File #84

Well... until the cookie shop works out...
Rhinestone has decided to write a book about all of her adventures as a dancer.
She started writing today...

The Showgirl:

I looked to my right and saw a bobbing brunette stuffed into a red leotard, tan dancer fishnets and the tallest character shoes I’d ever seen. To my left was “Miss Blonde (twenty-something) America” jammed into even higher tan character shoes. I looked down at myself; boobs pushed and squeezed and padded. My Mom once told me to wear my cleavage like jewelry- so I was giving it my best shot. All I really yearned for was to be just like Jennifer Beals from Flashdance. All I really wanted to do was do well in this audition and dance.
“Smile Fae.” I thought to myself.
“This show girl shit pays $600 a week, who cares if it’s in a cheesy casino near the Seattle airport.”
My thoughts were pulled away from me by the site of the man holding the audition, Greg Thompson. He was dressed head to toe in black, sitting with his legs slightly spread. His bunched man parts were practically smiling at me through his satiny trouser pants. His hair was almost white and groomed into an immaculate wispy Elvis poof. His sharp edged collar stood erect around his pudgy face and his tiny eyes scanned the room in search of the perfect pair of breasts.
Unbeknownst to me my eyelashes began fluttering flirtatiously in his direction.
“Who am I” I thought.
My skin crawled secretly underneath my 98 cent pantyhose. I remained calm on the outside. I’d been dancing all my life, I was about to graduate from college with a BFA in Dance. I was better than this. I was a real dancer, not a show girl. I could do this in circles around these other girls, right? I locked eyes with my best friend Jess. I’d drug her to the audition with me. We were both tired of living off student loans and evening retail jobs. We were going to make money dancing!
My thoughts were distracted once again as the choreographer walked into the room. Mistinguette. She was just like Cher. She only needed one name. Her 3 inch lavender finger nails gleamed like tiny daggers against her dramatic black pashmina. Her hair was blonde and cut short like Annie Lennox. Her makeup was black and red in all the right places and she looked around the room like she’d eat us for lunch if she was hungry, which I’m sure she wasn’t. Dancers don’t usually eat- especially these kinds of dancers. I imagined myself in 20 years donning the same sort of get-up and it made me smile. She looked scary, but she was a stone cold fox… or at the very least a stone cold cougar!
Jess and I looked at each other and mouthed the words…
“Oh my God!”

to be continued...