|Andrew's waiting at the light (scarymonsters) wrote in repose,|
@ 2016-01-24 17:49:00
|Entry tags:||*log, andrew robinson, ethan sinclair, jack penhaligon, sonya corry, wren henry|
[open to visitors - untitled, the burlesque roadhouse]
What: Untitled, the Burlesque Roadhouse, is open for business - at least for a night. It's the grand opening and perhaps the only open night, so get in while you can.
Warnings/Rating: Scantily clad people in your mind's eye.
Note: This is an open location post, so feel free to throw in a comment and see if someone hits it or set your threads here. I may hit the occasional open, but otherwise assume the club owner is chilling ~somewhere and making sure everyone behaves. ;)
The message was slipped under every door in town: "THE GRAND OPENING and possibly ONLY NIGHT OF untitled THE BURLESQUE ROADHOUSE." The date and time were printed in block on the scrap of thick white paper. "PRESENT for TWO FREE DRINKS, NO RESTRICTIONS"
The night of the 'grand opening,' the roadhouse was transformed. From the ashes of its former self, here was a spare space set with intimate tables, candles, and a lace-draped stage. There was room to settle in and booths recovered in plush, stain-resistant fabric. Some realistic precautions had been taken.
There was tinsel was strung above the bar and around the fringes of the ceiling in a multitude of riotous colors, and it threw back the light with cheap glitter. There was just enough dissolute glamour dripping from the dirt to maintain the old charm of the roadhouse. It still smelled like smoke and spilled beer, just part of the ambiance. Nothing could really get that out, not that the new owner would want to.
The bar was stocked with booze from the dirt cheap to the absurdly expensive. The wood was stained almost black to hide the wear, relacquered to obliterate years of water rings. The bar stools squeaked a bit, but they were vintage, rescued from some farmhouse and recovered with new, emerald colored vinyl.
At the back was a pair of quarter jukeboxes. Though they shut off during the stage shows, they otherwise alternated, back and forth, playing song after song. The one on the left was filled with everything 20th century and good, from the obscure to the not so much. The other hosted a rotating catalog of the current, poppy, and attractive.
Somehow the place was fully staffed, too, despite the lack of volunteers from town. The bartender wasn't chatty, but he could mix just about anything the patrons requested. He also performed at the 9:15 show, and the girls from backstage filtered out behind the bar to fill orders while he was onstage. The servers of both genders were handsome, attentive, and quiet, taking drink orders in the dark.
At eight, the first show began. This leaned more to the risque than the truly scandalous, men in dresses and disappearing tuxes and women scantily clad, and this was true burlesque, old fashioned. There was a comedian between performers, a magician, and a torch singer. As the night went on, the hour-long shows became increasingly elaborate and daring. More was exposed, more seen, and more was painstakingly teased off. Boas were thrown, live animals became involved, crystalline bubbles were teased over naked bodies, and wind machines were put to good use.
This was not a family show, but there was something for everyone - everyone who didn't mind a bit of skin, anyway. The early shows stayed primarily on the stage and avoided exposing anything too compromising for the date crowd, while the late shows involved audience volunteers and elaborate props. The dancers themselves were not local. They were a professional troupe from the capital, one night only, and they made their expertise apparent.
As for the owner? None of the staff were willing to point him out to the curious. But the emcee was particularly enthusiastic when he began each show - stage center, face painted - before disappearing backstage.