“Ladies and Gentle-Johns! Boys and girls of mostly legal age! Welcome, darlings! Welcome to…The Feather Drag Show!”

A roar of applause hit every corner of the club, crawling up the maroon-painted walls and closing beneath the dimly-lit, vintage lights until the sound encased you in all the excitement. Nearly every table and booth was occupied with patrons old and new, each one ranging from either tipsy to nearly black-out drunk as they shouted in delight and encouragement. The only thing louder than the red-faced customers is the music that started blasting from the stage as the first Drag Queen made her entrance, donning a skin-tight, black leather gown with matching elbow-length gloves that complimented her olive-toned skin, her blond hair sitting fluffed and teased so high if the lights were let down any lower, it would would take them out. Her fierce walk matched her fierce make-up, the flashing, multi-colored lights gleaming off of her highlight.

Blon Dee was a crowd favorite, but then again, every Drag Queen that made a repeat appearance tended to hype the patrons to new levels each and every time. She strutted her way across the stage to Rihanna’s “Rude Boy”, jumping right into her act as small pieces of clothing started coming off and the volume of the crowd cranked even higher.

To anyone who had never stepped foot inside, The Black Feather looked and sounded like any sleazy strip-club that husbands and boyfriends would run off to in order to avoid their families back home. It had its fair share of leering, sneering passersby who wrote it off as dirty and hyper-sexual. What the close-minded individual didn’t know is that The Black Feather isn’t actually a strip-club; it’s a burlesque performance club. A pole can be involved, but that depends on the performer and her act. More often than not, it’s all stage presence and attitude that the performers need to please the crowd and depending on the girl, very little clothes are removed.

The Black Feather isn’t a place someone goes to if they’re looking to get a face full of breasts as a thin, conventionally-beautiful girl slithers up to them on her hands and knees and nothing more. It’s for those looking for a show to enjoy, a performance put on by that conventional beauty or that thick-hipped beauty or that board-thin beauty or that 300 lb beauty or that breast-cancer survivor beauty who had to have a double mastectomy and still had rock-star confidence to reveal her body. The Black Feather was for those who could appreciate all forms of woman and all the ways she could entertain.

To hell with everyone else.

Blon Dee chose her ‘willing victim’ as she made it to the end of the catwalk, having shimmered out of her leather dress to strut around in black leather negligee. Darcy, a plump brunette of a regular who religiously attended the first Drag Shows of every month, found herself with a lap full of Drag Queen, her already red cheeks turning all the more scarlet as she threw her head back and laughed in embarrassment. This did not deter Blon Dee from continuing her performance and truth be told, Darcy wasn’t bothered in the least, the crowd all the more entertained as their shouts and encouragements increased in volume.

This is the fun that people came for, the good time and the freedom to let loose. This is what her aunt had intended for The Black Feather and Pharah felt a sense of pride to be here to witness it day by day.

“Pharbear!” Hickory-brown eyes drifted away from the stage where Blon Dee had finally returned, settling on the grinning older woman with identical brown eyes standing behind the bar, her hair draping over her shoulders in black and blond Faux Locs and her hand extended out with a credit card between her fingers. “Dinner should be ready for pick up now. Can you go get it?” Molly Grier asked of the younger girl.

Pharah smiled in return, shaking a lock of coil-tight curls out of her face and hopping off of the barstool she had been lounging in, “Don’t I always, Auntie?”

The woman clicked her tongue as her niece took the card from her, but her smile never faded and she reached out to muss the younger’s hair much to her dismay, “Appreciate it, Pharbear!”

“Stop! My hair! Help, abuse!”

Molly’s laugh mingled with the loud music blasting from the stage as Pharah swatted her hands away from her curls, “Take an Uber.”

“I’m not going to waste the money. It’s literally a three-block walk. I do this every week,” Pharah argued, slipping her aunt’s credit card into her hip purse before rounding to the back of the bar to carefully fluff and pat her coily curls back into place.

“That was before girls closer towards the Red Light District started getting attacked. At least make sure you have your pepper spray.”

Pharah reached into her purse and pulled out a small, dark purple canister, “Got it.”

“Good girl. Be safe and text me when you get there and when you’re leaving, okay? I know how long it should take you to reach The Lily Pond,” Molly instructed, smiling at a customer that came to order another drink.

“Will do, Auntie. Be back soon!”

Pharah waved as she began to weave her way through the tables of patrons towards the entrance to the burlesque club, stopping for a moment or two to greet regulars that she had known for years now. The minute she stepped outside, the booming music replaced itself with the clashing symphony of night-time traffic and the chatter of passersby; it took the girl a moment to get used to the change, her hearing a little muffled. As it started to clear, she seamlessly blended into the foot traffic, her heeled, summer sandals joining the many other pairs of open-toe shoes.

Summer had settled warm and welcomed over the city, the teen relishing in its heat that allowed for short-shorts, short dresses, crop tops and sleeveless shirts. She took full advantage of the summer vacation months, dressing as freely and sexily as she desired since she had to be more ‘modest’ during school days because dress-code. Her choice in attire tended to garner a few…looks, not all of them appreciative of her size 20 body strutting around in curve-tight jean shorts, a flowing crop top that did very little to hide her stomach and sandals that gave her legs for days. And some of them a little too appreciative of what she had to offer.

Such is the life of a confident, plus-size babe who lives above a burlesque dance bar.

Within a two block radius, she passed a number of other dance bars, regular bars, and a hidden sex shop or two, giggly couples passing beneath a neon sign into the store or an embarrassed individual with a discreet black bag tucked under their arm racing from within to dive into their car. Pharah slowed when two women, both blushing and giggling excitedly, one practically hanging off the other, exited the store while rooting through their bag of goodies, one saying to her lover how she couldn’t wait to get home and try them.

The other agreed with her instantly before stealing a kiss and off they scurried, Pharah left giggling to herself.

The final block after that, the one before The Lily Pond, gave way to…a little more of a quiet atmosphere, almost like a different world. There were more restaurants in this area than bars, a coffee shop on the next corner along with an ice cream parlor. It was amazing what only one block could lead to. Finally, the glowing green and gold sign of The Lily Pond loomed in the near distance, Pharah pulling her phone from her purse as she approached and shot a text to her aunt telling her she made it safely. Her fingers wrapped around the dark-wood handle of the door and she tugged it open, the little bell overhead ringing gently; it wasn’t one of those aggressive bells that sounds like it’s screaming into the room- SOMEONE’S HERE! This bell was gentler, as if to say- Company has arrived!

Pharah stepped into the lobby, her heels silenced by the red carpet, and approached the familiar face standing behind the host desk. The male looked up with his deep-set eyes, a rather attractive half-smile settling on his bow-shaped lips as he straightened up, his shoulders rolling back. Even in her heels, he still stood taller than her by about three inches. She stopped in front of him, offering her own little smile, the click and scrape of silverware against ceramic drifting in the background, hardly noticed.

“Ms. Hendrix.”

“Mickey.”