Madonna: The REAL Girlie Show Ch. 2

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a fantasy based on Madonna's public persona. It is in no way intended to defame the character of the real-life Madonna Louise Ciccone.

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Hannah and I were just so pleased for Madonna when she started going places with that band of hers. She always said it would happen, and did it ever!

What was her first big single? 'Holiday' was it? That was kind of a fun disco thing, I suppose. I had to laugh, though, when she brought out that 'Like A Virgin' song. Hahahaha. Yeah, right, SURE, Madonna! You know, I always thought that she'd called herself that as some kind of ironic joke because she was such a little devil in the sack. It was only years later I realised it was her real name.

To be honest, though, I always preferred her earlier stuff, anyway - those new wave rock songs she demoed before she got signed up. Don't you just hate it when people say that? It's like saying "I know more about her than you do. I've been her biggest fan right from the start". But in this case it's true. I really liked her rock stuff.

I always was more of a punker at heart, which is how I ended up dropping out of University in 1976 and flying out to New York to check out the scene that was happening at this sleazy little club on the Bowery called CBGBs. I watched all the bands there: Patti Smith, Talking Heads, Television, Blondie, The Ramones, Richard Hell and The Voidoids. And that's where I met Hannah Fitzpatrick, a fiery red-head sex-bomb that claimed to be a porno star and threw a glass of Jack Daniels in my face two minutes after introducing herself. But, that's a whole other story. You don't need to know about that. You want to hear about how Hannah and I ended up getting jiggy with Madonna Louise Ciccone.

Well, here's a little background first. When she first came out to New York, after she finished her dance scholarship at the University of Michigan, Madonna was in this new wave band called The Breakfast Club with her boyfriend, Dan Gilroy. I think at that time she and Dan were living in some converted Synagogue out in Corona, Queens. She'd been studying dance with the choreographer, Pearl Lang, and working different jobs - the Russian Tearooms, glamour modeling, a donut shop in Times Square - but then she just decided to pack all that in, shack up with Dan and become a rock star. That was her new thing. Can you believe, she actually started off playing drums? Don't know if she was any kind of Keith Moon but the Breakfast Club certainly played quite a bit around town, so she must've been passable. Of course, being Madonna, she soon argued her way to the front of the stage, into the lime-light where she belonged.

We didn't meet her till later on, though - 1980. By that point she'd split with Dan Gilroy and was really struggling for money. She was in this tight little ska band, Emmerson, with an old boyfriend from Detroit - this cool black kid called Steve Bray, who later went on to co-write some of her early hits. Emmy was a fine little band - real British 2-Tone type stuff. We saw them play a couple times. Steve was there on drums and Madonna sang and played guitar. I've still got tapes of some of those early songs: 'Do You', 'Hothouse Flower' and 'Laugh To Keep From Crying', which was really more of a Pretenders kind of thing.

At that time, Madonna was so poor she was sleeping rough in this dingy place, several stories high, called The Music Building, where bands used to rehearse and record, or whatever. It was right outside there that I first laid eyes on her.

It was a cold but vivid Autumn day and the whole city had this golden hue over it. I like days like that, when everything seems so clear and crisp and bright. When you breathe out, your breath lingers in the air like mist. Anyway, I'd just not long parked my yellow cab down this side-street so I could eat my sandwich, listen to the radio and read my book (probably something like 'On The Road' or 'Dharma Bums'), when there was a tap on the window. "Hey, you awake in there?"

I glanced out the window into the evil grin of this real bad-girl bit of skirt with pale blue eyes and shoulder-length raven hair. I noticed she had a cute little beauty spot just above her lip that reminded me of that painting Hannah still has of a buxom Elizabethan courtesan.

"Why you got the door locked, pal?" she asked, pulling at the handle up back. "I want a ride." She obviously enjoyed the inuendo of this and her lips curled up at the corner as she leaned in towards me, crossing her arms so that her breasts squashed up together in such a seductive way it couldn't possibly have been accidental.

"I'm on my break," I said, biting into my sandwich.

"Do you know who I am?" she persisted. Her eyes smouldered as she stared at me. The intensity was actually a little unsettling.

"No, I can't say I do," I said, brushing breadcrumbs from my lap.

"You will," she said, reaching her arm in the window and holding it regally out before me.

I didn't know whether she expected me to shake it or kiss it. I shook it, firmly.

