The Baron first set eyes on me during my burlesque, in which I slow-danced in a corset with a garter belt and stockings. I enjoyed swinging my hips within the tight, boned basque, its sleek red silk stretched taut. Apart from my costume, I had only a wooden chair, which awaited my arrival on the limelit stage. Leaning forward, I’d raise my knee and place my heeled sandal upon the seat, smoothing a stocking along my thigh, my red lips pouting, my eyes heavily kohled. I used my body, arching my spine so my breasts pushed up against the strapless bodice, as if at any moment, in their buoyancy, they’d spring from the fabric. There, as the music played, I’d slowly gyrate, making love to the men with my stare. Not that I could see them—they were lost in the shadows—but I could feel their desire
