In the Red by Elena Mauli Shapiro Page A

was even a bit campy, like cross-dressing. The dancer’s false eyelashes, her completely hairless body, her costume made her hardly more real than the strange German cartoons. When the music stopped, she picked up her clothes, giving the audience a wink and a wave when the curtain closed on her. The television screens displayed more cartoons in the interlude before the next act.
    Bubblegum pop by a teenage starlet blared over the speakers when the curtain rose on two blondes in schoolgirl outfits with tartan miniskirts, white shirts tied above their bellies. These schoolgirls wore black patent leather stilettos and black shadow on their heavy-lidded eyes. They circled each other as they removed their costumes, starting with the tiny backpacks that jostled against their taut rumps. Their pigtails swayed with their gyrations. Once they were completely naked, they kissed. Irina looked around. There were more men in the audience now, including a rowdy cluster that had come in together and was occupying the entire back row.
    Then the two dancers sprung glittery, baby-blue dildos from their tiny backpacks and began shoving them inside each other. A high, lone whistle came from the back of the room. Elsewhere a man laughed. Irina took a careful sip from her chalky-tasting seltzer. When the song ended, the performers exited the stage with all their gathered props, shiny dildos bobbing jauntily in their clutches. The cartoons started up again. Elena giggled. Irina felt her warm, sweet breath against her neck when she whispered in her ear, “What would happen if we kissed like the two girls in the show right now?”
    â€œThey are already watching us,” Irina replied, the edginess in her voice making Elena look around. The two of them stuck out in the audience so that even the men who were thoroughly absorbed by the show snuck glances at them when the cartoons came back on. The place had filled up. The two girls were surrounded by alert male bodies. The air was warmer and the music louder. Irina breathed easier when only one woman came out for the next act. She danced deftly using a chair. Her flexibility was impressive. Then something unexpected happened: a man appeared onstage. He paced leisurely around the dancer, offhandedly flinging dollar bills at her at regular intervals. Each time she was showered with money, the dancer removed an item of her clothing. When she was naked, the man stopped. Everyone was paying attention. The whole place was electric with anticipation.
    â€œWill they really fuck?” Elena asked Irina with a sly look. Irina wondered at that moment if there was more inside Elena than alcohol. She was about to ask whether Vasilii or Dragos had given her a pill when the man onstage exploded out of his tear-away clothes. He took the dancer by the hair, roughly bent her over the chair, and shoved his professional-size erection into her waxed slit. He thrust in time to the throbbing music. Irina was fascinated by their unchanged facial expressions. This impersonal piston action didn’t seem possible to her—how was this sex?
    The performers continued their blank mating in various acrobatic positions designed to give the audience the best views of the entry. Irina could not take her eyes from the woman’s face. Her lips were parted, but her eyes remained as distant as those of a factory worker performing a rote task. How could she have something that size pounded into her and not make a sound? Maybe that was why the music was so loud—to cover up any sounds. Irina thought maybe she saw the woman wince.
    â€œThat girl,” Elena said.
    â€œWhat?” Irina could barely hear her over the blasting music.
    â€œThat girl,” Elena shouted over the thrumming bass. “That girl up there is Russian like me.”
    â€œHow do you know that?”
    â€œHer face. She has a Russian face.”
    How far had the dancer traveled in her lifetime? Was this possibly the least degrading