The girl laughed. "That's a forceful grip you've got there, Mr Cab-driver. And you look so... so... English. I'm Madonna."

"Pleased to meet you, Madonna. Now, do you mind? I'm trying to read here."

"My friends call me Em. That's short for Emmy."

I nodded. "Pleased to meet you, Madonna." I turned the page of my book and bent back the spine so it'd stay open resting against the steering wheel.

"Oh, you think you're so European, don't you? Well, I've been to Europe, pal. I was in the Patrick Hernandez Review in Paris. Ever heard of him? 'Born To Be Alive'?"

I said nothing.

She leaned in closer, so I could smell her fragrance - an arousing combination of exotic perfume and her own female scent. "Do you think I look like a ballet dancer?" she asked. "Probably not in these clothes, right? Well, I am. I'm an excellent dancer. I studied at Alvin Ailey's studio."

I was trying to ignore her but there was something about the girl's arrogance that really made my loins tingle with excitement. Hannah's got that same radiant self-confidence, which is why I fell for her so bad.

"I'm an actor too," she continued. "Ever heard of Stephen Lewicki? Well, I've got the lead part in his new film - 'A Certain Sacrifice'. It's gonna be huge."

"Good for you," I said, a little more sarcastically than I'd intended. 'Look, darling, whatever it is you're trying to do here, it isn't working. I'm not starting this cab till I've finished my sandwich and read to the end of this chapter at the very least."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see her stiffening, ready to explode.

I heard her breathe in deeply through her nose, obviously opting for diplomacy over the theatrical foul-mouthed tantrum she really wanted to lay on me. "I love dancing and acting but my band's the number one thing. Have you heard of us?"

"No. I'm sure I will, though," I mumbled.

She ignored my retort. "We're called Emmerson."

"But friends call you Emmy?"

She laughed out loud at this. "Aha! So, you were listening," she purred. "Come on, baby, just let me in will you?" She nodded down at my book. "I'm sure Jack Kerouac can wait. My appointment can't."

I sighed heavily. "Hell, just get in if it's going to shut you up for two seconds," I said, flicking open the lock at the back. I hurled the remains of my sandwich into a nearby trash bin, folded over the page in my book and stuffed it down the side of the seat.

"Can't I ride up front with you, Daddy?" she giggled, swinging a big bag up into the cab and getting in beside it.

"Don't push your luck. Where are we going?"

Madonna gave me an address in Manhattan. "My friend has a penthouse suite over-looking Central Park," she said "It's so beautiful."

I was impressed. This girl knew people with money. I wondered what she was doing living out in this neighbourhood. I started up the cab, pulling out of the side street and edging my way into the line of heavy traffic.

"Hey, who's that little cutie," she said, pointing at the photograph of Hannah I had taped to the dashboard. "Is she your girlie-girl?" she teased, tickling her finger over my earlobe.

"Cut that out," I said, brushing her hand away. "She's my wife."

"Oh, yeah," she said, staring at my wedding ring. "Hey, what's her star-sign?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Don't you even know your wife's star-sign? What sort of a husband is that?"

"Aquarius," I said.

"Really? Water-carrier? My rising sign's Aquarius. I think I'd like to meet your wife. What's her name?"

I just laughed and said nothing, watching her intently in the mirror. I'm sure if Hannah had been sitting where I was she would have done the same. This girl was fascinating.

One of my wife's favourite hobbies at the time was collecting "fascinating girls". She was going through one of her little erotic odysseys, exploring all her Sapphic desires with a succession of striking women that she picked up in various clubs around the city. Sometimes I was allowed to watch.

"What you thinking?" Madonna asked, brushing her hand over my shoulder.

I shivered, feeling that little spark of energy you sometimes get when someone touches you. She was waiting for an answer but I just smirked and shook my head.

"Oh, I can see you're the silent mysterious type," she said, rising up and pulling at her skirt, giving me a tantalising glimpse of her pale thigh. "I guess you must be a virgo - always keeping your cards close to your chest. My moon's in virgo. I like having things close to my chest too." She smirked and brushed her hand over her breasts, pulling her little black top tight over them so I could see her nipples sticking out thick and hard through the material. "So, where's your moon, Mr Cab-driver?"

I spun the wheel sharply and accelerated, overtaking another yellow cab. "In my trousers, where it belongs."

