Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: One Chapter A Day
THE BACHELOR CHAPTERS: A THINKING WOMAN’S ROMANCE
I had seen plenty of chick-burlesque in the city over the last several years, which inspired me to hire a male stripper for my party. It was my birthday and I wanted a black man’s physique. Brown Suga was fun enough on the phone, and together, we decided to do a standard strip ploy, where we pretended that the neighbors had called the cops about the noise. He’d make his entrance dressed as an officer, threaten arrest, and then take off his clothes. We decided that I would make the playlist, and I told him I was going for an old-school sound: Michael Jackson, Marvin Gaye, Prince; my original dance music mix, heavy on classic R&B.
He asked me, “So, who am I dancing for? Are there specific guests you’d like me to target?”
“Me! It’s my fiftieth birthday, and you’re my first stripper! I want all the action!”
In the beginning, he sat me center stage in a chair, and I was expecting the coy choreography of a male burlesque routine. True enough for the first few minutes, until Brown Suga stripped off the cop uniform to his briefs, and then went live with that simulated sex thing on me. The crowd blew up. Brown Suga was a hunk of a man, with thighs and an ass designed for a comic book super hero, and a man pouch that was barely contained by the leopard spandex briefs. Unlike my evening with Kyle, there was no walking away from this scene; I had to mask my utter embarrassment at being the object of the action. The show was what mattered, so I rallied my courage, and turned my horror into theatre. Brown Suga led the way, slowly drawing down the leg zippers of my chaps, and teasing the audience like a pro.
“Grip that chair,” Brown Suga whispered, “here it comes.” And with one dramatic, matador, cape-arcing flourish, the man had me chapless and half naked in front of all of my friends. The audience went ballistic and our act went electric. There was no turning back, and as my feet hit the boards, I nailed my own stripper moves to match the black stud on stage. Prince’s anthem, “Cream” blasted through the backyard speakers, daring me to relish the audacity of my dirty dance. The song is a call to blow your horn— to seize your power—and I heard fifty years of destiny in the lyrics; it was suddenly as clear as my life had been long.
Like all girls, in the beginning, I didn’t even have the damn horn. But that was the prize, and I’d kicked ass for a lifetime to get it. I had a firm grip now, lips pressed against the pipe, blowing the loud sound that heralded my triumph: this was my tune; this was my time; this was my life.
It was close to midnight when the show ended, and my tribe went for one more drink. After dressing again in my cowgirl costume, I walked Brown Suga to his car, my arm wrapped around his comic book bicep.“Well, Mister Suga, that was not what I expected, but totally brilliant. Thanks for leading my strip debut!”
“Well you’re not what I expected either, Miss Vicki Marie. That was a gas! Thank you for redefining fifty in my mind—forever!”
After he drove away, I walked from the street back to my house and saw three young women on their way out—no one I knew, but friends of friends. As I stepped into the driveway they all spoke at once: “Vicki Marie!” “I can’t believe you’re fifty!” “You look so young!” I laughed at their outburst.
“Well, girlfriends, this is what fifty looks like—and I’m not the only one!”
They were probably no more than twenty-five, which was unbelievably for me, half a lifetime ago. What if I’d known the truth about fifty when I was their age?
“Ladies, trust me on this one: every age is the best age, and don’t you ever believe anyone who tells you different!”
I wished I had the power to relieve them of the inevitable anxiety of growing and aging. If only I could prevent the degradation of their self-esteem that was destined to seep in, again and again, and that would distract them from simply living their lives. It was so unfair. These women were twenty-five. How much different would it be when they looked into the mirror of their fiftieth year?
Yet, as we stood together in that gravel drive, exchanging our four open hearts, I knew something was possible. I was betting, maybe even praying, that my age-inappropriate wardrobe, on my fiftieth birthday, just might lessen the inescapable scourge of self-doubt in another woman’s life. Even a moment would be a victory. And then came their cheer: “Vicki Marie! We love your butt!”
TOMORROW: Chapter 73 — THE END!
Copyright Vicki Marie Stolsen, 2014, Forever Forty-Four Publications, Publicity Rare Bird Lit, Tyson Cornell, Tyson@rarebirdlit.com, Distribution by Ingram, Available online and in bookstores in paperback, eBook, and audio format.