It had been two years since I had seen Danielle in person, and not from a billboard in Time Square. One day she had left me, with nothing but a hastily written note. A month had passed with no word from her when my copy of Vogue had arrived in the mail. Her succulent lips had smiled up at me from the glossy cover.
My life’s passion shifted and I became consumed with fashion. Danielle’s departure had renewed my commitment to my studies and nothing else mattered.
“Fifteen minutes girls!” The stage manager, shouted from stage right. Vivian could have been a model herself with her perfectly coifed blonde hair and smooth skin. The clipboard in her hand took the brunt of her tension with angry scribbles before she set her pencil behind her ear.
Today Danielle and I would meet again. I was her dresser, working the Versace show for school credit.
The rich textures and colors of the beautiful clothes hanging on the racks surrounding me were like an aphrodisiac. My blood was hot in my veins and picking up speed as the models shimmied into the latest looks Donatella had to offer. It would be an intense half hour.
I glanced at my watch. Late as always. There were ten minutes until curtain and Danielle had yet to arrive. My impatience was beginning to match Vivian’s.
To ease my tension I inspected my rack again. Polaroid’s of the designer’s styles were clipped to the hangers and the looks were hung in sequential order of Danielle’s appearances. Corresponding shoes were laid out in a neat row at my feet, and I had already taken a razor to their soles to give Danielle more traction on the runway. Jewelry was laid out on the table by the runway entrance, carefully guarded by Vivian’s assistant, a beautiful black gay boy with ebony skin and a penchant for glitter eye shadow.
Backstage was crowded with models in various stages of undress with the harried dressers chasing after them. Some models were completely clothed from head to toe, their make-up the perfect mask of beauty. High heeled shoes in place adding to their statuesque length of limb. The red-haired model at the rack to the left of mine paced nervously, twisting her manicured hands. I recognized her from other shows, a Nicole Kidman look-a-like and always nervous.
To the right, a striking brunette stood in nothing but trousers and smoked a cigarette. The seam down the front of the slacks was pressed to a hard crease and broke at her ankle in a flattering bend of fabric. I could see the barest quarter inch of heel beneath the hemmed cuff. Her dresser stood anxiously, clutching a poppy colored top to her chest. Whenever she offered the blouse, her model would tell her to fuck off, and then take another drag of her cigarette.
There was no smoking backstage. With all of this fabric and tight quarters this place was a severe fire hazard. That didn’t stop the models from lighting up. They lived on nicotine. I would not want to be the one to try and stop them.
Others were nude, their thin bodies twisting into the current Versace fashions; some with smiles and others with snarls. All with a sense of urgency.
“At last, she makes an entrance!” Vivian said with a disgusted shake of her head. “Think we can hold up the show for you?”
Vivian met my eyes as Danielle’s long limbs carried her across the room. They told me I’d better move my ass.
Danielle’s steps faltered. “Layla,” she whispered. A black leather jacket hung limply from her fingers. I took the soft leather and threw it under the rack. My hands went to the buttons at the top of Danielle’s shirt and I slipped them from their holes, knuckles brushing breast and stomach while she stepped out of her skirt.
I would remain calm. Professional.
I didn’t say a word, just hooked my thumbs in the strings of her thong and pulled the thin lace down her slim hips and thighs. I knelt to remove her shoes, breathing in the familiar odor of her pussy, and saw a startling new bare mound. Maintain composure.
My fingers hardly shook at all as I made quick work of her shoe buckles as she clutched my head for support.
“Traffic was a nightmare,” she said.
I stood and pulled the chartreuse top from the rack. It was lighter than air and fell around Danielle’s torso with a flutter. The deep cowl neck gave me a healthy glimpse of breast and the halter left nearly all of her back bare. I handed her the bone colored slacks threaded with gold and helped her secure the waistband at her hip.
“Five minutes, ladies!”
Danielle dashed off to the make-up tables, and I followed, strappy gold sandals in hand. The make-up artist swept over her face, blotting shine and heightening color while I sat at my ex-lover’s feet, buckling the narrow straps of her heels over instep and arch.
The stage manager shouted and Danielle shot off her seat nearly knocking me on my ass. She caught my hand with an apology and helped me to my feet. She would be the first on the runway to launch the line.
The music picked up a catwalk rhythm, the sound like a heartbeat in the dressing room.
I urged her center stage. Near the curtain entrance, Danielle crouched down so I could secure her necklace while she slipped the large gold loops through her earlobes.
She turned to face me and smoothed the fabric over her slim hips.
“Perfect,” I breathed. My throat closed up. This wasn’t going to work.
Danielle smiled down at me.
My heart beat in time with the music.
The stage manager held up ten fingers, folding one down at a time.
Danielle bent and brushed her lips against mine. “For luck.”
It was the barest of whispers.
For a moment I was transported back to the curb outside our old studio apartment in the Village. Before I had taken off for class and she made the rounds at the modeling agencies we would kiss and say…I shook my head and stepped into the background as the curtain was pulled back.
Flashbulbs salted my vision enveloping Danielle in a halo of light.
Danielle was straight and proud; her strides carrying her down the stretch of stage like she was a part of the runway. She was one with her environment. Sleek. Not like the figure model I fell in love with, but a confident face known around the world.