It was a terrible joke but that really cracked Madonna up for some reason. "Well, isn't that just a shame?" She sat silently watching me for a while then leaned over and pulled something out of her bag. "I feel like we're old friends now," she said, "You're almost like a brother to me, so I'm sure you won't mind if I get changed back here."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm doing a little acting job for old Mr DiPrima and he likes me to dress a certain way."

She lowered herself below the level of the window and began lifting up her tiny black top.

I coughed and looked away.

"Baby, I don't mind if you want to watch me. What's your name?"

I swallowed and glanced over at the mirror. "Joey."

'That's not very British. You should be called Jeremy or Rupert."

I shrugged my shoulders. "So, anyway, why are you getting changed there in the back of my cab? Couldn't you have done that at home?"

She shook her head. "Not everyone's as understanding of my relationship with Mr DiPrima as you are, Joey." Madonna was looking right into my eyes in the mirror. She lifted the little black top up over her head, revealing the beautiful globes of her naked breasts, the nipples jutting out long and red from her small dark areolas. She smiled, shaking her black hair over her shoulders, and striking a glamour model pose. "So, what do you think, Mr Cab-driver?"

"Uhm... they're very nice," I mumbled. I could feel my cheeks flushing.

"Nice? Nice? These are GREAT tits, Joey. Look at them!" she laughed, jiggling them for my benefit.

"Yes, you're quite right. They are incredible... uhm... breasts," I said, nodding thoughtfully. "And, if you don't put them away soon you're going to cause an accident and get us both arrested."

"Oh, you Brits. You're all so... so..." she frowned, trying to think of the appropriate word, "...STIFF. Isn't that how you'd describe yourself, Joey? Wouldn't you say you were stiff?" She pulled herself forward, leaning over into the front of the cab and gazing down at my lap, her hair tumbling over me. "Oh, my!" she exclaimed as my erection twitched in my trousers. "I think I may have done some irreparable damage to your Great British reserve." She giggled madly at this and sat back in her seat, fastening a shiny black leather bra, that accentuated her cleavage, and had crude peep-holes cut into each cup for her nipples to poke through. It looked utterly erotic on her. Madonna was a dark, decadent dream-woman straight out of your most debauched fantasy. It was obvious, from the way she flounced and flaunted her semi-nakedness right here in broad daylight, that she didn't know the meaning of the word "inhibition".

"What exactly do you do for old Mr DiPrima?" I asked.

"I act out whichever naughty little scenario he's got cooked up in that dirty old man brain of his," she said, laughing.

"Does he pay you?"

"Of course. You don't think I drive all the way out there just for the kicks do you? I mean he's sweet but I can think of more fruitful ways to spend my afternoons."

"So, you're a call-girl?"

She was slipping her skirt down over her hips. "No, Joey. You've not been listening. I'm an actress. I play a role and Mr DiPrima films me. The poor old fool thinks he's some kind of Alfred Hitchcock. It's artistic."

I smirked and she smacked the back of my head, amused despite herself.

"Well, yeah," she said, pulling the skirt off over her boots. "I'm sure he jerks off all over me as soon as the film comes back from the lab but that's his business, now, isn't it?"

"Aren't you afraid he'll sell it to some pornographer?"

"Ah, you don't know Luigi DiPrima. He's an honorable man, Joey. He wouldn't do something like that. It's not in his nature."

I pulled up at a set of traffic lights and looked back over my shoulder, instinctively glancing down at her lacy red panties. I could clearly see her thick black pubic hair through the translucent material.

Madonna was watching me. She ran a finger softly over the crotch of her panties and kind of giggle-snorted as the shock registered on my face. "And what about you, Mr Cab-driver?" she asked "Are you gonna jerk off over me too when you get home tonight?"

I could feel my cheeks flushing again. "I'm married."

"Uh-huh. I'm sure when your sweet little redhead falls asleep you'll be banging the salami into the wee small hours." She chuckled and reached into her bag, pulling out a tiny black leather miniskirt.

"No." I turned to look back at the road. The light had already changed. Some idiot behind started beeping their horn madly at me. I gave him the finger (it's only common courtesy in New York) and took off.

"Oh, sure, Joey. So, some chick climbs into your cab, flirts with you like crazy and starts flashing her tits at you and it doesn't give you the urge to spank the monkey when the lights are out and the wife's happily snoring into your armpit?"

"Hannah doesn't snore."

"Aha! So, we have a name finally. Joey and Hannah. You sound like such a lovely couple. What would Hannah think if she knew Madonna Ciccone was here in the back of your cab in a peephole bra and lace panties? Would she be jealous? Is she a fiery redhead, Joey? Would she start a vendetta against me?"

