Shimmy, Shimmy, Shake!

Week two of burlesque classes involves clustering around what has to be the tiniest laptop with the tinniest speakers in existence trying to watch short clips that will help us understand the origins of burlesque and give us some clues about choosing a prop and developing our alter egos. I have a strong idea about my alter ego’s personality, a vague sense that it shouldn’t be allowed out in public and not even the vaguest hint about what her name might be.

During the week I did practice my dance. In fact I ponied up, applied a skimpy outfit, did my hair and makeup and performed our little routine for Charles after the kids had gone to bed. Before I went to get ready I asked him to clear me some space in the family room. When I came back I found about two square feet of clear space directly in front of his chair. I rolled my eyes and explained that he would not be receiving a lap dance. A larger space was hastily cleared. Then I laid out the ground rules. If you laugh, you’re dead. If you criticise, you’re dead. If you look remotely sceptical about any part of the performance, you will be severely maimed and left for dead. Yes you’re allowed to tell your friends.

And then I take my place and wait. The dance starts with my back to the audience and I have maybe two seconds while Charles cues the music. I almost make a run for it. But then I swallow my fear and turn, starting the dance. As soon as my eyes hit Charles I lose almost all of my nervousness. He is wearing that stunned half smile I imagine men reserve for those infrequent moments in their lives when amazingly erotic things take place. Things like bursting in on two women making love, stumbling across frisky nymphs skinny dipping in sun-dappled pools…that sort of thing. His eyes are full of wonder and a hint of disbelief that he’s being allowed to watch this. Sixty seconds in and that’s all the routine we’ve learned.

“I don’t care,” says Charles, “Just ad lib it.”

And so I do. Adult situations ensue.

So here we are back at burlesque classes for week two and this week we’re joined by the rather aptly named Deb Delicious. First up we gather to watch various burlesque-related clips. Some of it is so amazingly risqué that I feel a little like a teenager watching porn. After watching the clips it’s time to learn how to twirl nipple tassels. This is a lot easier to do than it sounds. Really all you do is pin the tassels to your bra and bounce. Lunge to the right and they spin clockwise. Lunge to the left and they’ll spin anti-clockwise. It’s a neat little trick. What’s a lot harder is getting them to spin in alternate directions by shimmying your breasts. I shimmy like I’ve been tasered to no avail. All I manage to do is make my tassels look like they’re in the throes of an epileptic fit. Deb Delicious can do the most amazing breast shimmying I’ve ever seen and her tassels obliging spin in alternate directions. It is completely mesmerising and totally soul-destroying. I have to stop and watch – which is a much better use of my time because there’s no way I’ll ever be able to do that.

Before we leave Miss Kitka impresses upon us the need to come up with our alter ego names and props. I feel horribly pressured because I'm nowhere near coming up with a name, so I race home and immediately start working on it. I start by typing “burlesque name generator” into google. There are quite a few but my favourite is at http://www.empty-handed.com/archive/burlesque/burlesque.html This site just throws up random burlesque names – some are worthy of glittery billboards in Vegas, others are purely the giggle factor. I flirt with something involving Kitten or Kitty, which has always been Charles’ nickname for me. Unfortunately Kitty or Kitten is about the cheesiest burlesque name in existence. That and anything Rose.

Clearly my mind is working on the name issue even while I sleep because a few days later I wake up at three in the morning and announce that my new burlesque name will be Ginger Storm. Charles’ response is, “Huh? Okay. Ginger Storm. Sure.”

The next morning I wake up and announce I have a burlesque name.

“I know,” Charles says a mite smug, “Ginger Storm.”

“No, Ginger SNAP,” I giggle.

I get an eye roll before he goes to have his shower but the name sticks and the feedback so far has been pretty positive. The name also works with my prop – a riding crop. So I have a name, I have a prop, and I can twirl my nipple tassels. And thus concludes week two of burlesque…