My bra pops off
People often come up to me, usually about 30 seconds before I am about to perform, and ask me whether I am afraid my bra might pop off during performance. I shrug my shoulders, nah, and add that thought to the those buzzing about my head behind my glorious smile. In fact it has happened. But always, touch wood, in the toilets (the glamorous green room of the belly dancer) before performance. The first time was a front fastening bra that popped just as the intro to Kiss kiss had begun as a result of me taking a deep breath. I hid behind the swing door and safety-pinned myself to oblivion.
The second time was years later behind the door of the more authentically cedar-wooded cubicle in a plush cous cous restaurant. This time a dress maker had over filled my cups and the fastener didn't have a chance. Again safety pins saved the day, as did ripping out the excessive padding with gusto.
Last night, though, was just plain complacent. There tends to be a fair amount of waiting around at events, especially those arranged though entertainment agencies. I had helpfully been booked out to dance "1 maybe 2 sets" starting "between 8.30 and 9.30pm". We were putty in the client's hands.
We arrived at the venue 8pm, my friend and belly dance side-kick and I, and were escorted via a backroom lift and darkened corridor into a candle lit private room (no toilets tonight for us superior belly dancers). It was a little cold so we sat down to chat while helpful Richard, the deferent Maitre D', placed an ancient electric heater in front of us. "I could get used to this" were my friends words as the heater exploded with a bang, sending ceramic shards in our direction. We jumped up and put our coats on, slumping down into the right angled leather seats until 10 mins to etp (estimated time of performance), then we bustled around busily; retreating behind the table to slink into our blue lycra costumes, brushing our hair and shimmying into the mirror.
Still no sign of the mild mannered maitre d' I initiated the sport of boob twitching. This has been something that has mildly urked me in the past, there is one dancer who has been around since the year dot who can flick her boobs. Now this is something I feel I can rise above with my superior technique, however, it is still somewhat of a mystery as to how it is done. When asked how she does it she always replies - I've been practising for years - while putting on her mascara from her Louis Vuitton make up bag. Boob twitching, it would seem, is big business.
I gave it a few attempts, armpit clenching, tummy tightening and then finally it was the chest puffing that did it. My bra loosened itself to an almost comfortable diameter, and then hung on tantalizingly by one string. Oops. I looked at my friend - "oh my gosh, how did you do that? did you expand your boobs?" "Erm no. Safety pin?" Hairclip, check, obscure Moroccan coins, check, random piece of wire, check, but no safety pin. Shit. "I'll go and ask RIchard." she said. After a number of minutes efficiently rooting around in the first aid box and no doubt filling glasses of wine on his way back, our maitre d' returned "I have 2 sizes" he boasted modestly (this is a particular talent). I had been saved, darn it.
Now its not that I don't like performing, its just that it so hard to prove who you are when you are playing such a stereotypical role of cheap-bordering-on-prostitute dancing girl. The idea of this would have put me off the whole thing originally had not my mother wisely counselled me that who you are comes through into what you do. This was enough to set me off swinging my hips, waving my arms and smiling at strange men, people's dads and reticent blond women. Yet I would say the 'comes through' thing applies to about 10% of the clients, these are the people that see your intelligence, pick out your dry humour or just the enjoy magic of basking in someone elses self expression and joy. This may be an underestimation, but it is my impression to everyone else (women included), I am just an arse an boobs in a belly dance costume.
Tonight we were lucky, I began with a choreography and the clients pushed their seats back from the table to watch it intently, hands in laps, smiling admiringly and even spontaneously applauding at the end.
I had been asked to pick on certain suited men to come and dance, it is always a laugh watching your boss debase himself by dancing enthusiatically with a belly dancer I'm sure and bosses have the added humourous benefit of illusory confidence by dint of their position at the top of the heap. But after these men had hand jived and twisted their way through a song we picked ladies, and it was one of these women who commented when shown how to do a move "I see, its more about not doing than doing, isn't it". I agreed instantly with her comment and philosophy, the isolation of the dance into the arms or the hips while controlling the rest of the body is key. But so is not trying too hard, and trusting what you are doing will be enough. It was a zen evening. We had effortlessly elicited respect, danced with the big guys and been requested to do an encore.