"I think she'd like to be sitting right there beside you," I said, eyeing her steadily.

"That so?" Madonna didn't flinch.

"My wife likes girls."

Her lip curled up just a little at the corner. "Really? And, are you going to tell her about me, Mr Cab-driver?"

"I may do."

"What will you tell her?" Madonna was slipping the leather miniskirt up over her legs.

"I'll tell her that you have nice breasts."

"GREAT breasts," she corrected, lifting her buttocks off the seat so she could pull the skirt up over her hips.

"I'll tell her that you have incredible breasts and an interesting dress sense," I said, cheekily.

Madonna reached into the bag and pulled out a black leather jacket, which she slipped on. She looked stunning.

I shook my head. "I think your friend is going to have a serious cardiac arrest when he sees you in that outfit."

Madonna smiled, looking kind of pleased with herself. "It has crossed my mind but I'm sure that old devil will outlive the pair of us. He's from good strong Italian stock, just like me." She began to button up the jacket. "And by the way, don't think I haven't noticed you changing the subject here, Joey. We were talking about your wife. What you gonna tell Mrs Cabdriver when she asks what we got up to here in the back seat?"

"I'm going to tell her the truth."

"Oh, really? And, what's that?"

I raised a hand, like I was testifying in court. "I'll tell her that nothing happened between us in the backseat of my cab."

Emmy seemed to pout just a little at this. "I guess not. You're such a nice English lad, Joey."

I watched her in the mirror for a moment, my heart hammering in my chest as I made my decision. I edged out of the line of traffic and pulled down into a sleazy side-street, spinning the car round and halting next a building that was obviously the back-end of some cheap and nasty restaurant. A greasy looking middle-aged chef stood smoking a cigarette in the doorway, steam billowing out around him from the bowels of the kitchen.

I turned to look at Madonna. My heart felt like it was going to batter its way right through my ribcage.

"What the hell's going on here, Joey?" she said, more bemused than pissed off.

"I'm going to tell Hannah that I asked you to sit up front with me."

"Oh, are you, now?" Emmy stared deep into my eyes with that wild look I'd get to see several times over the next couple of weeks. "And, IS that what you're asking me?"

I nodded, breathing heavily through my mouth in an attempt to steady my nerves. "Yes. Will you get in the front with me?"

"Ok." She pushed open the door and swung her legs out, pausing to frown at me. "If you drive off when I get out, I'll throw a boot right through your fucking window."

"You're such a delicate thing, aren't you?"

Madonna laughed, got out of the cab and nudged the door shut with her hip. Her soft skin glowed like gold in the Autumnal sunlight.

The chef in the kitchen doorway gave her the old up-and-down as she brushed her hands over her buttocks, smoothing the black leather over her ass. "Damn! Whatever it costs, I'll pay it," he hollered. "I'll get a loan if I hafta."

Madonna smiled sweetly and flipped him the bird as I pushed the passenger-side door open. She climbed in beside me and kissed me on the cheek. I could smell her scent up close and it was wonderful. "Let's go, Mr Cab-driver. I don't want to be too late for the old man. He worries about me."

I pulled away from the side-street and worked my way back out into the line of traffic, gazing straight ahead at the road.

Madonna brushed her lips over my cheek, breathing in my Cologne. "Well, here I am, Joey. Don't you even want to look at me?"

I turned and glanced into her pale blue eyes, then slowly followed her gaze down towards her chest. She had her arms crossed over her stomach, her hands hidden inside the jacket, surreptitiously pinching at her nipples.

"Do I frighten you?" she asked, her lips curling into a wicked smile.

I shrugged, my cheeks flaring red again.

"Oh, come on - why are you scared of a silly little thing like me?"

I laughed, feeling kind of self-conscious. She was staring hard at me, waiting for an answer. "'Cause I think you must be some kind of succubus."

She giggled at that. "Well, I'm familiar with the 'suck' part." She was tickling her fingers up over my leg. "I'll tell you who I really am, Joey. I'm Medusa. I have supernatural powers. Did you know my head can turn a man to stone?"

My stomach was tight with anticipation and dread. "Yeah, I'm sure it can."

"Would you like a demonstration? You can just sit there and watch me turn you to stone - inch by inch." Her hand was edging up over my thigh. "Oh, look - it's already happening and I haven't even started yet."