Finally, finally, the feather boa floats to the floor, revealing twinkling silver pasties — the bull’s eye on firm globes of flesh. She throws back her head and revels in the cheers, the whistles, the unbridled desire that hangs thickly in the air like October fog. The lights go down.
As for my own body, I was surprised to find that it’s not entirely the stuff of nightmares to let it all hang out. While pasties and a G-string didn’t make me feel invincible or even bionic, I did walk off that stage believing that if I could dance, clown, sing, and entertain while shedding my clothes to the din of 100 strangers cheering me on, then I could do just about anything. Wait, I didn’t walk off. I sashayed. In four-inch heels.
Sara Faith Alterman (or Miss Informed, as we call her) is head writer for ImprovBoston and the author of Tears of a Class Clown. She can be reached atsalterman@phx.com.
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