16. Sergey

16

SERGEY

D uring dinner I get to sit next to the plastic kiddie pool where they put all the little fish for the chicks. I get so distracted watching them, I forget to ask Otis about the properties. He has to stop me before I leave to schedule a showing for an apartment for the next day.

Because all the kids are young, dinner is over early. By seven o’clock I’m back in my car with nothing to do until the following morning.

I check my phone for messages. Then I select the text window with Heller. I scroll up to see the photo he sent me of his sassy smile and bare shoulder. That’s when I remember that Axe thought it was an advertisement.

If Heller is a burlesque dancer, he must perform somewhere in the city.

I pull up a search engine and type in “Burlesque Anchorage.” I get several hits, but most of them are burlesque shows at strip clubs or theaters. There’s only one burlesque club. When I click on it, a big picture of Heller fills my screen with the word “Naked” across the top of the page. He’s smiling coyly at the camera, naked except for the big feathery fan he’s holding over his nether regions and the white wig on his head.

The show starts at nine and there are still tickets for sale.

Would it be wrong for me to go? I don’t want Heller to think I’m stalking him. He already ran into me earlier today by mistake. What if he sees me in the crowd? There’s no way I could claim I didn’t know he’d be in the show when the club’s website features him on their homepage.

Maybe I should ask.

Before I can think better of it, I send him a quick text.

I’ve heard good things about your burlesque show. Would it be weird for you if I went?

There. If he says no, I won’t go.

It takes a few minutes. I finally decide to drive back to the hotel while I wait. It’s on the way to the burlesque club anyway.

Just before I get to the parking garage my phone dings.

Not at all. There’s no reason we can’t be friends, right?

Relief courses through me. And not just because being friends with Heller will hopefully help him accept the connection between us. I want to be his friend. My dads are the best of friends. I think all healthy bonds have a foundation of friendship.

My phone dings again just as I pull into a parking space.

There’s just one thing. My kid is a little confused about some things right now. It would be easier if they didn’t see you for a while.

That makes me sad, but I agree it’s for the best. I don’t want to meet Lark again until I’m allowed to acknowledge what I am to them.

Okay. I’m sorry if I upset them today. That wasn’t my intention. They’re very cute.

Heller sends me a smiley face. Thank you.

I head up to the hotel and put on the one suit I packed for this trip. I don’t know if that’s the proper attire for a burlesque show, but I do know I look good in it. With Heller, I need all the help I can get. I arrive early for the show and get seated in the front row. It cost an arm and a leg to buy this seat, but I don’t care.

I’ll gladly pay through the nose to see Heller perform up-close.

After what feels like forever, the audience is full. Most of them are dressed in suits and cocktail dresses. What surprises me is that almost everyone except me is an omega. I thought this would be more like a strip club. I haven’t been to many of those, but on the few occasions I have, the audience was mostly alphas. The lights lower and an older woman in a sparkly silver dress walks on the stage, her heels clacking with every step. Her white hair is thick and hangs half-way down her back.

The second she gets to the center of the stage, she bends down and takes off her heels. “Sorry. I was feeling ambitious when I decided to wear these tonight.”

The audience chuckles.

“I don’t know about this either.” She runs her fingers through her long, thick hair. Then she gives it a tug. It comes right off her head, exposing a wig cap. She pulls that off too, until we can see her real salt and pepper hair. It’s just as thick as the wig, but only goes down to her shoulders.

She sighs. “That’s better.”

She reaches for the edge of her eyelashes next and peels off a fake pair of lashes from each of her eyes. Then she wriggles out of a pair of tights that have an opaque top.

“For those of you in the audience who aren’t omegas, these are called Spanx,” she says. “They’re wonderful and awful.”

The audience laughs again.

Next go her earrings. Someone from backstage brings her some cotton balls and an ointment. She uses them to take off her makeup. She slips out of her underwear and pulls out something she calls “cutlets” from the bust of her dress. And then she lets the dress slide down her body, until she is completely nude.