"I quite enjoyed that" said my friend, satisfied, as we drank water from brandy glasses she had found in our private room. "Yes" I said surprised, "the beauty is every gig is different".
The second time was years later behind the door of the more authentically cedar-wooded cubicle in a plush cous cous restaurant. This time a dress maker had over filled my cups and the fastener didn't have a chance. Again safety pins saved the day, as did ripping out the excessive padding with gusto.
Last night, though, was just plain complacent. There tends to be a fair amount of waiting around at events, especially those arranged though entertainment agencies. I had helpfully been booked out to dance "1 maybe 2 sets" starting "between 8.30 and 9.30pm". We were putty in the client's hands.
We arrived at the venue 8pm, my friend and belly dance side-kick and I, and were escorted via a backroom lift and darkened corridor into a candle lit private room (no toilets tonight for us superior belly dancers). It was a little cold so we sat down to chat while helpful Richard, the deferent Maitre D', placed an ancient electric heater in front of us. "I could get used to this" were my friends words as the heater exploded with a bang, sending ceramic shards in our direction. We jumped up and put our coats on, slumping down into the right angled leather seats until 10 mins to etp (estimated time of performance), then we bustled around busily; retreating behind the table to slink into our blue lycra costumes, brushing our hair and shimmying into the mirror.
Still no sign of the mild mannered maitre d' I initiated the sport of boob twitching. This has been something that has mildly urked me in the past, there is one dancer who has been around since the year dot who can flick her boobs. Now this is something I feel I can rise above with my superior technique, however, it is still somewhat of a mystery as to how it is done. When asked how she does it she always replies - I've been practising for years - while putting on her mascara from her Louis Vuitton make up bag. Boob twitching, it would seem, is big business.
I gave it a few attempts, armpit clenching, tummy tightening and then finally it was the chest puffing that did it. My bra loosened itself to an almost comfortable diameter, and then hung on tantalizingly by one string. Oops. I looked at my friend - "oh my gosh, how did you do that? did you expand your boobs?" "Erm no. Safety pin?" Hairclip, check, obscure Moroccan coins, check, random piece of wire, check, but no safety pin. Shit. "I'll go and ask RIchard." she said. After a number of minutes efficiently rooting around in the first aid box and no doubt filling glasses of wine on his way back, our maitre d' returned "I have 2 sizes" he boasted modestly (this is a particular talent). I had been saved, darn it.
Now its not that I don't like performing, its just that it so hard to prove who you are when you are playing such a stereotypical role of cheap-bordering-on-prostitute dancing girl. The idea of this would have put me off the whole thing originally had not my mother wisely counselled me that who you are comes through into what you do. This was enough to set me off swinging my hips, waving my arms and smiling at strange men, people's dads and reticent blond women. Yet I would say the 'comes through' thing applies to about 10% of the clients, these are the people that see your intelligence, pick out your dry humour or just the enjoy magic of basking in someone elses self expression and joy. This may be an underestimation, but it is my impression to everyone else (women included), I am just an arse an boobs in a belly dance costume.
Tonight we were lucky, I began with a choreography and the clients pushed their seats back from the table to watch it intently, hands in laps, smiling admiringly and even spontaneously applauding at the end.
I had been asked to pick on certain suited men to come and dance, it is always a laugh watching your boss debase himself by dancing enthusiatically with a belly dancer I'm sure and bosses have the added humourous benefit of illusory confidence by dint of their position at the top of the heap. But after these men had hand jived and twisted their way through a song we picked ladies, and it was one of these women who commented when shown how to do a move "I see, its more about not doing than doing, isn't it". I agreed instantly with her comment and philosophy, the isolation of the dance into the arms or the hips while controlling the rest of the body is key. But so is not trying too hard, and trusting what you are doing will be enough. It was a zen evening. We had effortlessly elicited respect, danced with the big guys and been requested to do an encore.
"I quite enjoyed that" said my friend, satisfied, as we drank water from brandy glasses she had found in our private room. "Yes" I said surprised, "the beauty is every gig is different".
posted by Accidental Belly Dancer at 8:26 pm
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