“Lord have mercy!”
“Hot damn!”
She caresses herself, lifting and kneading, rolling her nipples between her fingers. She stares lasciviously down at the men, running her tongue across her upper lip.
A drum roll begins. She grasps each hardened point firmly between thumb and forefinger and pulls one breast so that its nipple points at the ceiling. Its shape changes utterly as the weight redistributes. Then she drops it—it falls suddenly, almost violently. She hangs onto the nipple and lifts the other in the same upward arc. She alternates, picking up speed. Lifting, dropping, lifting, dropping—by the time the drum cuts out and the trombone kicks in, her arms move so fast they’re a blur, her flesh an undulating, pumping mass.
The men holler, screaming their approval.
“Oh yeah!”
“Gorgeous, baby! Gorgeous!”
“Praise the sweet Lord!”
Another drum roll begins. She leans forward at the waist and those glorious tits swing, so heavy, so low—a foot long, at least, wider and rounded at the ends, as though each contains a grapefruit.
She rolls her shoulders; first one, and then the other, so her breasts move in opposite directions. As the speed increases, they swing in ever-widening circles, lengthening as they gain momentum. Before long, they’re meeting in the center with an audible slap.
Jesus. There could be a riot in the tent and I wouldn’t know it. There’s not a drop of blood left in my head.
The woman straightens up and then drops into a curtsy. When she stands, she scoops a breast up to her face and slides her tongue around its nipple. Then she slurps it into her mouth. She stands there shamelessly sucking her own tit as the men wave their hats, pump their fists, and scream like animals. She drops it, gives the slick nipple a final tweak, and then blows the men a kiss. She leans down long enough to retrieve her diaphanous shawl and disappears, her arm raised so that the shawl trails behind her, a shimmering banner.
“All right then, boys,” says Cecil, clapping his hands and climbing the stairs to the stage. “Let’s have a big hand for our Barbara!”
The men cheer and whistle, clapping with hands held high.
“Yup, ain’t she something? What a lady. And it’s your lucky day, boys, because for tonight only, she’ll be accepting a limited number of gentleman callers after the show. This is a real honor, fellas. She’s a gem, our Barbara. A real gem.”
The men crowd toward the exit, slapping each other on the back, already exchanging memories.
“Did you see those titties?”
“Man, what a rack. What I wouldn’t give to play with those for a while.”
I’m glad nothing requires my intervention, because I’m trying hard to maintain my composure. This is the first time I’ve ever seen a woman naked and I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.
COLLECTION OF THE RINGLING CIRCUS MUSEUM, SARASOTA, FLORIDA
Four
I spend the next forty-five minutes standing guard outside Barbara’s dressing tent as she entertains gentleman callers. Only five are prepared to part with the requisite two dollars, and they form a surly line. The first goes in and after seven minutes of huffing and grunting emerges again, struggling with his fly. He staggers off and the next enters.
After the last of them leaves, Barbara appears in the doorway. She is nude except for an Oriental silk dressing gown she hasn’t bothered to tie. Her hair is mussed, her mouth smudged with lipstick. She holds a burning cigarette in one hand.
“That’s it, honey,” she says, waving me away. There’s whiskey on her breath and in her eyes. “No freebies tonight.”
I return to the cooch tent to stack chairs and help dismantle the stage while Cecil counts the money. At the end of it, I’m a dollar richer and stiff all over.
THE BIG TOP STILL STANDS, glowing like a ghostly coliseum and pulsing with the sound of the band. I stare at it, entranced by the sound of the audience’s reactions. They laugh, clap, and whistle. Sometimes there’s a collective intake of breath or patter of nervous shrieks. I check my pocket watch; it’s quarter to ten.
I consider trying to catch part of the show, but am afraid that if I cross the lot I’ll get shanghaied into some other task. The roustabouts, having spent much of the day sleeping in whatever corner they could find, are dismantling the great canvas city as efficiently as they put it up. Tents drop to the ground, and poles topple. Horses, wagons, and men trek across the lot, hauling everything back to the side rail.
I sink to the ground and rest my head on raised knees.
“Jacob? Is that you?”
I look up. Camel limps over, squinting. “By gum, I thought it was,” he says. “The old peepers ain’t workin’ so good no more.”