It was my first time attending Maison De Poupée Mécanique. Though I could hardly remember or pronounce it when I first read that mouthful on the posters. A gentleman had been so gracious as to translate it to "Mechanical Dollhouse" for bumpkins such as myself.
I was at the back of the audience, standing with a friend who'd invited me along to the cabaret. He was happily married, but unhappily bored and so took to coming to such events to speak with artists and writers.
"Do you have much experience with such scenes?" He asked.
The answer was no, despite my wishes to be, but I smiled, "How did you come to hear of this place?"
"From a friend, just like you. Now it's an investment."
"That's uncharacteristic of you."
"The MC strikes a hard bargain."
"Does he?"
"She," He corrected.
I nodded. "She must be a real treat."
"More so a candy lady. She'll be on stage in just a moment..."
My first warning was a hand. A hand laid itself on my shoulder, as gentle as a lady bug. I looked down and caught a wink of a gaudy-looking ring; a tiger with a black gem in it's maw, seemingly daunted by the task of swallowing.
A low, foreign voice by my head spoke, "Sir, you and your doll needn't stand so awkwardly in the back here."
I turned in search for eyes but was greeted with the brim of a hat, dipped to hide away her eyes, revealing only dark red lips. Even so, I felt her gaze.
"come to front," She said, "we have a table prepared for you."
"Of course, come along, Avis," He didn't bother correcting her 'doll' statement and kindly gestured for me to walk in front of him.
I whispered to him, "Was that...?"
"Yes."
My interest was finally piqued. I sat and watched the curtains for movement. Soon enough the rambunctious band began playing and the murmurs died down.
Roxanne was everything I'd expected. The physical embodiment of rouge. Long, black hair contained in a hairnet, olive skin and a spicy radiance. Her crinoline was holding up nothing but muslin and a few pieces of silk. Her stockings and garter-belt were visible through the cage. She had a thick accent, though since I'd never left my village before then and never asked, I couldn't tell you where it was from. Even so, her voice purred and lilted with pleasant inflections.
When the spotlight was bright, sometimes all you could see of her face through the over-exposure were those dark, dark lips.
She pranced across the stage like a mechanical mare, controlled by the music and intensely purposeful with each smile and gesture. When she sung, her purring voice drilled itself into every heart in the crowd. Otherworldly was the only real word for her. When she smiled it looked like she was ready and willing to eat us.
After her opening, she waved her hand and the curtains parted to show off her girls. All skimpily dressed in garter belts, thigh highs, corsets and hats. The hats were marvelous.
A young blonde wearing pumpkin shorts and a paperboy hat swooped in and folded away Roxanne's crinoline, before tearing it off! She swirled it over her head in an arc before reopening it again to reveal it to be a giant fan. Roxanne placed the heel of her boot on another girl's shoulder, a girl of rosewood hair and heavily tattooed, as the pumpkin-shorts girl fanned her. It was a marvelous display; a circus of pleasures.
The performances from then on were better and better, highlighting the skills and charm of each girl. But the MC, Roxanne, had a presence so grande that there was no competition for who was my personal favourite.
After the show I went to see her backstage. She was lounging in front of her make up mirror with her feet up on the table top. By no ill meaning on my part, my eyes trailed down her stockings before meeting with her eyes.
I was soon ensnared by her the same way my friend, the investor, was. The rest is history.
After that night, I'd packed up what little belongings I had and joined them. Three months later, I'm rehearsing with the girls.
Helga is helping me with my stretches, If you could call it helping. Helga, I'd come to find, was somewhat the MC's pet and a brat. She's pressing down on my back as I stretch my torso across my right leg. At her order, I point my toe and feel the back of my thigh squeak and tense like a tuned bass string.
At my struggling, Helga digs her bony knee deeper between my shoulder blades. It causes me to flinch, but a flinch is enough to feed her sadistic side, "Hurting already?"
"Not at all," I hiss through gritted teeth.
I was never the most flexible of dancers, but the routines we did demanded that we utilize every asset of our bodies. Helga excelled at it all; flexibility, balance, timing and charm. If Roxanne was red, Helga was pink. They really did share a lot of similarities, except Roxanne was to be adored while I loathed Helga.
She caught on to my inexperience on the first day, and would delight in picking apart all my faults and insecurities with the precision of a doctor. I wish I understood what her issue with me was, but all I knew was that she enjoyed feeling better than others. Perhaps I worked great for that; being worse than everyone else here.
Anyways, I've gone as far down as I can go with my stretch and my back is killing me. The top of my thigh is snugly between my breasts, yet still Helga digs.
