Day 189: Rubber Panties n' Paper Dolls

Paris, Day 18. I'd planned to write you this really deep, introspective post about the profound personal effect the Cluny Museum has on me. But Ms. Burlesque called so all bets were off.

It was after 9 pm when she phoned, breathless, from the Metro. "I'm performing at a vernissage. It's like three stops away from you. You have to come."

Not one to be bossed around, I took a moment to consider my options:
a) Keep making the paper doll I'd been constructing (I'm serious),
b) Tuck in with a book and a baguette,
c) Go to an art opening and see some chick strip.

I put on shoes and ran the dog shit gauntlet to the subway. I got off at Porte de la Villette – one of the many portes or entrances through the peripheral wall containing Paris. It's a total shithole of bus stations, drunks and the pervasive odour of pee. But right in the middle of it all – of course, this is Paris – is a gallery/performance space called Glazart.

I wandered into the main space which looked more like a warehouse bar than a gallery. People crowded the stage and a band got up to play. I half-listened, half-stared at the motley mix of people gathered, half-wondered if I was missing Ms. Burlesque's performance somewhere and half-searched for the art that we were all supposedly here to see.

I know, that was four halves. It was a big night.

While the band played, I watched a creepy old man with a video camera. He appeared to be chasing several model-types around the space. The models looked bored and disdainful. But that's what models do.

There was also an 11-year-old child running around. And a healthy representation of people over fifty. This is one thing I adore about Paris: age really doesn't matter. You don't have to be 20 years old in order to be in a cool band and yes-you-can wear a tweed business suit to a rock show. The headlining band for the night was a pair of women deeeeep in their forties. They rocked the effing block.

Eventually, I spotted Ms. Burlesque. She was wearing a 40s-style cocktail dress, red satin opera gloves and shiny-shiny red heels. Glam-o-rama. She was hamming it up with some guy who was dramatically biting her arm while she dramatically screamed. There was a paparazzi-like mob of photographers crowded around.

I kept watching the creepy old guy videoing the models. One model slowly turned around, scanned the room sadly and dragged her hands down her face (careful not to mess up her eye makeup). Then another model, an escapee from Prom Night 1986, staggered through the scene, followed by a skinny rat-faced guy dressed as Gangster Least Likely To Kick Anyone's Ass.

Whatever kind of music video/experimental short film/video installation they were shooting, it looked terrible.

"Did you get lost?" the voice came from behind me. I turned around, just narrowly avoiding getting my eyes poked out by a pair of GIANT fake eyelashes. "I've been looking all over for you," Ms. Burlesque said, gazing over my shoulder.

The next band took the stage, featuring a seven-foot-tall Teutonic warrior woman who screamed through a bullhorn into the microphone. Because a bullhorn wasn't enough.

Ms. Burlesque, her friend Natalie and I retired to the bar. "What do you want to drink?" Natalie asked. I stared at the bottles and bottles of booze suspended above the bar. "I dunno...a beer?" I said. "We're having martinis," Burlesque explained, as though we all needed to show beverage solidarity or something.

"I'm fine with beer," I said while Natalie and Burlesque exchanged glances. "Of course...beer for the Canadian," Burlesque said rolling her eyes. I got the eye-roll a second time when I asked about catching the last Metro.

The last band finally came out and we crowded toward them. "Whoo! Living Dolls!" Burlesque called out, smiling at me. "I thought they were the Human Toys," I yelled over the din. "They are," she laughed. "But you've been calling them the Living Dolls all night. Hahaha! Including when you met Poupée the lead singer. Hahaha!"

Oh. Hahaha.

The Human Living Doll Toys took the stage. Poupée was clad in head-to-toe RUBBER. Rubber stockings held up by garters and rubber frilly panties with a big purple rubber bow. They launched into their first song and rocked the forking HOUSE.

That was Ms. Burlesque's cue. A massive tattoo-covered man lifted her onto the stage and she began vamping. She coyly removed one of her opera gloves, which was enough to cause all the men in the room to mob the stage. My drink went flying.

While the band cranked out serious hard-core shit, Burlesque flirted and pouted and steadily got nakeder. She stripped down to a bra, corset and panties and shook her long, black hair free. When she turned her back to unclasp her bra, I started giggling. I couldn't help it.

After a dramatic pause, she spun around to reveal a pointy set of silver sequined pasties.

I giggled uncontrollably. Poupée dropped to her back, shrieking into the mic. Burlesque took the opportunity to MOUNT Poupée and lick the entire length of her torso. She then lifted Poupée's leg and hauled her tongue along the rubber-clad length of it.

She stood up and shook it a bit, raising her arms above her head to expose surprisingly large patches of Yeti-quality arm pit hair.

The song ended and Burlesque adopted this wide-eyed 'Oh gracious! I appear to be naked!' look on her face and jumped down from the stage. Seconds later, she appeared beside me in the crowd. Still basically naked. Pasties. Bare ass. Right next to me.

We danced to the rest of the set, her naked, me wearing fourteen layers of clothing and feeling awkward. As I was dancing, my hand TOTALLY ACCIDENTALLY I SWEAR grazed her naked butt a couple of times.

After the show, I followed Burlesque backstage (yessss!) where the air was thick with smoke. Dozens of random people were sprawled out on grimy couches amid beer cans, garbage and cigarette butts. There was a big bowl of water with several now-empty bottles of champagne.

Burlesque flung herself over a sofa to get her bag – her bare ass splayed all over the room. No one batted an eye. Then the Velvet Underground Teutonic warrior lady stormed in, towering over everyone and brandishing a lit cigarette. "I need five minutes. Everybody...get out."

At the door, Burlesque pulled a hood over her head, shouldered her backpack. She turned to me and said (I shit you not), "The star goes incognito." She disappeared into the night.