Burlesque | Cait Weiss

I show up bleeding from my left eye, dressed in fishnet thigh-highs and garter clips, a black and silver silken corset, brown hair piled on my head like a sloppy noose or a cinnamon roll. I never meant to be a part of neo-burlesque when I came to New York, but it happened and here I am with the bandleader outside Duane Park as he double-takes at my eye while I pay off the cab.

Alabaster, his trumpet dangles on two long fingers. What the hell took you so long?

I slur weather, eyelashes, finding keys, bustle my body into the back dressing room where Clams Casino stands in her pasties, double-fisting whiskey from rocks glasses. Or is that another room? Maybe the Starliner Lounge, what we call Corio, some place in Soho, where we put on a weekly noir strip show with live music (same bandman) and a major beauty with a shelf of boobs and a double-D set of pipes (name’s Broadway Brassy to those in the know). Continue reading “Burlesque | Cait Weiss”