Page 1 of The Cowboy's Cabaret

ONE

damsel

Dahlia

“Saddle up,y’all. Gotta move the cattle, check the fence posts, and stock the feed. Don your camo thongs, because Cunting Season is here and it’s time to ride…”

The speakers rattle with the familiar twang of the cowboy recording playing one of the many cheeky introductions before my set. As the heavy velvet curtains lift, the amber lights bathe me in the warmth found only on stage.

Tonight, like many nights, I transform into my alter ego, Dahlia Damsel—country darling and secret seductress. Sauntering along the curtain line, fingers trailing purposefully, I give the audience a preview of what’s to come with the swing of my hips.

As I sway to the beat, I tip my cowgirl hat with a wink towards the bachelorette party waving dollar bills at me. Once I’m close enough, I kick a leg forward, dropping down to rub my way back up my thick thighs. The blushing bride-to-be slides a five-dollar bill into my battered black boots, screaming with her equally glassy-eyed friends.

The lights move, and so do I—teasing and grinding to “Black Velvet” by Alannah Myles. My act starts slow and methodical, the build up edging the audience as they watch, waiting for me to undress. What starts as the simple girl next door in Daisy Dukes and braids, ends up being a dance in eroticism and sex appeal.

My moves are about the anticipation, the illusion, the tease. I undo the top button on my cropped flannel, leaning over. My chest is hardly hidden by the flimsy material, straining against my heavy, round breasts. As the chorus croons, my fingers dance down my curves with reverence, much to the delight of the screaming onlookers. I feed off their energy—with every layer of clothing I remove, I shed my fear too. Offstage, I’m the human equivalent of a nervous chihuahua. Here though? I’m bold and powerful, wielding my body like a weapon. Burlesque is my sword and shield, the art of temptation.

Gliding onto my knees, I toy with the denim cutoffs hugging my waist. I lean back slowly to shimmy out of the shorts, revealing gold sequined lingerie, one of my favorites. The music reaches a fever pitch, heavy bass and a raspy voice giving way to my finale as I lie down and arch my back to the final beat of the song.

Cunting Season is Brooklyn’s premier queer nightclub, all camp and country. It’s a well-loved neighborhood staple, owned by some elusive millionaire. So while the motif is hick chic, the drinks and entertainment are pretty upscale.

The Backyard Burlesque is the real showstopper—a line up of bodacious humans from glamorous drag divas to the many performances of cabaret. Another perk of performing at this club is the luxurious dressing rooms. They’re very old Hollywood glam and glitter, and exactly where I’m headed to cool off.

Backstage,I glisten with sweat as I slam a water bottle in the dressing room. Ever the chaotic presence, my best friend kicks in the door with a huff and sits on the couch opposite me. Daphne Lennox, the other half of Double D—Double D for our names, and because we had the misfortune to develop breasts around the same time in eighth grade, and middle school boys are ruthless. Regardless of its origin, it now serves as a term of endearment for my soul sister.

We moved to Brooklyn after high school, something we had long dreamed of as we wasted away in our podunk hometown in northern Florida. Seven years and many shared studio apartments later, we’re finally settled in a cozy two- bedroom. Only one subway stop away from work, we really lucked out when the landlord of this building took pity on two broke girls. He says it’s because we remind him of his granddaughter and it’s what he hoped someone would do for her. He rents us an airy second floor apartment, heavily discounted. Carlo lives a floor above us and is something of a pseudo-grandpa to the both of us. Our rent is paid in full every month courtesy of Daphne’s bartending, odd jobs, and my hillbilly hottie routine.

“Girl, I don’t know how you do it, but damn do I love to watch.” Daphne sighs. Tonight, she has her dark maroon hair in two space buns atop her head. She’s definitely wearing the embellished jean shorts I thrifted last week, but I decide fair is fair since I still haven’t returned her leather corset. Perks of your being the same size as your goddess of a best friend.

“It ain’t much, but it’s honest work.” I laugh.

“At least after tonight, you’re off all weekend for the big show. I’m so fucking excited.” As if I could forget this weekendis the concert of our dreams and the sole motivation for my ass shaking the last six months.

Fata Morgana, the female fronted band we idolize, announced a tour stop in Brooklyn and there was zero chance we weren’t getting floor tickets. Concerts have always been our thing. For two sixteen-year-old emo girls, the local dive bar was our holy land until we could save enough to drive down to the city for the bigger shows. I remain fully convinced the pit of a concert is the eighth wonder of the world.

“I don’t wanna wait in line for a barrier spot. I think my days of camping outside are behind me.” As long as we’re in the crowd, my body will thank me for not sitting on concrete in the sun for eight hours.

“We do need to try to get there early to get in the merch line, though. Fata posted a teaser of the tour tees online and there’s one with Jade’s face on it. She’s so beautiful it hurts.” I snort as Daphne describes Jade’s tall figure and sharp features like a lovesick fool.

My night is coming to a close, so I shrug on a ratty tee and my well-worn sweats, cozier and ready to head home. The work outfits are cute as hell, but pretty far from how I prefer to dress. The tattoo adhesive on my wrist rubs against the cardigan I slide on, the protective layer over my fresh tattoo. With a mix of black and gray florals running up and down my arm, the delicate script is healing easily. Though Daph and I just got tattooed this week, I’m already itching for more ink. Or maybe a piercing. My thoughts wander as we head out into the warm May air and make the trek home.

After my threeAM bed time, I roll into the kitchen for coffee around noon, half-dead to the world. Daphne’s up and gone, her boots and keys missing from their normal spot at the door.

Snagging my laptop, I plant myself on the couch to check if my latest paper was graded and work more on my thesis outline. The blank grade taunts me, my need for academic validation a nagging manifestation of my anxiety. How else will I know I’m any good if I don’t source my worth from how well I perform? The funny thing about self-awareness is it’s clear to me this line of thinking is no good, but I can’t be bothered to believe otherwise. Plus, being a stressed social work grad student means I absolutely do not practice any of the things I preach. Cognitive dissonance and all that.

Tabbing over to my thesis outline, I skim what I last wrote. This paper will eventually be a hefty mix of hours of research and real-world experience. My focus is still pretty broad, but I think I want to concentrate on the teenaged population. I have until the end of November for final submission, so it’ll get there eventually.

School has always been important to me. Graduating with a masters degree has been a goal I’ve cried and lost sleep over as I managed working, volunteering, and school without the break I so desperately need.

Time crawls by and the blinking cursor stares back at me as I realize I have accomplished nothing. The cycle of my anxiety is one keeping me stuck—fear, paralysis, guilt, shame. Again and again. It’s not new to me by any means, but it’s definitely become more sinister as I’ve gotten older.

While the unpleasant memories of my childhood and a deadbeat father hardly set me up for success, I’ve managed to get by with avoidance and many a quiet panic attack. Familiartendrils of fear enter my mind, so even though I’ve accomplished nothing, I lay on the couch and try to breathe.

Daphne’s keys jingle at the doorway as she comes in, all chaos and iced coffee. She lifts my legs before sitting and laying them over her lap, looking at my discarded laptop and then to me, “Going well, huh?”

I roll my eyes. “Same shit as always. I have no clue what I’m doing.” Daphne is no stranger to my anxiety, I’m always safe with her.

“Dahlia, you do know what you’re doing. This is a work in progress. You hit a bump in the road every now and then, but you keep going.”