Pussy Farting Genevieve

Some things in life simply are so intimate that few of us are comfortable discussing such things; bodily functions in particular. Pussy farts chief among those taboo subjects. I clearly remember the first time I heard the term 'pussy fart.' I was a young exotic dancer, commonly called a stripper, but I prefer the old fashioned term of burlesque performer. The club where I worked employed a truly unique former dancer named Genevieve. She had been a headliner and worked with icons like Gypsy Rose Lee and Blaze Starr. But in her early sixties then, she had surpassed even the terms plus size and BBW. She wore huge, brightly colored, floral tents that she called dresses. Her make-up was equally outrageous with bright red lipstick and pink blush that combined with her clothes made her appear almost clownish.

Her role in the club was multi-faceted. First of all, as one of the dozens of topless bars that served the primarily military clientele, the club tried to distinguish itself from the others as more than strictly a strip joint. It billed itself as the last bastion of burlesque. Genevieve with her illustrious history was central to that strategy. Where the other strip clubs were simply about young women with firm bodies gyrating on stage and taking their clothes off as quickly as possible, our club was about those by-gone days of grandeur. At other clubs the dancer were on stage for less than ten minutes; two songs. The first song was fast paced thrusts and kicks culminating with the removal of everything above the waist. The second song slowed a bit until the clothing below joined the others in a pile by the stage door. But not for us, the minimum was five songs or over fifteen minutes. And it was about telling a story of teasing; just as Genevieve and those other greats of burlesque once had on stages in New Orleans, Las Vegas and across the country.

Another of her roles was as costume designer and choreographer. I know those words elicit images of Broadway productions more than dark, smoke-filled rooms that smelled of whiskey and sex. But Genevieve deserved those titles. Of course, Lucy Lust, who was the headliner for almost a decade, had the most elaborate costumes and dance routines. My favorite was the Bond girl with its gold lame trench coat and fedora. Genevieve had even painted a toy gun gold to match the costume. Each of Lucy's moves were carefully executed to tell a story; an erotic one. My own costumes and routines included a nurse, cheerleader, carnie girl and the ever popular sailor. And all of it was thanks to the knowledge and imagination of one person: Genevieve.

Equally important was Genevieve's role as backstage security guard, den mother and peace maker. As you can imagine, a dozen beautiful young women with thousands of dollars worth of wardrobe, make-up, cash and unfortunately even drugs require constant supervision. Each evening before most of us were even awake, Genevieve took up her station in the corner. She had her magic box that always included bandages for blisters, aspirins for headaches brought on my bright lights and too loud music and of course, condoms in those early days of HIV. It may sound odd, but I always thought that we were the children that Genevieve had never managed to have.

I remember well the night less than a month after I began my dancing career at the club when I owed Genevieve a huge debt for saving my ass from a huge whipping as they say. It began innocently enough. Lucy Lust was doing my favorite: the Bond Girl. I was sitting with her best friend Cowgirl Cate and two young sailors as she pranced across the stage with the spotlight flowing against her creamy skin as each piece of golden attire dropped to the stage. I admit I was and still am a bit in awe of her skill and talent. She was truly a showman.

Towards the end of routine, she would turn her back to the audience and shake her generous bottom until it rolled gently as if slapped by some invisible lover. I turned to the young man next to me and commented that I wished I could do that, but that my ass was too firm. Almost before I could finish Cowgirl Cate grabbed my hand and making excuses to the young men that we needed to get ready to go on stage; she drug me backstage. The moment the doors closed she began to scream at me that we did not talk about other dancers like that. I eventually figured out that she thought I had been commenting about Lucy's breast; insinuating that they were firm because she had had augmentation. Of course, she had; but that was beside the point.

I tried to explain but Cowgirl was so worked up that she lunged towards me. I was extremely thankful for Genevieve's bulk that suddenly came between us. She calmed Cate down and shooed her onto the stage. She then turned to me and listened as my story and tears poured forth. She then fixed my make-up that was running down my face and calmed my fears. When Cate exited the stage, she gave me a stony stare as I took her place. But by the time my set was finished and I slipped back stage, Cate and Lucy greeted me with hugs and apologies. Genevieve had explained the whole mess and because of who she was they listened to her as they never would have to me. From that night on, the two senior dancers took me under their wings as a protégé if you will.

But the role for which I most fondly remember Genevieve was as comedian and storyteller. If a girl was occupied with a customer and slow to get ready, Genevieve would take to the stage and regal the audience with stories of her glory days in New Orleans. The older, officers that frequented the club when they could manage to sneak away from wives and duties would nod their heads and get far off looks when she told these stories of by-gone days of glamour and teasing. But after almost four decades in sex clubs, Genevieve also had a routine that included some of the dirtiest jokes and a vocabulary that would make the most seasoned sailor blush.

She was particularly adapted at crowd control. As you can imagine, the club could get quite rowdy with young sailors, who had recently returned from weeks or months at sea, particularly given that we girls were more about the art of tease than please. I cannot help but smile when I remember Genevieve taking to the stage to calm the boys as she called it. She would approach the ring leader, gently lifting her flowing, floral tent until dimpled, cellulite thighs glared white in the bright lights. In a loud booming voice, she would proclaim, 'If you don't settle down, I'll pussy fart you off your chair.' Who could possibly forget such a threat?