Chapter 4.
“Waiter, another bottle of this Mumm’s,
s’il vous plaît!” one of Stan’s boisterous dinner companions, Patrick Flanagan, shouted, holding the empty bottle up as though it were the torch held high by the Statue of Liberty that had been erected a few years ago in the harbor.
There were four of them that night at the Delmonico’s on Fifth Avenue at 26th Street-young men-about-town, stock jobbers, celebrating a profitable week on the market. Besides Patrick, a solidly built Irish lad from Hell’s Kitchen, there was the languid Georgian, Caleb Perry, and Stan’s fellow Buckeye, Henry Mueller. Between them, they had cleared over $ 1,000 and they were determined to have a good time, even if that might offend some of the more staid patrons.
Stan couldn’t help noticing the looks they were getting from some of the nearby tables, especially one where a party of five had recently been seated. Stan had watched them as they had made their way through the crowded restaurant. In the lead, immediately behind the Maître D’, had been an older gentleman, around fifty or so, he estimated, accompanied by a severe-looking woman near his age and a young man who was clearly their offspring.
It was the trailing couple, however, that had caught Stan’s eye. In the lead was a burly man, close in age to the other gentleman. He was followed by a very attractive young woman. Her hourglass figure was held in place by the corset underneath her dress, which was definitely of the latest fashion, likely another import from France, like the champagne and the Lady in the Harbor.
Stan had watched her as she had approached. She had clearly been looking at their table with evident interest. Was she the daughter of the man accompanying her? His much younger wife? Or his mistress, perhaps? It was hard to tell for certain. Regardless, she had made eye contact with Stan for a moment as she passed their table and he had felt that something has passed between them.
‘Not in your wildest dreams, Stan, my friend,’ he had thought to himself. What would a young woman of such elevated station want with a humble stockjobber and horse player such as himself? Still, here they were enjoying the very same dining establishment, where his money was as accepted as her father’s or husband’s or whatever role the man who had accompanied her fulfilled.
For, in this great city, at this time in the history of their country, young men from nowhere and nothing, like he and his companions, could make their way in the world through a combination of smarts, pluck and luck.
The world, after all was his oyster, a large plate of which the waiter deposited on their table, along with a basket for the shells and a bottle of Worcestershire sauce to accompany the salty delights, plucked that very morning from Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn.
As Stan lifted his champagne glass to respond to Caleb’s toast of “To many mo-ah such weeks!” he noticed the contingent at the adjoining table looking over with disapproval at the disruptive, ill-bred young men with whom they were sharing this well-regarded establishment. All that is, except the young woman in the party who raised her wine glass, and, or at least Stan was almost certain that she had, winked at him.
‘Oh, what I wouldn’t give to hear what they are saying,’ Stan thought. Though, truth be told, the two older men seemed to be monopolizing the conversation, while the young man and the young woman seemed rather bored.
Soon, though his attention returned to his companions and their plans for the next profitable trade they saw on the horizon. The good life in New York wasn’t cheap, Stan knew, and a constant stream of income was a necessity. They plowed their way through a fish course of broiled shad roe, a local delicacy that was available only for a few weeks in the spring as the fish made their way up the Hudson to spawn.
That was followed by steak with potatoes and spinach, and then by ice cream. Patrick extracted his gold pocket watch and glanced at it. “Gentlemen!” he announced. “We had best be on our way. The Sultan’s harem girls await!” Their raucous hoots drew censorious looks from the adjacent table, all except for the young woman who smiled indulgently.
Stan waylaid a passing waiter to request the bill. “Yessir, Mr. Goldman!” the waiter replied, more loudly than was necessary. At the sound of his name, Stan couldn’t help noticing the stares of utter disdain from the diners at the adjacent table, horrified, presumably, to be in such close proximity in a social environment with one of his ilk. All, that is, except for the young woman, who, Stan was quite sure this time, winked at him.
The check was outrageous, almost $ 40, as much as a poor immigrant laborer supporting a family would earn in a month. They paid it without blinking, their money as good with Delmonico’s management as that of the bluest of blue bloods, and strode out into the pleasant spring evening to make their way to Broadway and the burlesque show that awaited them.
***
The theater was an overdone monument to excess, with gold filigree cherubs adorning every space that wasn’t covered in red velvet brocade. Not that the audience scattered around the auditorium, mostly young men about town, most, like Stan and his colleagues going stag, some accompanied by women of somewhat dubious virtue, was deterred.
Stan chuckled to himself trying to imagine the young woman from Delmonico’s accompanying him to such a risqué performance. The very thought was ridiculous, of course.
