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There's nothing beautiful as my Vaudeville.
The sounds, the lights, the faces of the audience, the air thick with jazz, the breathlessness of it all. I dance across the stage, a broad smile plastered upon my face as I purr the words of the song, careful to be perfect, especially as I move past the pianist.
Because for the past two months, my show hasn't been for the audience.
Prancing around my playground, I lift away the black bowler hat, and thick waves of crimson that give me my name fall all around my shoulders, halfway down my back—the audience roars in delight, especially when I toss the hat out to them, twirling and giving my hips a little rock. But with my back to the viewers, my eyes are on him.
Even so, neither of us miss a beat; I croon, peeling off my right glove and giving my fingers a little wiggle as I toss it aside—my hands run up my thighs and over my black-and-red bustier, my lips curled in a playful sneer.
All those eyes—all that want. There's a d...
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