out of a blue sky as the sun slowly sets over the Pacific Ocean.

We all just watched, mystified by her skill and hypnotized by her grace and beauty, until at last, in perfect synchronization with the music, after a tremendous twirling dismount from the non-parallel bars, she landed with her back to us. She slowly raised herself up and thrust her arms above her head in a gesture of completion; her shoulder to butt flamenco with the pirate headed girl tattoo glistened through her perspiration. The equipment silently rolled off of the stage and she slipped her feet back into the red stilettos and, with out even turning to us and nodding her head, she walked back upstage like a conquering hero and slipped into the mist ring and out of our sight.

We were a group stunned. When we finally realized she was finished we all leapt to our feet and howled our approbation, cheering, clapping and carrying on like deranged football fans, trying to call her back so we could see her once more. She refused our exhortations, and did not return.

Shania walked out instead. We fell silent when she reached the center and stopped and eyed us. She beamed us a smile and purred. "I told you she was astonishing." We erupted in applause. Shania watched with amusement as we all spontaneously began to howl like wolves and to clap our hands to try to call the astonishing Beatrice back in front of us. She did not heed our primal calls. At last we fell silent again.

"Beatrice is a little shy," Shania said. "But she hears you and loves you all." We erupted again. She loved us!

Then the leather-bustier-wearing clowns dashed onto the stage in a riot of dance and laughter. They were out of control. After a moment the little girls, the adolescents, and the four pole dancers joined the celebration. All of the performers, except Beatrice danced good-bye to us. We jumped to our feet and roared our approval and danced with the exquisite female horde. After some time themusic roared to a stop, a brilliant light flashed, and after the moment of blindness, the stage was empty of the performers and Shania stood there alone.

"We’re about done here," Shania said, "So we’ll just thank you for coming, say good-bye and wish you well." She twirled in a circle and she transformed into the old woman in the white gown. . She held her arms out to her sides and held her hands in soft fists. She raised her right arm above her shoulder and let it drop past her side in and opened her fist as she did, and sparkle-dust flowed. She repeated the gesture with her left hand and more sparkles swarmed into the air. Then she brought both her hands together above her head, clenched them into fists and throwing them forward she threw sparkles at us, the men in black, and, like the snow, the sparkles gently settled on us all.

There was a fantastic blast of light and we were blinded for an instant. When we could see again the candelabra were back in place and the candles flickering. The mist-ring and all the women and girls were gone. The other men stood and pulled on their black coats in silence. They all left the theater and me in my seat, lost in my thoughts.

I was slightly befuddled. Never before had I seen so much exposed female flesh yet felt no libidinous urges. Somehow these gorgeous women had succeeded in transcending the facile and puerile "sexuality" most commonly associated with naked dancing and exhibited an ebullient and intensely pure joie-de-vivre that resides in and is regenerated by the female half of our species. The show unveiled a simple mystery of life for me–we should relish and enjoy our brief time alive and that just to be alive, with all it’s trials and troubles as well as all it’s pleasures, in and of itself, is reason for raucous celebration. I gave the show five gold stars.

I broke from my reverie and realized the snot-nosed-wolf-eyed-falafel-loving girl I was waiting for had not shown up yet. I reasoned she must be turning off the lights or putting away costumes as, not having seen her on the stage, I assumed she was a part of the technical aspect of the production. I was planning to take her to a fine Middle Eastern restaurant on St. Mark’s Place, the Café Mogador. I knew they had kick-ass falafel-- and beer and wine. I was eager to bombard falafel-girl with questions about the show, about the magic, and most importantly, about Beatrice.

But where was this unnamed woman? I suddenly wanted some answers.

I stood up. I thought I would walk to the hallway and see if she was there. At that moment a short, elderly woman in a long print dress walked into the theater. She wore bright white running shoes and white ankle high socks and she had the slow, grounded shuffle of an old peasant women. Her thick, salt and pepper hair was tied back in a netted bun. She walked up to a candelabra began to blow out the candles.

"Excuse me," I asked. "I’m waiting for my friend. She’s..."

The old woman let out a long, cackling laugh and looked up at me. She, too, had wolf-eyes and she fixed them on me and smiled kindly. She shook her head slightly, and pushed her hand at me in a gesture of playful dismissal. She returned to her candles. I didn’t know what to do.

"I’m right here." It was falafel-girl’s voice.

I turned and sitting right behind me was the Blue-Haired, gymnastic princess, Beatrice. I was stunned. I had not heard her sit down. She was fully dressed now, wearing an enormous purple sweater and jeans tucked inside her barbarian boots, but her blue hair was down and cascaded over her shoulders. She gave me a spectacular smile and tilted her head to the side a little.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hi," I answered.

"Did you like the show?" she inquired softly.

"Oh, yeah," I replied. "You were very good The jumping around part was... really good. Amazing."

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