Applause fills the room, and Ming shimmies her shoulders, sending her nipple tassels spinning. As the audience celebrates her mammarian prowess, she lifts her arms overhead and flexes her left pectoral. Her implant-enhanced breast jumps, the tassel spinning independently of its mate. The room overflows with gasps and appreciative whistles.

Johnny announces, “Folks, give it up for Ming DyNasty!”

Ming bows, her feathered headdress sweeping the floor, and plucks the boa from the stage. She situates it with a practiced shrug, arms outstretched, the feathers draped over her like a Christmas garland. She grins, head high, inviting the audience to drink her in.

As masterful as her peels are, this final beat is my favorite part of any number Ming performs. Stripped down, she is a lavish creature, all luxurious curves and extravagant, delicious joy. Her smile is a summons to join her in celebrating the sensory delights of life, every inch of her body’s softness a compelling case for indulgence.

With a demure step, she descends the stage. There’s an audible scraping of seats as awed diners make way for her, a Moses in pasties parting the Red Sea. I let her pass, then cut through the path she blazed to the stage.

Johnny arrives behind me and begins some filler chatter while I loosen the long hanging silks for the Twins’ aerial routine. As I work, I’m conscious that this is my staring partner’s first unobstructed view and perform the task with more emphasis on form than expedience. When I bend to retrieve Ming’s gown, I shift my hips, exaggerating the arch of my back as I rise. Imagining his gaze gives me a little charge, playful but exciting, adding a new high to a regular night at the show.

Johnny’s banter trails off, and I brace for my intro. The spotlight is warm on my back as he says, “This scantily clad spark plug behind me is our stage kitten, Kitten Caboodle!”

I saunter to Johnny with Ming’s gown and robe draped over an arm. “Johnny Ryall, you usin’ my name in vain?” I rest an elbow on his shoulder, adjusting my stance to a three-quarter turn to highlight both northerly and southerly assets.

“Just wanted to introduce you, kitty cat. Crowd, say hello to Kitten.”

The audience plays along, responding with a hearty, “Hello, Kitten!”

I twinkle my fingers at them, though I can barely make out anyone over the spotlight.

“As stage kitten,” Johnny continues, “she’ll be tending to the stripper sheddings, but that’s not the only time you’ll be seeing her. At the break, Miss Caboodle will make her rounds with oodles of goodies for you to choose from—tassels, pasties, playing cards, good stuff for young and old. Take something home for the kiddies.”