My Friend, The Burlesque Dancer: A Mostly True Story

“I need your opinion on some outfits,” Lacy said.

She sounded out of breath.

“I’m biking to your place with all my stuff.”

Lacy was not a biker, but she had been trying it out to impress a guy, and for that, she impressed me as well.

I looked out my fourth story window, which allowed me to see the big hill between her place and mine. It wasn’t long before I saw a mess in a tube top, struggling to make it one more block.

Who wears a tube top while biking? Lacy, of course.

Lacy was not a girl who should wear tube tops, but her confidence appealed to me. (Also, her muffin top, fluorescent orange hair, and septum piercing.)

When I let Lacy inside, it was obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her sweat had outlined her nipples, and I tried not to stare.

“So what’s the occasion? Hot date?” I asked her.

“Actually, I’m getting into burlesque dancing,” she replied.

I immediately pictured her pale-white body gyrating on a pole.

“Oh, that’s pretty cool,” I said.
“Yeah, so I just have a few combinations I want to show you. We’ll go in layers.”

Layers? What exactly was about to happen in my apartment? It was 2 PM, and I was out of gin.

Lacy went into my bathroom and came out in a pit-stained, white bandage dress. I could clearly see her polka-dotted bra and thong underneath.

“So there’s this,” she explained. “But I was also thinking of this one, so I can pull it down really easily.”

She showed me an even smaller, strapless black number.

“Oh, right. Yeah, that makes sense,” I told her.

It didn’t. I chose the black dress because I thought her future patrons would find it a little more mysterious.

“Alright. So next is the lingerie.”

Lacy whipped out a collection of grungy, mismatched items. It was obvious she ignored the “lay flat to dry” instruction and maybe even the size; there was no way that black, lamé thong was making it past her ankles.

“I actually really like what you have on now,” I explained.

Did I?

Lacy turned to my full-length mirror to check herself out, and I wasn’t quite prepared to see her bare ass. I quickly looked at the floor.

“Did I tell you I think I’m bisexual?” Lacy asked, still adjusting her breasts.
“No, you didn’t mention that. Why do you think that?”

I swallowed hard.

“Well, I’ve noticed some different feelings when I’m around my girlfriends.”
“Oh, I suppose that could be an indicator.”

I knew I was in my prime as far as experimentation goes, but I had always imagined someone a little slimmer (and a little more mentally stable). I skimmed my brain for excuses but had nothing. I was bad at lying, and she knew it; in fact, it was one of a handful of things she knew about me. (Also, that I had a hamster once, that I cheated on my cheating boyfriend, and that I liked to steal orange juice from the cafeteria to mix with my booze.)

“Have you ever thought about me?” she asked.
“Well, I mean, sure. Maybe. What do you mean?” I stammered.
“Like, did this turn you on?”

Please, get out of my apartment because it already smells like rusty vagina.

“I don’t think so. What time is it? I was supposed to meet Steve for a milkshake.”
“It’s almost 3.”
“Crap! We can finish this discussion later, if you want.”
“Well, can we finish choosing my outfit first?”

What else could there be? Beyond her bra and panties, I assumed there was only skin. My mind went to bedazzling.

“I thought we were done,” I told her.
“Well, no. I brought some nipple tassles.”

Of course.

“I’ve got pink or purple.”
“Definitely purple.”

They’d be seeing enough pink.


Photo by WordRidden (Creative Commons)