As they took their seats in the second row, his eyes turned towards the stage, which was decked out in mock Moorish style, the wooden set painted in abstract designs of blue and white to approximate tile work. Potted palms were scattered about along with a few easy chairs decorated to look like thrones.
It wasn’t long before the music started-a clarinet, a saxophone, tambourines, a deeper-sounding hand-held drum and a violin, playing a Middle Eastern overture, or at least something that could pass as Middle Eastern in origin for this undemanding audience.
The Master of Ceremonies strode onto the stage, clad in red trousers with a sheathed dagger around his waist and a white shirt under a black embroidered vest, a red fez on his head. The music slowly wound down. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he exclaimed. “Welcome to our humble entertainment.”
“Leave your worries and troubles behind and travel with us to exotic Constantinople, where the Ottoman Sultan rules over an Empire that stretches from North Africa, through Arabia and the Levant and into the heart of Europe. For his pleasure and yours, he has assembled the most beautiful women from these many lands in his harem.”
“Normally, the women of the harem are kept cloistered, away from the sight of all but the Sultan himself, guarded by a corps of eunuchs, who are, sadly, unable to partake of their delights. But by special arrangement, we now present for your enjoyment, the finest selection of the Sultan’s Harem.”
The music struck up again as the women made their way on stage, barefoot, dressed in multicolored robes, their faces veiled. Slowly, to the sinuous sounds of the orchestra they danced, shedding their veils. They truly were a selection of beauties of all types, black, olive skinned and pale.
They were introduced one by one-Africans (though Stan suspected they were from the former Confederacy by way of Harlem), Arabian (probably from Little Italy) and Balkan (perhaps from somewhere near where his ancestors had come from by way of the Lower East Side).
They continued their arousing gyrations, shedding, one-by-one, their garments, until they were down to jewel-encrusted tops and briefs that left their midriffs bare. They preceded then to do an approximation of an Arabian belly dance. Stan and his companions stared open-mouthed at the spectacle along with every other male in the audience.
The music rose to a fever pitch as did the gyrations of the dancers. The audience was clapping in time with the music and the swaying hips of the women on the stage. Stan felt himself becoming quite aroused, and, from the way they were squirming in their seats, he suspected his companions were also.
To the disappointment of the men in the audience, the music slowed and the women wended their way off stage, their hips shaking lasciviously as they departed, to be replaced by a comedian who engaged in supposedly witty repartee with the M.C. The audience soon tired of the bad jokes. Caleb stood and shouted, “Bring the girls back!” This was seconded by Stan, Henry and Patrick, along with many of the other men in the theater.
“Very well” The M.C. announced as the joker took his leave. “We shall now continue with a performance of ‘The Dance of the Seven Veils’ from the play ‘Salomé’, the toast of the London stage last year, by the brilliant English playwright, Oscar Wilde.”
“As a special treat, we are pleased to invite selected members of the audience to participate.” One of the stagehands brought out a hat, held upside down. The M.C. reached in, extracted a piece of paper and announced, “Would the holder of ticket #1074, please come forward?”
A man sitting near the rear of the theater jumped up and practically charged up the aisle to the stage. Stan pulled his ticket out of his pocket and looked at it-#1033. The M.C. reached into the hat again and read the number slowly, “1-0-3”-Stan’s heart was beating excitedly until he heard the final digit “5”.
Caleb leaped to his feet, graciously accepting the somewhat disappointed congratulations of his comrades and made his way to stage.
The M.C. called two more numbers and the lucky winners came forward. “One more,” the M.C. said, drawing a final slip from the hat. “1-0-3-3” he read. Stan got to his feet, beaming, and joined the other winners, who were each directed to one of the throne chairs on the stage.
Once the men were seated, the music started, slow and sinuous this time. From the wings, five of the dancers, veiled now, but otherwise wearing the same skimpy costumes they had worn before, appeared. Each sensuously wended her way to one of the thrones.
Stan had one of the “Arabian” girls, while Caleb had, fortuitously or not, drawn one of the “Africans”, no doubt a migrant from his home region escaping poverty and backwardness in the big Northern city as he was, though with the additional prod of escaping the Jim Crow laws imposed in that benighted region, despite the clear verdict rendered by the war in which Stan’s father had fought.
The “Arabian” girl approached Stan, her hips swaying alluringly as she slowly drew back the first of her seven veils, waving the diaphanous material in front of him as she brought her barely clad breasts just in front of his face. Stan inhaled her musky scent, a mix between sweat and the floral essence she had dabbed liberally on her body.
