It was
dark, loud and warm on the 12th floor rooftop of the Firebird Casino
Hotel. The sky was black and the air buzzed with club music from the impressive
sound system. The outdoor area was styled like an island oasis, overshadowed by
potted date palms, over a luminescent, turquoise pool. People mingled and drank, trying to figure out who was famous and who was only posing. Across from the pool was a glass pavilion where the Paradise Lounge was, the rooftop nightclub, cast in gyrating infernos of laser light.
Anya had
invited Paxton as her guest to the after party. Whereas, I was smuggled in past the doorman stuffed in her panties.
There was a VIP table set up for Anya and crew on a balcony overlooking the pool and vodka-soaked
revelry. Every exclusive table was attended to by its own table-waiting hostess, called a
‘Firebird’, and gazing through the masses, I could see several of these
hostesses going about performing various duties. They were highly identifiable, wearing either Flamingo-magenta
or Swan-white costumes consisting of a bikini top and booty skirt covered in
gossamer, feather-like ruffles, strappy black heels, and face makeup with flamboyant
magenta eyeshadow stripes and lipstick. On the back of the top there were a
miniature pair of feathery angel wings.
Our table’s
magenta Firebird glided over to our table to take drinks orders, under neon
lighting so deep and surreal I had to squint at her. After confirming
orders, she then squinted down at me, for a different reason.
Earlier,
Anya had washed me in the tour bus sink and dressed me in a little white t-shirt with
her stylized album logo printed on the chest. The t-shirt was stitched up the
bottom, leaving two holes to put my legs through, emphasizing my severely undersized body in the most
humiliating way; with my shaved head I now looked like a very tiny baby wearing a onesie. While Anya was wearing something far more adult: a black bra
top, fishnet stockings, and ferocious black chunk heel boots.
“IS THAT THE
LITTLE ACTOR GUY?" The Firebird cast an amused look upon me. "IT’S SO REALISTIC.”
I was puzzled by the remark until I realized, with a sinking stomach, the Firebird
had me confused me for a doll, and before anyone could stop her, she leaned
over to touch me. Her massive fingertip darted at my head, seeming to swallow
up the world as they buried my face between, and held me in its soft, warm
pressure stroking back and forth to feel my tiny eyes, nose and mouth.
As the crew laughed and I shifted uncomfortably, the Firebird let out a gasp as she
realized her mistake, and her hand snapped back, freeing my head.
“OH MY
GOODNESS!”
Paxton exclaimed, a little proudly:
“LITTLE ACTOR
GUY IS ONE OF THE HOMIES."
“HE’S WITH ME,” Anya asserted loudly, briefly
looking the Firebird in the eye.
The
Firebird wasn’t looking at Anya, her eyes were bright upon me. Unable to help
herself, her silky touch returned to brush
back and forth from my cheek to my brow, enjoying the softness of my face. I
closed my eyes and let her. Her hand was scented with fruity soap.
A crew
member took out a phone to take a photo and the Firebird pulled me up against
the plush surface of one feathery breast and posed for the picture.
After she left, the crew did shots until the air popped with the sting of alcohol. Meanwhile, the last couple of Anya’s crew members were still arriving,
and other industry ‘associates’ passed by the table, and toasted with her on
the finished tour. They hugged, high-fived and complimented her fashion, and
pulled up a seat together. Someone eagerly pushed some champagne fizz into my
face and it went up my nose.
As they chatted
and laughed, I wandered, unnoticed, to the edge of the table and gazed out over
the balcony at the poolside crowd below. Across from the pool, behind open
glass doors, like a big maw, was the deep, dark entrance to the nightclub,
Paradise, with music spilling out in pounding rhythm. It was like a dark shadow space amidst the otherwise bright rooftop. The pulse of
nightlife was manifesting, and I longed to be part of it, not inside a hotel
room or slipper. I tilted my head back and took a draught of the recently rainy
air. Anything was better than enclosure.
Now the
Firebird's heels clacked back over to the table to unload a couple of glasses from a platter. The crew took
them, passing one to Anya. Both her tall wine glass and I rested on the
tabletop before her, with an immediate view of her black bra-top and bare pale
shoulders. Discomforted by the size comparison of her glass to me, I stood up and began to wander
across the table again.
