Eleoner Farp

Eleoner Farp wasn't that bad. Not really. Kind of an interesting face. Maybe a little too little of a chin. But the chin would do. Really. It was there, kind of like helping her face to emerge out of her neck.

Her nose made a point. And taking away half the length of it and kind of patting it into a ball shape and combining it with the chin, might have equaled things facial a little better. But the receding chin and pointing nose wouldn't be all that bad when the lights were real bright on her.

Eleoner Farp had eyes that somehow had gotten pulled in as the nose protruded out. Too close together, those eyes. And the eyeballs, though not that bad a blue, really, looked at each other slightly. Or was it at the nose? But with lights on her so bright, everything facial would be fine.

Hair wasn't quite out of a Breck ad, true. The color of the strands left him contemplating mousy brown and picturing a mouse. The texture of the hair brought rat to mind. Or mat. "Coiffeur" didn't fit at all and it was doubtful whether Eleoner had ever had a permanent . . .or even a temporary. But with the lights glaring . . . . . . .

"Whatta they call you, honey?"

"El," she replied, almost whispered.

"You over eighteen?"

"Yes."

"We got her birth certificate, Sarah?"

"Yes, Mr. Sork."

"So let's see what ya got, El." Sid's cigar smoke wafted the air in the stuffy, cluttered office.

El felt the tingle of embarrassment as she took off her blouse.

Shoulders were narrow and bony, almost like epaulets too small for the uniform of opaque skin that hung down, kind of dangling, to end at her hands.

Bra off.

From each protruding clavicle a scum of skin slumped down on the ribs kind of like a deflation of the intended had occurred. Pallid puckers about mid-pie on each were recognizable for what they were supposed to be. And with the spotlights on . . . . .

Slacks off.

Waist was a constant from rib cage to hips. Figure-one shape. Except for the belly button sticking out like a knob. Legs? Maybe a hint at emaciation because the knees and the feet were all four the wrong size for the spindles that connected them with the rest of the creature. Bowed a bit too. But in the brilliance . . . . . .

Sid never lost interest in the unusual like Eleoner Farp surely configured. Sid had seen plenty. They came and went fast, picking up the gig, the bucks, the guys, dropping all and moving on to the next stop in the old grind . . . . .and bump. Sid saw them all. It was still a charge. Private office showing. Right there up close in front of his desk. All the way, Sid saw them take it off. Sid saw them head to toe and in-between and in between in-between.

The tall and short. The fat and thin. The big and little. The light and dark. The stately and distorted. And all the other alluring variations that his patrons dug. And he.

The oddtities like "Triple-nipple". And there'd been the adolescent-looking "Little Shaver", who proudly advertised her actual age of eighty-six. There'd been "Loosey", an amazingly open type. "Cow-cow-mau-mau", udderly astounding, ultimately black and beautiful. "Ball-arina", so rotund that she could literally roll, and did so in her act. Lanky, limber "Backward Glance" not only looked at it as she'd bend over backwards to please the leering audience. "Fahrer Fakir" was into spikes and bolts and toys and vice versa when the 'squad was known to be away checking the other joints along the strip.

Sid's cigar-tip glowed with his recollections. Sid's tip too.

Oy, the memories of dike dominatrix "Sally Cool Whip" (who'd swing the thongs) and "Punching Judy", her submissive partner (who'd sing the songs, some of their lyrics so cleverly interpreted and even paraphrased). . . . "beat me daddy, eight to the bar" (from some old tin pan alley jazz . . .or was it early rhythm and bruise?). . . . . . ."treat me like a fool, treat me mean and cruel . . . . [but love me . . .]" (from a 60s pop song). . . . . "dread flails in the sunset . . [out over the sea . . ] "(an even earlier top 40s number). . . . . . . . ."flay me to the moon and let me gaze upon the scars . . . " (one of Frank Sinatra's hits) . . . . . "a floggy day in London town, had me low, had me down . . . " . . . . . "take me back, I beg you please/ take me back, I'm on my knees/ for you to scold me, hurt me, hold me . . "(pop song sung by some guy in the 70s? and in this case the lyrics unchanged. . . . . " . . . . .so taunt me, and hurt me/deceive me, desert me/I'm yours 'til I die[so in love with you am I](from, was it "Kiss me Kate"?) . . . . and from the classic Disney Animated film . . . . "Whip it . .eeeee!!! . .oooooh!! . . .ahhhhhh . . . whip it eeeee. . . ayyyyyy. . ......"

. . . . . and the grand finale of their act . . . . everything dark except center-stage, just dimly illuminated, a stake surrounded by firewood (interspersed with unlit strings of orange xmas lights and angular pieces of reflective material unseen by the audience) . . . . Sally, robed like an Inquisitor, would appear to be -- actually Sid realized, she actually was whipping Judy, naked and shackled, and chained to the stake as spotlights came up to highlight them. Soon Judy would be begging to be spared. Sally then made proclamations about "witch" and "heresy" and shouted "I curse you and remand your soul to the flames" . . . . . all the lights would suddenly go out. And in the mere instant of the pitch blackness, Judy's lyric soprano would sing, "Come on baby, light my fire, come on baby, light my fire . . ." and from twinkle to glow to bright orange, the effect was astounding (complete with fake smoke) that she was being consumed in a conflagration!