“I am yours, my Arabian prince,” she cooed in Stan’s ear.
“Yesss,” he replied, barely able to speak.
She drew back slightly as she removed the second veil, then approached again. “What’s your name?” he whispered.
“I’m Yasmina,” she replied. “I would love to get to know you better after the show.” She removed the third veil.
Stan swallowed hard. Something else was quite hard as well. Yasmina noticed and ran her index finger lightly over the swelling bulge in Stan’s trousers. She removed the fourth veil.
Stan’s head was swimming. “I’m Stan,” he said. “That sounds divine.”
“Slip the M.C. a ten spot and I can help you with your little situation. Or should I say your big situation,” Yasmina said. She removed the fifth veil.
Stan nodded, unable to speak. The music was rising to a crescendo. Yasmina removed the sixth veil.
Then, her hips swaying sensuously, her breasts undulating in front of Stan’s face, she grasped the seventh and final veil, slowly lifting it and then, teasing him, lowering it again. She repeated this performance a few times, before finally tearing it off, plunking herself on Stan’s lap so that his erection was pressed against her butt and kissed him hard on the mouth.
At that moment, the curtain descended. Stan could hear the audience applauding. He saw that the other four men who had been installed in the thrones on stage each had a beauty perched on their lap, as Yasmina was on his.
Yasmina stood and took his hand. “Come, my Prince,” she beckoned. Stan rose and followed her. Standing by the entrance to the back stage area was the M.C. with his hand out.
Stan dug into his pocket, feeling his erection as he searched for his bankroll. He peeled off two five dollar bills and handed them to the man, then followed the girl to a tiny dressing room with barely enough room for the two of them, something which Stan didn’t mind at all.
Yasmina knelt in front of him and slowly lowered his trousers. He was so hard it was almost painful. “My Prince is pleased with his slave girl, I see,” she purred. Then she stuck the tip of her tongue out and ever so delicately licked the tip of Stan’s engorged penis.
He moaned with delight. She opened her mouth and let the head slide inside, her tongue caressing the underside. Stan sighed contentedly.
Yasmina continued her ministrations. “Oh,” Stan said, his excitement rising to a fever pitch. “Please don’t stop.” Yasmina mumbled something that sounded like “I won’t”.
Then, just as Stan felt his orgasm was imminent, there was a loud knocking at the door. “Cops!” one of the stagehands shouted.
Yasmina pulled back, letting Stan’s aching organ fall from her delectable mouth. “You have to go, now!” she ordered. “Quick!”
With great reluctance he pulled up his pants.
“Damn that Comstock!” he muttered. Stan knew of the machinations of Anthony Comstock, founder and secretary of the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice. The political pressure of Comstock and his supporters prodded the police to periodically raid establishments such as the one in which Stan found himself at present, looking for prostitution, gambling and other “immoral activities”.
Of course, wise owners of such establishments made provision in the form of payments to police inspectors to receive a decent forewarning of any impending raid, such that by the time the officers of the law arrived everything was quite innocent. Stan presumed that the owner of this theater was such a wise business person.
Severely disappointed, but not wanting to risk the consequences of being caught in any illicit activity, he gave Yasmina a quick kiss. She was slipping on a very prim and proper dress as Stan turned to follow the stagehand to a door that led to an alley which ran behind the theater where the other men who had been similarly enjoying themselves, or so Stan presumed, were standing looking just as frustrated and peeved as Stan felt.
“Damn that Comstock!” one of them muttered.
“Damn him to hell!” Caleb replied. They walked around the side of the building to the front and found Patrick and Henry among the crowd.
“You two lucky dogs!” Henry said.
“Why did I let you have the ticket ahead of me?” Patrick asked Stan.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t so lucky, Pat,” Stan replied. “I was very rudely interrupted at, shall we say, the worst possible moment.”
Patrick and Henry turned to look at Caleb. “Ah’m afraid ah was as well,” Caleb said.
They all broke down laughing. What else could one do, after all? Then, they walked off into the night, each to his lonely abode.
The next day Stan searched the papers in for news of the raid. But there was none. Perhaps there had been no raid and it had all been a grift to separate the customers from their money. Perhaps there had indeed been one, but the authorities, embarrassed to have raided a theater where nothing illicit was going on, had been too embarrassed to publicize it.
Either way, Stan had taken care of his raging erection back in his apartment, reading a few pages of his smuggled copy of
Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure and imagining himself enacting one of the salacious scenes with the woman from the restaurant.