In a
delicate gesture, someone tapped my shoulder with a fingernail, and I stopped.
It was the Firebird, now watching me coyly. It struck me how sexy she was. Of course, that was a criterion of her work.
With
practiced subtlety, she slipped a tiny, folded-up piece of paper down the front
neck of my ‘onesie’ t-shirt. Once she’d swished away, I pulled it out.
It had a
phone number and a magenta lipstick print the size of my head.
Anya’s hand
drew in around me, freezing me in place between her fingertips. I cringed. Her
hands were outfitted with multiple rings and the metal was cold against my bare
flesh. She plucked the paper out from my grip so she could scan it without
interest.
Unlike
Jennifer, who might have willed daggers into the admiring Firebird’s brain by
pure thought power, Anya merely gave the note a cold smile and looked around at
the others, knowingly.
“AW,” she
muttered, “FAIL. HE DOESN’T EVEN HAVE A WORKING PHONE.”
She
scrunched the paper and tossed it over the balcony, and I watched it disappear
with regret. There had been a dazzling attraction in the Firebird’s eyes that
Anya no longer had for me. Now the glow in the pop star's eyes was from the line of coke
she’d done in the Hotel before we got to the party.
As the
others continued to chat away, Anya bent her pale head over mine, and whispered
straight into the back of my neck in an almost threatening way.
"WATCH
THE STANDARDS, SLIM,” she instructed, sending a businesslike flick into my
lower back with a glittery green-painted fingernail as if to correct my
posture. “YOU'RE NOUVEAU CELEBRE, AND AS SUCH, YOU OBVIOUSLY NEED A LITTLE PROFESSIONAL EDUCATION
FROM SOMEONE MORE CLUED UP.”
Her fingers
pinched me up as easily as they had snatched the paper, and as if I was a standing doll, gave me a little twist mid-air
to face me at the nearest Firebird, running a drink order for a table across the other side of the balcony. Then my feet were planted on the glass tabletop again.
Anya’s low
voice, and her hot liquor breath made my head buzz.
“THEY’RE
BELOW YOU.”
My eyes lingered on the Firebird. There was
still a chance of escape; if one of them returned I could signal for help to
her...somehow. I waited anxiously for someone to spontaneously put down another
order, but no one summoned the Firebird’s attention again.
The crew
talked loudly as they became more inebriated. Growing bored, my attention wandered. Further along the balcony a pair of young women in skimpy swimsuits
swept their hair around as they posed against the railing for their friends to
take photos. The crew became aware of them not so subtly trying to line us up
in their background as an 'accidental' photobomb. Anya stuck her middle finger up as the photo snapped.
Paxton
snatched up some snacks and tossed them like confetti past the women and onto
the lower floor. Standing at the edge of the table, my eyes followed the
edibles down, flecking the LED-lit, electric blue pool surface, like
breadcrumbs to feed ducks.
On the
lower level, congregating around the poolside, men with bare chests and women
with bare stomachs and perfect hair. Men stuck sparklers into the necks of their bottles and
waved them around like giant birthday candles, while a man tilted his
head to the sky and blew vodka flames at the moon. Women with full lips and
fuller asses, some wearing thongs parting
blown up, surgically-enhanced butt cheeks.
Then,
scattered amidst the crowd, there were the easily identifiable, burlesque cheerleader Firebirds, scantily clad in their tight feathery ensemble and striped-eye
make-up. They passed through the masses singly or in groups, some of them were serving,
some chatting to guests, some of them getting into promotional photos (an ‘I
was here’ photo with a Firebird at one of these exclusive parties came with bragging
rights).
…And there,
standing on the other side of the rippling turquoise pool, were two Firebirds
hovering at the entrance to a white cabana, talking with a couple of
party-goers. One of them in a magenta outfit, a black braid running down her back
with a long tufted tail. The other wore a white costume and had a high and tight
ponytail with achingly familiar dyed coloring.
I was struck dumb.
