“One Night Only”
A Michael Jackson Erotica By:
MJsLoveSlave
(Sequel to “The Exhibition”)
Kennedy, California
Summer, 1993
“…Darling…?”
At the sound of the tender, high-pitched voice calling me by one of my many pet names, I smiled, but remained silent, continuing to toss the hearts of romaine with parmesan shavings and garlicky croutons.
Reaching for the bottle of dressing, and opening it, I watched as a slim figure appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, in the rear of the spacious bungalow we called home.
Michael Jackson was so handsome, in such a simple, clean and unobtrusive manner. He was the kind of man who didn’t have to make an effort to be sexy or alluring. It just sort of happened, and came to him with the same ease as breathing.
He leaned against the doorframe a long moment, observing me, as I continued to construct the salad, and I couldn’t help looking back at him.
His sleek form draped in a bright red oxford and undershirt, tight black denim trousers and boots, despite the boiling heat of June.
His ebony mane, straightened and slicked back into a ponytail, had been concealed underneath a black felt fedora.
Approaching me, Michael was pulling off his Wayfarer shades and dark eyes, lined in kohl were studying me.
“Are you very busy?” He questioned, reaching the opposite side of the tiled island and setting his sunglasses down.
“No…I’m almost done with lunch.” I indicated a platter of still smoking shrimp kebabs. “Will you place those on the table on patio, for me please?”
“Yes, Dear.” The platter, along with Michael, moved through the open French doors and out onto the marbled patio, setting a few hundred yards away from our sparkling, liver-shaped swimming pool.
A few yards beyond that, was the oversized habitat for the only other thing in the world Michael Jackson loved, besides me: his pet, a black panther, named Midnight.
Midnight was calmly enjoying her lunch too, gnawing away at a bloody, raw beefsteak.
Finishing the salad with a dash of pepper, I joined Michael outside, where he was pouring up cold glasses of punch for us.
“I made Caesar, just how you like it.” I announced triumphantly. “Drowning in dressing!”
I started to laugh, but stopped, when I noticed the serious, troubled expression on my lover’s taut, smooth face.
“What’s wrong?”
Michael took his time to chew on a crustacean thoughtfully, as I doled out salad onto plates, before he answered me,
“We’ve had a very pleasant six months, haven’t we?” He questioned and my heart ached, immediately worried he wanted to break up with me.
“Yes…” I hardly heard myself and barely tasted my greens.
“A lot has happened since I met you after my show…that very cold evening in New York state. Where was it--Clinton, New York?” Michael was rubbing after his clefted chin.
“Yes…”
“It all happened so quickly. I…I met you after my last engagement at that theatre and the next thing I knew you were here with me. I’ve kept you here, lived with you, loved you every second…” Another shrimp went into his plump, pink mouth.
“I’ve taken care of you. Given you a home, saw to it that you were transferred you from Rhymer’s, to UCLA to continue your studies in dance, and even gave you that lovely little white Jag parked out front to go around in…” Michael’s large hands folded on the glass tabletop and his eyes dropped to them.
“I’ve provided you with everything a young woman needs…home, schooling, loving and passion…and with the exception of the last two, everything, unfortunately, does cost money…”
I could feel my brows furrowing as I was trying to make sense of what he was saying to me.
Michael exhaled loudly, and glanced at me.
“I haven’t worked for six months, Darling…but I have to work again. I have to go do some shows, to keep you…keep us…living as comfortably as we are now.”
“Oh…” I finally understood what he meant and it was my turn to divert my gaze.
“I know you realize what I do, once I’m onstage.” Michael spoke quietly, his voice barely breaking a whisper. “What I do with my body and to my body in front of a crowd. How I touch myself--and call it performance art.”
Solemnly I nodded.
“Six months ago, I was a single man, but now…I have you. I’m deeply in love with you. And I need to know it’s alright, for me t go back onstage and do what I did before--”
“Masturbate?” I said bluntly, and Michael visibly recoiled at the word.
“Well, yeah, I suppose if you want to call a spade a spade, then yeah.” Michael concurred, removing his hat and scratching near his temple.
“You see, Sweetness, I got a call from my agent this morning--that’s why I left after breakfast--about doing some shows up the state in a place called Kennedy. It’s a few hours away, in Northern California. It would only be a two week engagement…”
His hand reached across the table and gripped mine warmly.
“But at the end of it, we’d be able to go on for an entire year without me having to work again. We could do all the things we talked of. You graduating, then us going on vacation to Europe--marrying--”
I pulled my hand away.