The next model followed and I hurried back to my rack. There were less than five minutes between changes. I took the red summer dress in my hands and fingered the thin fabric. It was as smooth as Danielle’s skin. The skirt was layers of sheer silk chiffon. When worn, the fabric would dance around her thighs, teasing the audience with the silhouette of the long legs underneath.
Danielle burst through the curtain. She hurried toward me yanking the top over her head as she went. The halter fell to the floor and I held the dress over my head for Danielle to dive into. We cursed as the layers of fabric caught in the neckline.
“My shoes,” Danielle urged, pushing me to my knees. Her pants fell on my arms while I worked the buckles free.
“Sling backs, thank God!” she whispered, kicking the slacks to the side.
I held the shoes out for her and she slipped her feet in with a twist of her ankle.
“How’s my face?” Danielle asked when I stood. She pursed her lips and closed her gold and rust dusted lids. The fake lashes were so long they left shadows on her cheeks. The make-up artist hadn’t needed to add much to her flawless skin or plump lips.
I took a tube of lipstick from my apron pocket, the same shade as her dress.
“Wait,” she said. She pushed me into the rack, the clothes a cushion between me and the wall as she kissed me hard. Lust rode my veins as the sweet taste of tongue and lip raped my senses. My knees went weak. I let her. I let her kiss me. I nearly hated her for it.
“Danielle!” was shouted from stage right.
She pulled back, took the tube from my hands and applied the lipstick in two quick strokes before running across the stage.
My heart was beating overtime. I picked up the outfit from the floor and stuffed it under the rack so others wouldn’t trip on it. Was I going to let her do this to me?
“I can’t believe she kissed you!” One of my classmates exclaimed from behind me. She was a short girl who tried to make up for her petite stature with platform heels and very tall dark hair. “She didn’t even ask if you were into girls!” Platform Girl said and threw a dress over her model’s head. The white fabric settled around the chocolate skinned calves. She pulled the belt tight at the model’s waist. The contrast of skin and fabric was stunning.
“They had a thing,” one of the other dressers called out from across the aisle. “A couple of years ago.” I couldn’t see who it was from behind her clothing rack.
A thing? Our love was now more an object than an emotion. I didn’t have time to respond because Danielle was back, shimmying her hips so the dress was a puddle at her feet.
The next outfit was an evening ensemble. Black linen tuxedo slacks. Instead of the usual shiny tuxedo seam, Versace had inserted a nude stripe of fabric than ran from hip to ankle. A sheer white ruffled front shirt with dramatic French cuffs would finish the look.
“Why did you leave?” I asked, keeping my voice level and holding the slacks for her to step into.
Danielle placed her hands on my shoulders, her small boy breasts at lip level. Her nipples were hard and butted my cheek when she twisted her hips so that I could pull the pants up her legs. My hands went to the clasp at her waist and her hand pressed my palm against her mound through the fine fabric.
“I had a flight to
“A flight to─? Oh, for fucks sake!” I slipped my fingers beneath the teeth of the zipper, cupping the smooth damp skin of her pussy. Her clit pulsed against my palm. In time with the music. In time with my heart.
She met my eyes. They dared me.
I slipped a finger in. Bit my lip. Held my breath. Twirled.
Her smile faltered. “I didn’t have the heart to tell you I was leaving.”
“Danielle!” Vivian called from center stage.
I pulled my hand free and she stepped into her black loafers, zipping her slacks as she ran toward Vivian’s voice.
Platform Girl’s eyes were wide, but they widened even further when I brought my fingers to my mouth for a taste of Danielle. Familiar. Heavy and rich like crème brulee’. God, I’d missed her. My body ached with it.
I hung up the dress. Danielle had close to ten minutes for the next change. It was the finale, and she was to wear a formal gown. It took a little more getting into. The models’ stage order was reversed, leaving Danielle to finish off the show.
Donatella had gone all out with this dress, black feathers being the prominent covering. They had been painstakingly sewn into the nude mesh of the bodice and torso of the garment. Long black feathers fanned out over the hips. The greens and blues would be picked up in the stage lights. There was also a headpiece with this ensemble. I took it from the box and fell into the wall as weight tumbled into my back.
The clothes billowed around us and Danielle pressed into me, pussy against my ass. Her hands slipped around my waist and unbuttoned my
Eyes shut tight, colorful flecks danced on my lids, in time with her fingers in my pussy. I tried to ask her to stop, tell her to dress, but instead I moaned, my hips flying with her fingers to the beat of the music.
My body turned inward, heat flushing my face and limbs as I came in a nearly painful gasp. She zipped my fly.
Danielle stepped away from me and laughed, the sexy timbre sliding along my spine. I straightened; the headpiece had been crushed between me and the wall. I cursed and she laughed again as I worked at fixing the feathers and sequins.
“We’ll finish this after,” she said, pulling the dress around her. Danielle took the headpiece from me and secured it in her hair while my trembling fingers managed to do the dozens of hooks that stretched from ass to shoulder blade. I buckled her shoes, running on auto pilot, and Danielle was gone in a swirl of taffeta.
“You guys should really get a room,” Platform girl said.
“Oh, I plan on it.”