While the
magenta Firebird spoke, the white Firebird’s stripe-painted eyes were shaded as she
scrutinized the surrounding thoroughfare. Then she was back in the
conversation, making a smooth, smiling interjection that even had the
party-goers laughing. I looked away uneasily.
These
drug-induced hallucinations were becoming scarier and more elaborate by the
day. It was difficult enough to focus in this storm of young, flesh-baring crowd,
jiggling and dancing and squealing, with the music whomping through my ear
bones, quaking the venue with noise as if a mega-giant was marching around.
When I
looked back, the white Firebird was still there. And she still looked exactly
like my fiancée.
Even more
surreal: the partnering magenta Firebird looked like Samantha – at least,
underneath the burlesque eye shadow stripes and 'cat eye' eyeliner accenting. I
stared hard, sweating, anticipating some tiny sign they weren’t really there, a
‘glitch’ of reality, anything. But defiantly they stood, talking up the
patrons.
The
Jennifer Firebird leapt into a selfie with a guy, wrapping her arm around his
neck and doing a peace sign while miming licking his cheek, stopping just short
of tactile contact. The Samantha Firebird pulled a ‘hmph’ face for a fraction
of a second before her hesitation melted, and she stepped around to the man’s
other side, arranging herself into a more elegant, rehearsed pose. Another
patron snapped the photo.
Disturbed,
I tried to wrench my eyes away, but couldn’t, even as the sight of the white
Firebird made me heartsick.
Now the two
women swept past people reclined in deckchairs, and away from the pool. ‘Flamingo’
was giving ‘Swan’ a stern, tight-lipped talking to, and Swan was only
half-listening, and interjecting emphatically, shaking her head. God, every
second I tried to keep my eyes on their progress through the crowd, cold sweat
prickled my forehead my heart galloped anxiously. The drug haze – even the air
smelled like drugs -- kept me stupid and uncertain. Was this real?
The next
second the women disappeared below the upper floor patio into the indoor bar
area. I threw one last look at Anya. She was hunched over her crossed fishnet-covered
leg, showing off her fearsome chunk-heeled boots to a backup dancer.
Then, gathering my resolve, I took a deep
breath, the entire party seemed to shrink away, and jumped off the very edge of
the table—
SPLASH
Gasping and
kicking, I found myself back in the world. As if I’d jumped through a tiny
wormhole, now the balcony was a floor above my head, the ground had dissolved
into the glowing blue pool, and Anya’s crew had transformed into an endless
flock of party-goers parading around the poolside.
I stared up
to see if anyone noticed, but there were no curious faces peering over the
balcony after me.
Light
rippled through the water like fish scales, and parted as the sinuous, curvy
upper length of a woman gracefully arched to the surface, breaking the water,
send her hair back in a long wet flick, and gazed around. Her eyes snagged on me, treading in the water, and dilated.
She began
wading through the waist-deep water, her wet boobs jiggling with every step,
until the movement of her massive body caused me to bob around her navel like a
cork. I paddled my arms desperately to stay afloat.
A huge
finger with bright painted nail pointed straight down at the top of my head,
and driving me below the surface with playful intent. Instantly, the pressure
lifted, and I bounced above the water again.
She
crouched until her chest sat upon the water surface.
“WHAT ARE
YOU LOOKING AT, DUCKLING?” She said coquettishly, before poking me below the
water another two times. My body rocketed up back to surface each time.
“Maybe I’m
looking at you, beautiful swan!” I spluttered, thinking flattery would get her
to stop poking me. Every time I surfaced, I bounced into a pair of mountains of
dripping wet cleavage, which hung precipitously over my head, almost bursting
out of the bikini. Like most of the female guests here, the woman’s breasts
were like bowling balls squished together, the telltale shape of a generous
boob job. The taut, wet bikini fabric exposed her nipples, screwed into points
in the cool night air.
Out of
nowhere, a French bulldog waddled past the pool edge with its drooling tongue
flopping out of a widely grinning mouth. I screeched in fear. The dog was as
big as a rhinoceros compared to me, a potentially snack-sized little dog toy. I
hoped it couldn’t swim. Suddenly the woman did not seem oppressive anymore, but
protective. She straightened up again, causing a pushback wave to carry me away
from her. Alarmed, I paddled desperately towards her upper torso until I was
treading the water lapping at her flat, navel-pierced belly.