“Have you thought about what I asked you to change about your act?” I inquired and watched as Michael’s fair cheeks grew first pink, then a violent scarlet.
“Yes, I mentioned it in the meeting I had with the promoters today--”
“And what was the general consensus?”
“They liked the idea but--”
“Well, it’s settled. When do we leave for…Kennedy, you said?”
“Tomorrow afternoon, but Honey!”
My hand was grasped again.
“Are you absolutely certain you’re fine with this?”
I squeezed his hand in mine.
“I knew what I was getting into when I fell in with you, Michael. I knew what you were about and what you did. I was a paying patron, wasn’t I?”
“But this is different!” He insisted as I stood, my plate barely touched.
Tossing my hair I scowled at him.
“I don’t see how. It’s exactly the same. That’s how I view it, and you should too: exactly the same.”
“But--”
I placed a finger to his lips. “Eat your lunch. I’m going to go start packing. Eat, you need your strength, Dear.”
“Oh shit…”
I heard Michael mumble as I walked away.
But I knew I was right. I knew I was.
The situation was the very same as it had always been.
He would see.
He would have to.
Eventually.
* * *
By the time Michael and I reached the small, somewhat rural enclave that was Kennedy, California, all fourteen of his shows had sold out, in less than an hour, setting an unprecedented record for the town.
That was over a hundred thousand tickets for the two week engagement, and supplied more than enough funds to last us into the next year, as Michael had predicted.
He had been booked at the Cary Grant Memorial Arena, a cozy, intimate theatre seating about seventy-five hundred people at full capacity.
From our hotel in town, Michael had departed several hours earlier than I did, to ensure the stage specs and all of his props were up to his standards.
By the time I arrived, dusk was starting to set, an a line, exclusively of overheated females, stretched on for six blocks and was three deep, waiting to get in the door.
They always amused me, these women.
I knew before the evening was over, most of them would have undressed in the aisles, doing things as lewd and lascivious to their bodies as what Michael did onstage.
As I disbanded from my car, and started in, by passing the line, that thought wasin my head. How I had first gotten Michael’s attention to start with.
I had attended all three of his shows in New York, but had never gone down the rabbit hole, so to speak, as the other women watching had.
While most rolled on the floor, fingers jammed into themselves, gasping and choking after Michael Jackson, I did nothing of the sort.
Oh yes, I was warmed and aroused by his performance, anyone with good sense would be, but it just wasn’t in me to get undressed in front of a complete stranger. A room of strangers.
And that was what had caught Michael’s attention. What made him have me summoned to his dressing room after the final curtain call.
I had met him--he didn’t speak a word to me the night we met. He merely grabbed me, hugged me, kissed me, and eventually made love to me in his dressing room.
Sometime later, I awoke being driven through a different state en route to the bungalow in California.
We had been taken with each other instantly, and while never spoken, it was understood mutually that I was to stay in California, and uprooted my life rather abruptly to be with him.
And I had never been happier.
All we needed was one another. I completed Michael and he completed me.
Inside the annals of the Arena, I navigated the corridors until I located Michael’s dressing room.
It was a simple, unadorned cube in beige.
Michael’s dressing table was strewn with his cosmetics, a photograph of me taped to the corner of the mirror.
The scent of his heady, heavy musk-based cologne clung to the air.
Off to the side, the wooden door to the bathroom was shut, a faint tinkling sound greeting my ears as everything else was silence.
(Michael always did get the nervous piddles before a performance.)
As the tinkling continued, I approached the mirror.
I felt I looked pretty damn good.
Michael had given me a certain guideline about my dress and makeup for the show, which I had adhered to, with a bit a whining and complaining.
He’d wanted me to have a vamp-like appearance, wearing a simple, black satin spaghetti strapped mini dress, that clung to my every curve. My hair had been straightened, but volumized, like Cindy Crawford in that soda commercial, lending a bombshell vibe.
My make up was dark and smoldering, but I had held off on my lipstick. Unable to decide between a true, vibrant matte red and darker, brown-infused incantation, I had left my lips bare, pending Michael’s decision.
Behind the door, the toilet flushed loudly, and opened.
Through the door, Michael Jackson emerged and I staggered a moment, taking in his majesty.
His hair was slicked back into that sleek ponytail, accentuating all of his enviable features, highlighted by the skilled use of pancake foundation, kohl liner, and clear gloss.
