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.