One of her
hands lifted out of the water and was brought over my head.
“THAT’S
JUST MY BODY, YOU SLEAZE," she scoffed. "MY FACE IS UP HERE.”
She took my
chest between a finger and thumb and lifted me out of the water. I moved up her
body as if by crane lift, within a hair’s breadth distance past the bulging
mammaries, past the elegant cords of her neck tendons, coming to a stop center
of the great display of her face. She wasn’t smiling but her eyes twinkled.
I had no
choice but look deeply into her eyes as they made an intimate, sweeping scan of
my facial features, making me feel more exposed than if I was naked.
Across from
the pool, the bar was overflowing with people getting
drinks, but the two uncanny Firebirds from earlier had vanished. I stared a moment longer in dismay. Of course it had just been a desperate hallucination.
Sight of the bar was wrested away as the woman ran a thumb along my jaw to gently tilt my face up to
her. Her cool stare evaluated me like specimen. I tried to keep my breathing
steady.
“It was nice to
meet you,” I said. “Now I better run!”
She pouted
and her eyebrows drew together.
“ALREADY?”
she scoffed. “HUH!” she made a sound of irritation. “LEAST YOU COULD DO IS TRY TO GET MY NUMBER.”
Drops of
water were falling from her downturned face and hair, and splashing me now in
big unavoidable drops, and I tried not to flinch every time one splattered on
my skin. She, meanwhile, pretended not to notice, except to vaguely brush my
face clear with a big thumbprint.
I stared up
at her timidly.
“I haven’t
even got your name.”
“IT’S PAIGE.
I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.” She gave a
flirtatious giggle and batted her false eyelashes. “YOU’RE JERRY MOUSSEAU.”
She gave my
‘onesie’ t-shirt a cursory glance and a frown, possibly bothered by Anya’s logo,
suggesting she had a serious rival. That was incorrect. She did have a serious
rival, but it wasn’t Anya.
“IF YOU
PLAN ON TAKING ME ANYWHERE, WEAR SOMETHING A LITTLE NICE, TOO, MMKAY? IMPRESS
ME.”
“I don’t
think I have anything in my size.”
She gave me
a cunning, tight-lipped smile.
"YOU
NEED CLOTHES? YOU CAN SLIP INTO MINE."
She tugged at her bikini top and let it snap wetly.
I hugged
myself. My t-shirt suddenly felt very thin and loose.
“Really, I
need to get going. Just put me down on the poolside and I can look after
myself.”
She
impatiently took this into consideration, while my strokes in the water started
to get panicky, feeling like any moment Anya or her crew would spot me.
“AREN’T YOU
FORGETTING SOMETHING?” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “GOING TO ASK A
GAL OUT? I MIGHT EVEN SAY YES…NOW THEN, I DON’T JUST SAY THIS TO ANY GUY, BUT…WHERE ARE YOU STAYING?
MAYBE I COULD PICK YOU UP.”
Before I
could answer, a fingertip jabbed my head to get my attention, accidentally
dunking me underwater before I shot up again.
“Not
possible,” I winced, coughing up water. “Early flight home tomorrow. Happy
travels!”
She took a
breath.
“OKAYYY MR PLAYING-HARD-TO-GET…IF YOU
THINK YOU HAVE A SHOT WITH ME, HOW FAR DO YOU SEE US GOING TONIGHT?”
I blinked
at her boldness.
“Sorry,
really. I’m taken.”
To my
alarm, her eyes now sparkled.
“OOH, A
FORBIDDEN AFFAIR!" She gave the area a brief, searching look. “LET’S FIND
OURSELVES A QUIET LITTLE AREA AND WE'LL SEE WHAT CAN YOU DO WITH THOSE TINY HANDS..."
She flicked
her hair between her fingers again, launching a small volley of rain onto my
face. The intensity of the woman’s crush on me was smothering, actually
shortening my breath into pitiful squeaks as I tried to think up some excuse to
get away from her.