A black silk oxford, loosened midway down, exposing his smooth, tender throat and a peek of his chest, had been tucked into rather extravagant trousers.
At my suggestion, Michael had left his usual black trousers at home, in favor of a pair that were panels of black, crimson and lemon yellow, over which, crystal and sequined versions of his face had been applied.
He had the look of a walking Warhol painting on his ass.
A thin crystal belt was slung about trim him and the whole of him glittered as he approached me.
Trained, eyes scanning me.
“You look beautiful, Darling…” He commented, leaning to smooch my rouged cheek. “…but your lips…”
Instantly, I produced the two tubes from my small clutch,
“Cherry Red or Rum Raisin?” I asked, displaying the two shades and silently, Michael selected Rum Raisin, the darker of the two.
The tube was opened, and patiently, he began to slick the color onto my lips.
“You look so good to me…” Michael murmured, continuing to apply the lipstick. “…you know I’ll be thinking of you as I perform…”
“You had better!” I warned and we both laughed.
Suddenly, I was embraced tightly, and had to suck in my lips to avoid staining his shirt.
“I…I couldn’t have gone out there tonight, if you hadn’t wanted me to do this anymore. I couldn’t have done it without your blessing--thank you…”
Softly, his lips pressed my forehead.
“You’re welcome, Baby--”
“Five minutes to curtain, Mr. Jackson!”
From out in the hall, came the warning cry of the stage manager.
“Gosh…” Michael exhaled loudly and worriedly kissed my cheek again.
“It’s show time!”
His hand was clammy as it gripped mine, but I forced myself to put on a brave face for him.
Over the time I had known him, despite how raunchy and wild his shows were, he truly was a soft, reserved, and modest man. He only did this sort of work to live easily and keep himself supported, when needed.
He sacrificed himself each time he went onstage and the footlights hit him.
He was no longer his own.
He belonged to the public.
And I respected him greatly for it.
It was a short, tense walk to stage right, where I was left, sitting on a small wooden chair to observe from the wings.
The curtains had been drawn, but in front of them, I could heard the thunderous roar, of mixed, feminine voices, doing everything from shrilly shrieking, to chanting his name, over and over again.
A ball formed in my throat, as slowly, behind the drawn velvet curtains, Michael walked out to center stage, where his three platters were on a rolling buffet.
Raising the lids he checked them carefully, and I saw him switch the order of two of them.
Everything had to be just so…
Michael gave a glance in my direction, to which I responded with an assuring nod, and briefly, he smiled at me.
Then he took his stance, feel slightly apart, hands clutched behind him.
His head lowered and one of the hands wiggled, indicating that he was…ready.
And overhead, the lights began to dim, throwing everything into a stern, strict blackness.
The screams increased.
“Michael! Michael! Michael!”
“I love you, Michael!
“AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
“Yes! Yes! Mike! Yes!”
Above me, I heard the click-clack, click-clack of the curtains beginning to part.
A hush fell upon the room.
I could hear my heart in my ears, thud, thud, thudding away.
And then, through the darkness, a slice of bright, white light cut, illuminating the sparkling figure of Michael Jackson onstage.
Something strange happened.
From where I sat, I could see the crowd, held back behind a metal barricade to protect Michael from the delirious mass on its feet and standing on chairs, wailing and waving and reaching for a grasp of him. (Done in vain, as he was a good fifty feet back away from the barrier.)
There was the mass, the writhing, moving thong, mouths opened, teeth bared, eyes bulging and oddly, enough, I didn’t hear anything.
Not a single sound they made. Across the stage and hidden in the wings opposite me, I could see a man fiddling with the large console that provided the classical music Michael usually performed to.
I glanced at my man as a single, pure, white spotlight, sliced through the darkness and illuminated him, glittering in the elaborate trousers.
He was in motion, starting to remove the lid from the first platter.
The act was commencing, the music had to be playing!
Why couldn’t I hear it?
Had I been struck deaf?
Was I so focused on Michael, that I had unconsciously blocked out everything else?
I didn’t know.
Michael lifted, a thick, deep yellow chunk of pineapple from the and I could see the juices dripping from it and running down his long hand.
As he had before, half a year ago, he proceeded to nibble on it, in a frank, obscene manner, his tongue flicking over it, before placing it completely in his mouth and chewing.
My heartbeat was all I heard, pulsing and pounding through my head.
Michael ate four pieces of pineapple, taking his time, after each bit, to lick the sticky juices from his fingertips, and even threw a spare chunk to the crowd, causing an eleven-tramp pileup that security had to break up.
