"I hear she's headed for the big time."
"Why not? She's got it all: talent, good looks, a great personality."
"Too bad her boyfriend doesn't appreciate her."
"I hope he doesn't do what he did last week. Stupid jerk! And right the middle of the act, too."
As the crowd filed through the pink and blue neon accented entrance, a young man stood across the street watching intently. He scowled and frowned as he watched the steady stream of patrons going inside. It's not right, he thought, for her to continue what she does. It's not healthy; it's not becoming for her to sell herself like that night after night.
Hollywood, movies, and TV are in her future she says. Who cares about that? All he wanted was someone respectable to marry. How could he marry a woman who earns her living taking her clothes off? Now his dreams have been dashed to pieces, as quick as she doffs her sequined gown.
Well, she does give me money. I can afford a few nice extras because of her. It's not as if I've actually refused, but...
******
Inside the Pink Flamingo it's wall-to-wall people. Patrons scramble for the few tables nearest the stage; others merely grab a spot for a better view. The owner, Charlie Watson, smiles because it's another record night. As long he had a featured performer of Dorine's caliber, the club remains one the best houses of burlesque.
Charlie was aware of the art's decline into vulgarity and crudeness. No way, he thought, will this club degenerate into one of those newer "nudie" topless bars.
Reasoned Charlie, "All them girls have no talent, no style. All they do is rip off the clothes and wiggle around. Where's the mystery? Where's the class? I tell ya, back in the day of Gypsy and Sally Rand, the striptease was a high-class act. Nowadays, it's gotten to be nothing more than porn on stage."
The Pink Flamingo, already an anachronism in a fastly changing world, hung onto the "high class" of the striptease, and Dorine embodied that image of high class and style.
******
After the usual parade of so-so acts, the star of the club's finale took centerstage. All eyes focused on the spotlight illuminating the sparkling black curtain. To the tumulteously percussive, erotic strains of "Put the Blame on Mame", she slinks out, clad in a gown of stunning black satin. As she bumps and grinds her way centerstage, Charlie loftily and boisterously announces,"Ladies and gentleman. The Pink Flamingo proudly presents our lovely star: The Delectably Delirious, Desirable...Dorine Delish!"
And she was delectable, delicious, desirous. Her ivory skin glowed in contrast to the glistening black satin. The abundant chestnut hair piled high in an elaborate beehive and adorned with rhinestones. Her green eyes flashed with an amorous playfulness that never failed to offend. Dorine's figure – a slightly plump "Monroesque" as she dubbed it – filled the slinky gown to the bursting point. She was a buxom beauty: full-bosomed, broad-hipped, narrow-waisted, long legs.
The gown was exceedingly flattering and sexy. A sleek column of black satin, the dress molded to her body like a wet washcloth. The narrow-strapped bodice plunged into a daring décolleté, baring the back, and barely containing her 36D breasts. A slit on the right side gave a glimpse of her long shapely calf. She was a black-clad dancing, teasing vixen strutting in pointed-toe black satin three-inch heels.
Twirling her pearls between her opera gloved fingers, shaking her ample bottom, Dorine toyed with the audience, even called a few patrons out by name, all in jest of course.
"Hey, Harry! Nice to see you again. Did you bring your wife this time? Hey, Joe. What's new in the hardware business?"
Nice naughty banter always accented her performance. But it was all for show as Dorine's heart belonged to one man alone. Too bad this man never really appreciated her talents. Throughout her routine, Dorine prayed fervently that Tom would stay away this time. No way is he spoiling her special moment. Besides, Charlie told her earlier that a talent scout from Hollywood was in the audience; this could be Dorine's big break.
She didn't let it bother her as she deftly slipped the gown's straps, one at a time, off her shoulders. To the hooting and cheering of the crowd, Dorine jiggled her breasts and swiveled her hips rhythmically. Turning her back to the audience, she coyly reached to unzip the dress, bumping and grinding all the while. Turning around, she deftly hid behind the curtain, her body weaving suggestively as she shimmied out of the dress. The crowd went wild when she dropped the curtain, revealing her fabulous figure clad in nothing more than a skintight black lamé bodysuit. The suit was rather revealing with its shiny metallic glimmering in all the right places. Strapless, cleavage revealing, high cut at the thighs, gripping to the body like a second skin, the costume displayed Dorine's figure in all its glory.
She shook that good body, still smiling, still flashing those emerald eyes. Off came the gloves, then the hair loosened from its bejeweled prison. Cascading in graceful ripples and waves, the rich chestnut mane flowed down about the shoulders.
Now was Dorine's time to turn loose. She was still the elegant lady, still held onto the same decorum that made her act famous, but now was time for the sexuality that sizzled just below the surface to boil over, even for just a few fleeting moments. She launched into her famous "coochie dance". Her body moved about wildly, frantically. Dorine enthralled her audience to a wild no-holds barred terpsichorean feat; her body squirmed and writhed sinously to the blare of brass and pounding of drums.
