This Woman.

A clarinet beckons. A hazy veneer of smoke envelopes a bare stage waiting with anticipation to be occupied. A red-velvet curtain parts purposefully like the ruby red lips of a woman scorned as she delivers a dutiful diatribe to her lov-ah just as Dorothy Dandridge would have done. A woman stands in sultry silhouette.

This woman....
This woman....?

She saunters through the velvet curtains, eyeing every Joe in the joint who's eyein' her -- she watches him lick his lips like a hungry lion...she laughs to herself because she knows he has no idea that by the end of this evenin', she will have turned him into a suckling, playful cub...And, by golly, she likes to play.

This woman...
This woman...!

Her mocha legs, beautifully exposed from the strap of her stiletto up to the fringe covering her best asset, are caressed by fishnets. They carry her willfully, magically to her center stage destination where she is bathed in romantic hues of sensual light that wait patiently to hold her captive for all to see.

This woman...
This woman... .

She stands, as poised as Lena Horne ever was. Her bare shoulders speak volumes. Her hips, hugged by a barely-there champagne-dipped slip tell time better than any hour glass. Her corsetted valley of well-positioned caramel cleavage glistens. She is excited (not the kind you're thinking of, but close to it). Her gloved hand moves to push a stray chocolate curl back to its place before she speaks. A hush falls amongst those who wait to hear what she has to say. Before she can speak, three other women, equally sultry, equally sassy, equally corsetted and... excited join her on stage like an undulating wave that licks the shore on a dewey morning. When all four women are poised (as Lena Horne always was), they speak. With a tone smoother than warm honey drizzled over a lov-ah's back, hotter than the Georgia sun, and more powerful than wind from Zeus' mouth, they whisper:

"Welcome. We are the Brown Betties. "