The second platter was uncovered, revealing, ripe, blood-red strawberries.
I watched him devour seven of the berries, leaving only the stems behind.
Several more remained, which his gathered in his hand, and pitched into the air, causing many more scuffles and brawls among the audience.
Security would have to be paid overtime, for all of the trouble being caused opening night, and having to eject so many rowdy patrons.
As Michael lifted the lid from the remaining platter, I was on my feet, hands clutched to my rapidly heaving bosom.
On the platter, surrounded by cherries on the stem, was a small bowl of whipped cream.
He ate a cherry, spitting the pit to the throng, five more women going bye-bye as a result.
My heart hurt it was slamming against my rib cage with such force, as Michael dipped a fingertip into the sweetened topping.
He started to his mouth with it--security having to jump the barricade to rescue a spectator who’d fainted and keep her from being trampled to death--and stopped.
Twirling his finger in quite a seductive manner, staring at it, his inky, arched brows raising and falling as he seemed entranced by his own digit, he suddenly stood upright, his head whipping to the side, ponytail swaying.
The finger was outstretched, and he beckoned me.
Just like my lover, my spine stiffened, and before was truly aware of it, my legs were carrying me forward and out onstage, to him.
I was later told that the crowd had grown quiet at my entrance, seemingly puzzled and bewildered as to why I was up there with Michael, whom, until that very instance, had always performed solo.
The audience didn’t exist to me.
All I saw out there, with the white light half-way blinding me, was Michael.
His sweet, pale face, the devil in his dark eyes as he extended his finger to me.
Taking his hand in both of mine, I carefully guided the finger into my mouth, sucking lightly on it, and tasted the sweetness of the cream.
Eyes roving up and down me in such a scant piece of cloth, Michael spoke his first line of the night, amplified by a hidden microphone.
To this day, I never knew where he wore that thing!
“My…but you like swallowing cream, don’t you?”
Still sucking on his finger, I bobbed my head, my own brows going up.
“Do you want more, you little vixen?”
Again, another nod, just as we had practiced for weeks and weeks.
This silly little banter that was but the precursor of the main event.
I was given another fingerful, and noticed Michael’s eyes weren’t on my face but on the cleavage, peeking from the top of my dress.
I don’t know if anyone else heard it, but his breathing had become labored, that faint redness creeping up from his chest and taking over his face.
He was aroused…
Gently, hands on my shoulders turned me to face from him.
I stared ahead blankly at the spot just out of sight, from whence I had come.
The vacant chair.
There was shifting, and the sounds of fabric and his metallic belt hitting the stage floor.
He was undressing. I knew that sound anywhere; Michael was taking his clothes off, getting to the meat of the perverse act.
Again, his hands were on my shoulders.
Soft, warm, and trembling with mildest bit of apprehension.
Pushing the thin straps of my dress aside, and causing it to fall to the stage with a sigh around my ankles.
Leaving me as naked as he.
In front of over seven thousand people.
“Such a lovely young woman…” He purred, creeping up behind me, until the bare, scorching flesh of our bodies touched.
“Oh!” A startled gasp escaped me prematurely, as I felt the stiffened, hardened, and lengthened girth that was Michael’s erect manhood.
“So sweet, as to give me your body, mind and soul…”
He was speaking more for the benefit of enthusing his crowd than actually as an effort to turn me on, per se.
But I was warming to him anyway.
He was my Michael, my man. Anytime I was near him…I wanted him.
To feel his touch, smell his manliness, gaze into his deep eyes that could reach the depths of my soul.
Deftly, with the precision of a dancer, Michael stepped around to face me.
Completely devoid of clothing, the only hint of a covering to him, other than milky pale, luminescent flesh, was the shadow of blackness surrounding his pubis, the meticulously, trimmed hair, and for show, that was sparkling with silver glitter.
That long, engorged mass of flesh with the rudely tip, waving at me. Taunting me.
POP!
My ears ached as Michael snapped his fingers, so loudly, the noise resounded with an echo.
With a single flip of the wrist, he indicated the quivering flesh and instantly I was kneeling before him.
For a scarce moment, his eyes met mine, and I could see all the worried sorrow in them. For what we were doing.
It was supposed to be private and sacred between us…and it no longer was.
Not tonight.
Then Michael was all business, forcing himself into my mouth, down my throat until I felt his fuzzy scrotum bang into my chin.
