Then, the lights dimmed and the music began; Daddy and his orchestra started to
play the lively French can-can, revived to popularity with the 1954 French production of
a musical by that name everyone applauded. Then the backdrop drapery rolled back and
out came five beautiful can-can dancers, high-kicking in time to the music. They were
dressed in the 1890’s style with the long skirts, layers of petticoats, and black stockings
held up with visible garters. They swished their skirts while kicking and gyrating
suggestively. My escort pulled me through the assemblage of cheering party guests to
reach the area closer to the stage. I remembered reading in an art history book that the
famous painter Toulouse Lautrec had once described the dance as “La vie est belle, voila
le quadrille!” Life is beautiful; here comes the can-can!
Grinning and clapping with everyone else, I glance at Daddy and he winked at me.
He hadn’t said a word to any of us about this wonderful surprise. When I turned back to
enjoy the dancers, my breath was literally snatched from me. I felt instantly faint and my
legs threatened to buckle under me. It can’t be, I thought. This isn’t happening.
She was the middle dancer. The bodice of her tight costume revealed the
voluptuousness of her breasts. I could see hints of her bleached blonde hair under the
edges of the black wig styled in vintage fashion. It was that girl. The friend of JD. The
same girl who had assisted him in locking me in her bedroom while she performed her
real specialty. Not dancing. Not modeling. Sex acts.
I was almost blinded by the flashbacks of the most horrifying night in my life. I was
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