"Lower than that," She tuts, "c'mon."
"How?" I growl up at her. "Do you want me to phase through my leg?"
She slaps the side of my head, and my ear rings like a bell, but I can't keep biting. I'd tried dotting on her before. It didn't go well. If anything it pushed back all the progress I'd made on integrating myself into their ranks back about three weeks.
Helga grabs me by the back of my head and presses my sweaty forehead to my knee. The effort is intense. I'm shaking. Everything is hurting now.
"Count to three." She says.
One. She shoves me down, and I push back reflexively.
Two. She shoves me down again. My ears roar.
Three. She releases me, and I fling up, curling my leg and toes to ease the strain I'd put on them. I only get a split second breather in before she's slapping me into a new position. Now it's the other leg, and this time she sits on me.
Roxanne swears that she's helping me out, being a firm believer in tough love, but I wish she was nicer about it. Less passive aggressive. Or aggressive aggressive. But no dice.
The only person who got more flack than me was Sweat-Pea. What her real name is, I have no idea, but it's all anyone ever calls her and I picked it up as well. She was three years my senior at 23, but petite as a peach, to the point I was convinced she'd bathed in a fountain of youth at the age of 17. She was the blonde who's costumes usually consisted of pumpkin shorts or puffy hats, as such costumes made her look exceptionally cute, juxtaposing with her thin face and limbs.
Sweat-Pea was rehearsing not ten feet away from us. When a groan erupts from deep within my chest, she looks to Helga with furrowed brows.
Helga just stares back through her auburn hair, hazel eyes piercing her with a look that just screams, 'try me, princess.'
Sweat-Pea gives me a pitying look before going over her flips again.
I count to five this time, and then Helga lets me up. Once I'm to my feet she ruffles my hair. I slap her hand away. She loves teasing the fact I had to get my hair cut.
"No need to be so sensitive," She giggles at my red face, her fingers carding through my sweaty fringe, "Straight women love a masculine girl."
With that she prances off to get some biscuits from the table.
I stare at the criss-cross of strings on her back as the cogs in my head are left to turn. 'Straight women love a masculine girl.' I stood there like a 6 foot idiot trying to piece it together. No, that was enough. I follow after her.
She goes for water and I grab the jug out of her hand, "what are you trying to imply?"
She laughs again and simply takes the jug back and pushes me aside. My next words die in my throat and fall into my stomach. She slips away for an early break, not even ten minutes into stretches.
I may be bigger, but I was about as intimidating to her as a puppy. I have no venom. No punch and no power. I'm their gentle giant, a tree they can carve letters into and throw darts at when they're bored. So I leave her and go back to working on the rehearsal with Sweat-Pea, lapping quietly at my wounded pride.
She gives me another pitiful look, "You let her under your skin too easily."
"It's hard to grow skin thick enough for her. But I'm trying, don't you worry."
I was the tallest you see, with rather masculine features as it was. It's something I have always been very self conscious about. To counterbalance, I took to growing my hair out for years. When I first got here it was long enough to sit on.
However, we were doing an adaption of a well loved short story. But this scene included a man as the lead. Roxanne suggested that I cross-dress. Since we were indeed dancers, a wig wouldn't work, instead I had to get it cut. So I did.
Helga, ever the charming lass, took it upon herself to cut it for me. She remained faithful to the style in the photo that Roxanne had attached to the mirror, so I count my blessings. It felt like she was removing pounds of weight with each snip, until my head felt light, and my neck cold and bare. I went to grab at the curtain I'd grown so use to throughout my life, only to be met with skin. As I stared into the mirror, Helga kicked the piles of golden-brown clippings around like she was dancing in the spoils of victory.
Now the only clues to the fact I was a girl were my breasts and voice. So having her standing there, after putting me through so much pain, and reminding me of how I look, I'm a bit annoyed.
Me and Sweat-Pea get along fine, though. With me at hand, we went over some lifts and turns. Despite my insecurities, even I could appreciate the aesthetic of having the tallest girl dance with the smallest. In some cases, I'd make fun of her and she'd do the same. It's quite pleasant.
Helga returns an hour later with a bored expression and a cigarillo. I throw her a look. She ignores it. She goes over her part and nails it the first time, but I make her go over it again and again just because It annoys me how she can do that with so little effort. I feel like she's cheating.
Ending perfectly on the final pose for the third time, she looks over her shoulder at me and says, "Are we done here?"
I throw her a towel and say, "Yes. We're done."
Sweat-Pea dons her straw hat and hooks an arm through mine, "let us head to the baths now, Avis."