Grabbing after my hair, gathering and pulling it from my face, Michael began to guide my head up and down on his shaft.
“Yes…yes….yes. That’s how I like it. That’s how I want it. Your mouth is so good. Harder…suck harder. Suck me. Eat my dick…Goddamn…”
Eyes rolling before shutting completely, Michael was crumpling over me, his cologne intoxicating me.
On the floor, his delicate, pink toes were curling violently in an attempt to keep a handle on himself.
If he came to quickly it would have ruined the show.
He suddenly stopped, holding my head in place.
“Hmmmm!”
Michael was doing something we hadn’t planned. He was choking me!
Pressing against his groin, with his cock expanding my windpipe, I was breathless and deprived of air, but unable to make any motions as it hadn’t been rehearsed.
“Hmmm!” Unconsciously, I punched him in the thigh, and was swiftly, released.
As the fair skin started to blacken with a fresh bruise, Michael kept his cool, as I hunched, coughing and gasping for air.
His hand appeared at my chin, bringing my face up to stare at him.
(In the process, the moist meat slapped at my cheek.)
My heart was doing that thudding again, and Michael’s lips moved, he was speaking but I didn’t hear it clearly.
I do know, I felt his foot in my chest, pushing me down onto my back.
And there I laid on the cool stage floor, lit by the spotlight.
Michael was kneeling before me.
His hands running over my large bosom, down over my tummy and tracing the lines of my thighs before parting them.
Exposing the little dimpled triangle.
Finger to his mouth, Michael unceremoniously introduced the little digit into my pinkness, causing me to groan and arch upwards off the floor.
“UGH!” I cried, as again and again and again, Michael plunged his finger, knuckle deep into me. Wiggling, fondling after me.
Causing my legs to tremble.
He was doing so many things at once.
Touching me, kissing me, stroking after himself, and lightly, laughing.
A pair of lace panties were thrown onstage and with one liquid move, Michael threw them back.
He leaned down on me, breaths in my ear, cheek pressed to mine.
“I…I love you…” He whispered.
That wasn’t part of the script. That wasn’t in the act…
But it didn’t matter; I knew he meant it
* * *
“OH! OH! OH! Ugh! Michael! Michael-please! Michael! Stop! Damn it!”
My wanton wails were pitched at the ceiling as Michael laid on me, arms wrapped around me, holding me close to him.
His loins flapping and repeatedly colliding with mine.
My legs were wrapped around his svelte hips, every inch of one touching the other.
It was positively thrilling, feeling Michael’s meager weight on me, the solid, committed, deep thrusts of his cock, pummeling my poor little pussy.
The ardent determination in his face, his eyes closed tightly, brow folding up, his breathing hard and hot in my ear.
“Ugh! Ugh! Yes, Michael, Baby! Yes, yes! YES!” I wailed, my nails clawing into his sinewy back, the audible clapping noise his groin made as it clapped into mine.
Warm, salty droplets of perspiration littered his forehead and streamed off, dropping into my face and along my throat.
My dampened back was producing a dull squeak, as I was jostled back and forth.
“SHIT!” Michael growled through grit teeth, loosening my arms from his throat, , holding my wrists and pressing them into the floor.
Using me for leverage, Michael pushed himself up, his hands dropping to my hips, continuing to do that nasty bounce with me, watching astutely, as my bosom flopped all over, here and yonder.
How did he have such control?
How did he maintain himself for so long?
Any other man would have given his blast of glory long ago.
Not Michael.
He’d trained himself to hold out until the last possible moment.
In and out, in and out he plunged.
Over and over, until I could see his blood on my fingers, I was so rapt and enchanted by what he was doing.
My little hole becoming sore and swollen as it was battered by that diving rod.
Then, his face was down there.
Michael’s face was buried from the little upturned nose down in my snatch.
“AH! You’re gonna make me come!” I cried as my legs twitched and with both hands, I pressed on the top of his head in an effort to get him away from me.
But his tongue was lashing at me, in that abused little hole all over my tiny clit, stimulating me. Forcing me to break out in goosebumps all over.
“Stop Michael! Michael stop! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah--!”
SPLASH!
A hot, torrent of wetness exploded from deep within me and before Michael could move, took a full on hit to the face.
“Aw, fuck!” Michael cackled, running his hand over his wet face and chest and flicked my own juice at my face. “Perfect little geyser!”
I was grabbed and brought onto my knees.