She stares out into the audience, her chin held high. “What? Is this not the striptease you had in mind? Am I not naked on this stage?”

An omega near the back of the audience lets out a loud whoop.

“This is real nakedness, is it not? I don’t have anything to hide behind. No make-up, no push-up bra, no clothes. I’m just a middle-aged woman in the raw.” She circles around, letting us see the curves of her aging body. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a performance like this before. Why is it so shocking to see a woman her age naked on the stage? If she was younger, I wouldn’t even blink.

The person next to me starts clapping. The rest of the audience joins, including me. The woman continues circling, exposing herself to us. And then she stops and she wraps her arms around herself. “The most controversial thing I can do in our society is love this body.” She smiles at us, still all confidence, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve bought a ticket to an entirely different kind of show than I was expecting. Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure burlesque shows with sexy stripteases are fun, but this is something different than fun—something deeper.

The woman bows. Everyone keeps clapping. Half of the audience stands as they clap and cat call. The woman blows them a kiss, then picks up her pile of stuff and leaves the stage, still naked.

The next act is a group of middle-aged male omegas. They juggle while nude. Just like the first act, they come on with a white wig and clothing, but remove it all before performing. Then a group of younger dancers do a dance with high kicks while wearing corsets. All of them are male, but they wear heels and make-up anyway. They don’t take their white wigs and clothing off until the end. Then a woman who’s nude from the waist-up to show off where she lost her breasts from a mastectomy performs a stand-up comedy routine. I laugh until I cry.

She takes off her wig in the middle of her act.

It isn’t until dozens of performers have already gone that Heller slinks his way onto the stage. He removes his white wig immediately, exposing his dark brown hair.

Other performers join him. They’re all naked and dance with Heller in perfect synchronicity. Their moves go from sultry and sexy to strange, in a dance that’s not quite a striptease, but couldn’t possibly be described as anything else. It’s fascinating to watch. Music comes on, and their dance continues, the shifts from sexy stripper to modern dancer more pronounced as they switch back and forth. The lines of Heller’s body are mesmerizing as he undulates and sways. His muscles go taut as he leaps across the stage. The way he moves is so raw and polished at the same time, I can’t take my eyes off him.

The dancers line up into a row of human dominoes, and fall back, each one collapsing when the dancer in front of them makes contact. When the last dancer falls to the ground, the lights go down and the curtain closes.

It’s over so fast, I don’t have time to think about what it means. It has to mean something, doesn’t it? Maybe I’m not smart enough for this kind of burlesque.

The clapping starts. I stand with the rest of the audience and cheer. The performers return to the stage and take their bows. The first performer and Heller return last, holding hands as they bow. The crowd goes wild for them. I feel a surge of pride.

Fate thinks I’m worthy of that man.

After the show is over, I wait in the nightclub outside the theatre. The other performers come out and chat with the audience. It isn’t until almost everyone else is gone that Heller emerges in a form-fitting suit with a big smile on his face. He’s almost glowing with happiness. Then he sees me.

“You made it! Thanks for coming. What did you think?” he asks.

“It was great. A little different than what I was expecting, but I loved it.”

He takes my elbow. “You look amazing in a suit. Buy me a drink.”

That sounds a lot like a date, but I’m not about to tell him that. If he wants me to buy him a drink, I’m more than happy to. We walk to the bar, which has the feel of a speakeasy from the roaring twenties, complete with dim lighting and a bartender wearing a top hat and a vest. It’s pretty busy, so we have to wait a few minutes before the bartender looks our way.

“I’ll have whatever beer you recommend on tap. And whatever he’s drinking,” I say.

“Vodka on the rocks with a dash of water.”

The bartender literally tips his hat. The glass he serves Heller’s drink in is made of crystal. He pours my beer in a fancy glass too.

“Want to start a tab?” the bartender asks when I hand him my card.

I glance at Heller. “Do I?”

He shrugs. “Sure. Why not?”