Tarantella – the art of the dancer
March 23, 2013

Having just blogged about burlesque and the art of person to person, body to body flirting that we seem to be losing in our digital age in my singles social blog ( ‘Have you got in touch with your naughty side recently?’), I thought I’d have a bit of a tinker with the start of the short story I entered for the ITV.com Racy Reads competition  about a month or so ago. No, I didn’t win – I wasn’t explicit, stemy or trashy enough – and I’ve never rally seen myself as the next Mills and Boon bodice ripper – or maybe now with the 50 shades advent; manacle gripper – but I did have fun writing something that would be more commercial than convincing.

Here we go then – the first 1000 words of Tarantella – do you fancy me completing it? If so, let’s have some naughty plotline suggestions please!

***

‘Carrie, come on – or management will be pissed with you.’ Danno sounded more than impatient, he sounded like management.

belly dancer for tarantella‘Coming.’

She pushed away from the spot-lit mirror and hurried up the stairs from the dressing room to the back of the stage. The noise and smells of the club greeted her, raucous and acrid.

‘They’re getting bored waiting,’ Danno chivvied her. She shrugged unconcernedly.

‘Then I’ll be all the more worth waiting for, won’t I?’ She hated this brittle bitch she had to pretend to be as ‘Tarantella’, but it was expected now. That was who she was to them all; a beautiful raven haired bitch, a tart without a heart. The private Carrie had got lost behind the public dancer. She wondered testily how they could be bored with so many other girls strutting and posing on the podiums around the club or desperately blagging dances in the VIP booths, but she knew what Danno meant.  They were waiting for her – for Tarantella, and the new club owner was there tonight too, wanting to see what he’d bought and what changes he might be making to it. She took a deep breath and stepped onto the stage to a mixture of cat calls and wolf-whistles, but a hush fell as she danced. In her private world she was Carrie, doing a job for money. On stage she was Tarantella, siren, charmer, beguiler, dancer; stripper. The chiffon layers slowly dropped away as she twisted and snaked, arching her back as her body undulated. The only sound was the music. The punters were mesmerised and she was glad the spotlight blinded her to them. She lost herself in the challenge to perform artistically, not simply strip. The music dropped as she slid the basque top away to show her small breasts, like ripe peaches, and the mood became more tense; sexual.

She didn’t like this part of the routine because it brought her too close to them and she could catch glimpses of the faces watching as she slithered and twisted. She reached the point in the dance where she had to face the audience and remove her g string, usually to deafening applause and shouts for more. She pulled the knot on the side but the sounds and the responses were lost on her as she met the piercing eyes she’d not encountered before – at the back of the audience, almost hidden. He looked smarter than most of the men there. He stood out from them for that alone. Maybe that was why she noticed him as she unintentionally glanced out at her audience?  His face was intent but not in a lustful way like the others; meditative – curious even. Who are you? It said. The bolt went through her like lightening. And who are you too?

She picked up her abandoned clothes and slipped quickly off stage.

‘Good stuff,’ Danno called after her. He was the nicer of the heavies and she called her thanks back – best to keep in with the bouncers. ‘The boss was up the back; the new bloke. Did you see him?’ She paused, pulling her clothes to her defensively; suddenly ridiculously shy at being naked now she was off-stage.

‘No, where? What’s he look like?’

‘Oh pretty non-descript, but smart-dressed, not like the other bums out there.’ So that had been the new guy, subtle, understated; but she’d sensed the power behind the quiet exterior. For the first time in ages her interest was stirred. She changed quickly into the cowgirl outfit she hated – all rhinestones and glitz. The hat was a monstrosity, but useful to play hide and seek with on-stage, gradually revealing the beautiful body she kept so privately to herself off-stage.

She didn’t hear him arrive as she strapped the tiny sparkling thigh holster on, stiletto boot braced against the vanity unit.Kinky boots

‘Ride-em cowboy!’ The voice was deep and smooth, like molten chocolate, but she was already anxious so she snapped a sharp response back without looking.

‘Oh get a life, can’t you?’

‘I already have a perfectly good one, actually.’ The reply came back quickly but mildly. She turned around in surprise to find him right behind her, so close her face was level with his chest and his musky maleness made her blood pulse faster. She looked up and met two amused blue eyes, crinkling boyishly at the corners. The same calm control and underlying power was apparent at close quarters too. She gasped under cover of stepping back to put some space between them before his proximity made her head spin. ‘I’m Jack Good, the new owner, and you, from the description must be Carrie – or Tarantella, by another name. Do you kill your lovers as well as your boss by paralysing them with your venom – or is that just a rumour?’ The barb was deserved but she couldn’t resist rising to it.

‘Only if they’re not clever enough to avoid it.’ She threw back her shoulders defiantly. The frail dark beauty became fire and fury. He raised his eyebrows.

‘I can see your spark isn’t just in your gun.’ He laughed and she felt put down. She didn’t like this man after all, but he disturbed her peace of mind nevertheless. He leant forward and whispered in her ear. ‘Dare you…’ So it would be a duel to the death then? She pulled the tiny gun from its holster and pushed it into his chest.

‘Bang, bang! You’re dead, Mister.’ She could feel the heat from his body and as she looked up their lips almost met. He smelt of brandy and the heady fumes mixed with her pounding blood.

‘Hey Carrie, where are you?’ It was Danno again.

‘Now you’ll have some fire in your performance.’ He breathed the words onto her lips. She trembled and he steadied her. What was this man doing to her? He surveyed her flushed cheeks and parted lips with satisfaction. ‘That’s what I like in my dancers…’

***

Images are:

1. Shakira at the Rock in Rio concert 2008 courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

2. Bondage by Raimond Spekking via Wikimedia Commons

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