“Lick it…” I was ordered and found my face in his chest, swabbing my mess away with my tongue, pausing to suck after his teensy rosebud nipples.
“Yes…you know how to please a man….yes. Wooo…”
With one hand my face was held while I became aware of the loud squishing sound.
Michael jacking himself violently.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, fuck yeah!”
He groaned, erotically, going maroon all over, and I felt it.
The dampness flying upwards and hitting my chin and the underside of my breasts.
Michael was finally, finally, coming. He’d hit his peak.
And it was hitting my upper torso.
Hands on my shoulders, Michael stood and without so much as a bow to his audience, was making a speedy exit off the stage.
I sat on my knees several moments, staring out from the stage, unable to see anything but the blinding whiteness of the spotlight, before the curtains shut on me.
I remained there until a female stage hand appeared, my robe and towel in hand.
I was helped up, and silently, starting to slip it on, not sure what to think or say.
It wasn’t supposed to end that way.
Michael wasn’t supposed to leave that way.
We were supposed to hug and kiss and bow before the crowd.
This wasn’t right.
This was not right.
Tying my robe closed, I started for stage right and stopped.
AAAAAHHHHHH!
From somewhere backstage, several people were screaming and as I ran to see what the trouble was, fearing the worst, I was by passed by half a dozen hands fleeing, bug-eyed and hollering.
Following the ruckus, I found it.
A few yards outside of the dressing room, Michael was still, naked as the day he’d been born, holding the stage manager several inches off the ground by the collar of his shirt.
“You get something straight, and you get it quick!” Michael was sneering shaking the man and causing his head to bounce up and down off the bricks.
“What I did tonight--it’s NOT happening again! I don’t know what came over me to agree to such a thing! That woman isn’t just some actress! She’s my girlfriend. My lady! I flat refuse to exploit her like that again! You can exploit me--I exploit myself! That’s how I make my living, but I won’t do it to her! She’s only twenty! She’s young! Got her whole life ahead of her. She’s going to be a dancer. Legitimate, on Broadway! Not in this…this burlesque like I do! This was a one night only gig tonight!”
The manager was dropped to the floor, ghostly white and gulping for air, clutching at his throat.
“But Michael--” He pleaded, eyes swelling in horror. “You’re sold out for the next two weeks--”
“And I will honor it.” Michael stated grimly, hands on his bared hips. “I’ve carried this show alone before. I’ll do it again--I respect my…my lady too much to bring her to this. I love her. I’m doing all this for her future now. Now you take it or leave it. If I can’t get in here, I can find another place to hire me--”
“Don’t be hasty!” The manager was on his feet, coughing. “You sold out this place in record time on your name. Your girlfriend doesn’t have to be in it. Whatever you want! What ever you need, Mr. Jackson!”
Michael’s shoulders slumped and he patted the man on his.
“Thank you.”
With that that, Michael withdrew and walked into the dressing room.
“One night only. One night only! Almost lost the best damn act, I‘ve ever seen!”
The manager repeated mockingly, head shaking as he staggered away, brushing past me.
Sidling up, I eased into the dressing room where Michael was applying cold cream to his face to strip off his makeup.
“You didn’t have to do that…” I whispered, leaning against the shut door. “I knew what this was, what I had to do--”
“I’m thirty-five.” Michael answered curtly, toweling after his face. “Do you want to STILL be doing this when you’re my age and I’m fifty? No. I’m going to do this run and then things will change. You’ll complete your dancing study, and do your stint on Broadway. I’ve got pull in New York City. I know people. You’ll make a legitimate name for yourself. By the time you’re thirty, you’ll have a dance studio of your own. We’ll be together, we’ll be comfortable and we’ll be happy. And the closest we’ll get to a stage after that is to watch your protégés.”
He was smearing more cream into the cleft of his chin.
Tears of happiness in my eyes, I rushed to him and was hugging him.
“Are…are you saying what I think?” I questioned pulling him against me and pressing my lips to his.
“Yes…after all this, you’ll be Mrs. Michael Jackson.” Michael nodded and was smothering me in another kiss.
And thus, began and ended my single, solitary night as burlesque performer under Michael’s tutelage.
* * *
Twenty-two years later, Michael Jackson kept true to his word.
We have been married all that time, and own over a dozen dancing studios throughout New York State and California.
Michael gave up his brand of performance to help me in instructing other young dancers in California.
Our three children run the studios in New York for us.
They don’t know what Daddy did to provide for them nor what Mommy tried, for one night only.
And we plan to keep it that way.
