Burlesque

I took D to see women dancing mostly naked last night.

One of those things-we-have-to-do-in-Boston-because-it'll-never-happen-in Salt-Lake. A group that performs burlesque, dances, removes clothing, winds up in thong/bikini and pasties right at the last, one at a time to some very good music. Themes and gimmicks abound, of course. Only a couple of these young women caused me to cringe, and only for a moment. Brash, confident, funny, over the top all. I give them credit. D admitted pure enjoyment. I hooted and laughed, while reflexively critiquing.

Problem, for me, was that only one was a real, obviously trained dancer. That, newest, performer was sexier with street appropriate, though short, trench coat on than most of the rest in nearly just skin. And I wanted the rest smoother, more practiced, taking belly dance classes at very least. The two who pretended coyness and the amateurish playing with prop flasks and beads grated slightly. "I'm hot-better-take-off some-clothes-porn-miming." The one dancer presented herself as I'm-going-to-dance-with-a-pool-stick-and-flirt-with-you. Oh, most of the others were grand, a deeply funny and disturbing Lizzie Bordan wet t-shirt bit, and another who did very alluring motions with long gloves.

All in all, it was a fun, tame, appealing evening. Not strippers as conceived today, no crotch focus, more on movement, breast flash and covered ass presentation. And an MC in a bright red zoot suit who encouraged hoots and catcalls, tips at the end of each act as each dancer walked amongst us, she now in robe, or long t-shirt, with a top hat as collection plate. Mr. Scratch kept the proceeding light, and oddly safe, admiring and only just so off color. Sensual titillating delight instead of raw sexuality. Room for imagination.

D has never been to see strippers, he seems satisfied that this is better. D has a sufficient imagination. I enjoyed watching him.