"Wonder what ever became of those two," Sid wondered. "Probably burned-out."

Only seconds had passed while Sid reminisced. Sid was a fast thinker. Slow on cigars, though. Puff. Waft, the smoke towards Eleoner Farp who seemed to be wavering where she stood. "Don't be shy, honey," Sid soothed. "You'll get used to it. The remuneration helps. So what else we have to see?"

El, bit her lower lip, probably for courage or something, but Sid couldn't help thinking, "I hope she isn't trying to chew on her chin. She'll starve to death."

Now taking panties off. El felt the air and couldn't help it. Mmmnnnnn feeling. Exhibitionary feeling. Exciting. Not only to her. Sid's cigar flared and fumed. "Mufffsschuepper!!" he murmered in Yiddish to himself. And Sarah, secretary, there to protect against false fondling charges and such, and actually because she dug it all too . . . . . .Sarah stared, stirred as well.

Positioned on that passable anatomy (at least for Sid's "The Iliac and the Oddity Club") was a pubis perfectis. A filigree of glowing amber fibrils wove the sparkling web of mysterious pubic conjuncture. A curtain of confluence, a lace of lubricity veiled the darkened fold, the vaulted groin, the vortexed vestibule, the merely mist-manifest minora.

"Oy veh!! Oy Keh!!" said Sid.

El felt her total nakedness and his eyes (and hers over there like a tactile harmonic). Eleoner Farp now noticed herself in a hazy mirror and in the haze of such novel exposure and experience that she felt, stark naked in a strip joint being stared at by a fat, leering old guy and a butchy broad . . . . Eleoner realized that this career choice she was making might not meet with the complete approval from her Hassidic family.

"You start tonight," Sid stated, jotting on the pad of paper in front of him. "I ain't going to be here. But I'm writing the instructions for Harry the stage light guy. He'll know exactly what to do. Make sure you give this to Harry," Sid said to the secretary.

"Will do."

He turned to Eleoner. "Here's your act. You start out in a full-length gown and with a mask, right? You use the mask to hide and peek and only after awhile you throw it down. They've been curious, all of 'em watching you. Now they finally see your face. But only for a second. Spotlight comes on so bright that your face like disappears in the glare. Next you dance around a little, real swirly steps, and slowly slip the gown off your shoulders and let it slide to the floor. Underneath it you got on a couple layers you take off one at a time while you dance around. Not 'disembodied', you're 'disenheaded' by the glare of the spotlight. Your head's disappeared in the glare. You're a dancing body that finally strips your top down to just bra, then pasties, you flip them off and . . .bare tits they all stare at!!! But only for a second because another spotlight comes on so bright that it's like the upper half of your body is now dematerialized in the glare."

Sid was thinking fast. Smoking slow. Those creep-pervs would see her face and want to laugh but the glare-out would distract them. When she finally bared the boobs they'd lose interest except the glare would divert them, the disappearing act intrigue them. Clever Sid. Clever act.

"Okay, El, now you got harem pants and sequin panties and g-string and stuff, right? So you shake and shimmy and shove down the pants a little and back up a few times and down more and finally let them drop to the floor. Naked legs now. The guys all stare. But only for a second because spot comes on and your legs are lost in the brilliance like your upper part. Right? You getting it?"

Eleoner Farp nodded, seeing herself in her mind and turning on, realizing she was naked there in Sid's office and turning red.

"Now, El. Now we're coming to the best part. The finale. Ten minutes you took already, right? Slow, so slow you danced and took things off and so far they just got the glimpse but then the lights came on so bright that what they couldn't believe they'd seen just kind of disappeared before their eyes. But now. . . . now you're center-stage. You play with the panties, shifting them a little this way and that and pulling them in tight and letting em loose and pushing down and pull back up and after a little you let them slide down your legs to the floor. Now more lights block out what they're staring at except for the focal point, your focal point. You're hidden in glare except for the g-string. All they can see is the g. You flick it. You diddle it. You move it . . . . and suddenly you remove it. You take off the g. They gasp. They see it, El, nestled in a soft glow of light refraction from the surrounding halo of blinding brilliance. They see only perfection. You just stand there. Don't move. And the lights slowly dim all around until only the glisten of groin glows like an ember . . . . then fades . . then gone . . . .

"That's your act. You'll be a star!!" Sid exclaimed. "Long as you're here, or wherever you go, stick to that act. Conceal the peel, El. As soon as you bare it, glare it. Face, bust, legs, waist.

"But never . . . don't never . . . don't hide your bush under a light, El."