The audience cheered, howled, whistled uproariously as Dorine snaked her way down the runway. At one point in the dance, she dropped to her knees, her hips grinding and pumping like a whore's, her head tossing freely, her dark hair flailing wildly about. She reached to the cleavage, deftly popping the tiny snaps that held the costume in place. Wriggling to her feet, Dorine kept writhing and twisting as someone tossed her a massive feather fan. Concealing herself behind the pink plumes, Dorine jerked and jiggled her body as if in orgasm; she slithered her sweat-soaked body out of the bodysuit.
At the closing chords of the song, the spotlight went out only to come back on to reveal Dorine, her body glistening with sweat, her hair tumbling about her shoulders, clad in just a lamé G-string and tiny pasties. She treated the audience to a few last orgasmic wriggles before retreating backstage.
The applause was deafening; the cheers could be heard even out in the alley that ran back of the club. Every person there at the Pink Flamingo – every patron, waitress, the bartender, the kitchen staff, the bouncer, even the kid hired to clear the trash – clapped, whistled, whooped, stomped feet, and screamed for encores.
Charlie Watson joined in the accolades and smiled with satisfaction. Yeah, he thought, as he cast his eyes to the little man from California, that talent scout's really impressed. Imagine, if Dorine gets her big break, it could mean a return to the glory days of burlesque. The Pink Flamingo would be catapulted into nationwide fame; everyone would embrace this lady and the club that boasted "Where Dorine Delish got her start."
******
The next morning, Charlie whistled happily as he sauntered up to his office above the club. Another great night, and Dorine really gets her big break. That Hollywood scout was mightily impressed with Dorine's brand of wild sexuality blended with the right amount of sweetness. Yeah, when Dorine got cleaned up and changed clothes, she joined the guy for drinks and the two talked about her future in motion pictures and TV.
Charlie heard it all: how the studios are clamoring for a gal like Dorine; how she could be the next big thing since Monroe and Mansfield. Yeah, she could even be a shoo-in for her own TV show. Imagine that! Dorine on TV, seen by millions of adoring fans. Charlie daydreamed of Dorine, all dolled up before the cameras, oozing her charm into the movie houses and living rooms of America. Maybe she could give me a break, maybe get me in movies.
Charlie laughed long and hard at the prospect of him, with his beer paunch, big nose, and greased-back gray hair enshrined forever in celluloid.
"Nah, I'm no matinee idol, but Dorine...She could really go places. Good thing that good-for-nothing louse of a boyfriend didn't show up and spoil stuff for her."
As Charlie poured for himself another cup of coffee, one of his regular girls, Nancy, knocked on the open door. She was crying.
"Charlie?"
"Hey, Nan, what're you doin' here this hour? Hey, why the tears, doll?"
"Oh, Charlie, it's...it's..."
A tearful Nancy let it all tumble out: A neighbor heard noises coming from Dorine's apartment early this morning. She knocked on the door to see if Dorine was all right.
"That's the old lady who lives down the hall. She and Dorine are good friends," sobbed Nancy. "Charlie, Mrs. Davis couldn't get an answer. She knocked and rang the bell so many times but Dorine wasn't answering."
Out of desperation, the elderly neighbor, called the landlord; something was very wrong.
"They found her, Charlie."
"Found who, Nan?" Now Charlie became quite apprehensive.
Nan's sobs grew more pronounced as she continued, "They found Dorine lying on the bathroom floor. A towel was wrapped around her throat. She's dead, Charlie! Someone strangled her!"
******
Things were never the same for Charlie, the club, or anyone. The Pink Flamingo fell on hard times, a victim of Charlie's inattention and abject grief. Besides, the club was facing increased competition of porno movie houses, the new topless bars, and the more crude strip joints. People's tastes changed, as did the neighborhood. Increasing flight from the city to the suburbs meant the bulk of the club's regular patrons looked elsewhere for entertainment; many regulars simply aged and died off. There was no where to go but down.
Dorine's killer was never brought to justice. Odd, thought Nancy, who by now moved to the suburbs and established her own legitmate dance school, that Dorine's boyfriend simply vanished without a trace. The cops suspected Tom right away, but the elusive man just left town without telling anyone. As far as they could tell, Tom Josten seemed to have fallen off the planet.
And what happened to Dorine's things: her costumes and gowns? They ended up scattered here and there, mostly turning up in vintage clothing shops and community theater costume collections. The famous black satin dress wouldn't make another appearance until forty years after Dorine Delish's untimely demise.
TO BE CONTINUED...To Chapter 1!
Copyright©2003 by Pepper Shriver*. All Rights Reserved
*My pen name