Free Love and Demotion by Logan Belle Page A

with his glossy dark hair and Ralph Lauren-model profile, I could barely stand it.
    As if sensing my animal stare, he turned to look at me, and waved me over with a grin. I was embarrassed at the surge of joy his attention always gave me. Sometimes, a look and a smile from him was enough to make my pussy throb.
    Like a hapless puppy, I trotted over to him.
    “I want to introduce you to…” I could barely follow what he was saying. Sometimes, when I was near him – especially when we were out of the office – I felt a surge of attraction to him so intense it took all of my willpower not to reach out and touch him.
    “I have to leave soon,” I told him, hoping he wouldn’t ask where I was going. If he did, I was prepared to lie.
    “Okay, okay – I know I dragged you here. Thanks for helping out tonight. See you in the morning.”
    I hated to leave. When I was around Declan, it was like the world was in Technicolor, and when I was away from him, black and white. I told this to one of the girls at Crushed Velvet, the burlesque club where I performed. She told me that meant I was in love with him.
    *** ***
    There was a line outside of the club. It was a sold-out show, and the people standing in the humid July heat were probably waiting for standby seats. Good for them – it would be worth the wait. The theme tonight was “Cinematic Seduction” and all of our performances were tributes to the great movie femme fatales. For me, the choice was a no-brainer: I would be dressed as Lolita and performing to Marilyn Manson’s “Heart-Shaped Glasses.”
    Backstage, in the cramped dressing room, I sat in front of the make-up mirror, naked except for the red bellabumbum thong I would ultimately strip down to in front of the audience. I looked down at the slope of my C-cup breasts and my flat stomach, and thought of Declan; it was maddening and ironic that I was the object of desire to crowds night after night, but invisible to the one person I myself desired.
    I dusted gold glitter on my eyelids, then attached false eyelashes. I brushed mascara over the eyelashes, then lined the inside and outside of my eye with Sephora black pencil liner until my eyes stood out as dramatically as Lady Gaga’s in her “Bad Romance” video.
    I squeezed a generous loop of the eyelash glue onto the back of my heart-shaped, red-sequined pasties, and pressed one over each nipple until they stuck. Then I slipped into my short, plaid school-girl skirt, and topped it off with an easy-off black corset I had specially made by a costumer in Williamsburg. I pulled my dark hair in to two pigtails, pulled up my thigh-high stockings, and stepped into my five-inch platform heels. I finished off the costume with a pair of elbow-length black gloves and, of course, red, heart-shaped glasses. Showtime.
    The MC announced me to the audience
    “And now, ladies and gentleman, the fabulous flagellator, your mistress of mischief, Ms. Cat O’ Nine Tails!”
    Cat O’Nine Tails was my burlesque name, and I almost always included one as a prop in my act. The stage was set for me with a small wooden desk set in the center, covered with hardcover books. By the end of my performance, I would be draped across the desk in only my thong and pasties.
    The pulsing, moody strains of “Heart-Shaped Glasses” began, and I stepped out from behind the black curtain. The crowd was quiet except for a few sharp whistles. The music was dramatic, and they were a seasoned enough audience to sense that the tone of my performance would be more erotic than playful. Our shows at the Crushed Velvet ran the gamut, and some of the girls really played their acts for laughs. I admired my friends who could do a tongue-in-cheek number to Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream” or “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.” For some reason, my dances were always more serious. I guess it was that was the part of my sexuality I felt compelled to explore on stage.
    I did a few turns and made my way to the