Goddess of Love Incarnate. Leslie Zemeckis

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

PART ONE:

       CINDERELLA LOVE LESSONS

       PART TWO:

       ENCHANTRESS

       PART THREE:

       INTERLUDE BEFORE EVENING

       PART FOUR:

       BIRD IN A GOLDEN SWING

       PART FIVE:

       BON NUIT

       PART SIX:

       APHRODITE

       NOTES

       BIBLIOGRAPHY

       ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

       INDEX

INTRODUCTION

      It started with a dance.

      Curtains part. Out unfolds a strong tan leg. A shapely calf begins to kick to the beat of the music. A woman emerges, a tall blonde goddess whose slender arms lift over a golden halo of curls. Tapered fingers pinch together, wrists softly begin to circle. Her slim hips undulate. She is small-waisted, not overly bosomy. From the sounds of the music and the look of her costume there is more than the hint of the Orient. She neither acknowledges the audience nor seeks their approval. She moves in a fantasy world of her own making, ebbing and flowing with the soar of violins. Her skin is flushed by a cool violet light that spills across her perfect skin, a lustrous pearl.

      The corners of the sheer panel of her skirt are raised between her hands. She twirls. The music accelerates. She turns faster. She is utter perfection to look upon. She is the Unobtainable One. Her bra of gold rope shimmies back and forth, shoulders seesaw up and down as the music crashes. Enticing. One leg thrusts to the side, then the other. She rises on her toes. Her chest heaves. The flat of her stomach swells.

      Her body is on display, her thoughts hidden under yards of cherry red chiffon. She covers herself—her real self—with the illusions of the stage. She barely glances at the audience. She is so expert a performer that each man believes she dances solely for him.

      The music rises. Her chest lifts, bangles shake, a slight sheen appears at her hairline, the only evidence she is working hard. The dance is not as effortless as it appears, as she makes it. Her act is art, finely crafted, labored over for hours. Her moves flow seamlessly. A stretch of the leg, a twist of the rib cage, the reach of an arm. Her neck is slim and long and delicate and often compared to a swan’s or a queen’s. She arches backward. The movement says take me, take me. Her mind moves with her body; she doesn’t censor herself. Her whole body snaps forward, then back again in movements that echo the beast inside.

      Sex. It is the writhing movement of copulation at its most powerful. Rising. Her body lifts. She is about to reel in the audience as the music dips quietly. A tease of a pause.

      It started with a beautiful girl, long of leg, graceful and lithe with green cat eyes, a dimpled chin, soaring dark brows. She is six feet tall in her gold-sandaled heels. Firm, muscled legs, elegant fingers and feet. A cool gaze to melt the hearts of many.

      It started with a dance.

      Heat pours from her skin. Platinum curls swing. She arches, uninhibited, overtaken by the music of desire. She dives to the stage, floor leg outstretched while the other points above her head. She is triumphant. Longing and sex—pure sex—rises from her skin like perfume.

      She reaches up, her arms moving through the air, hands grabbing, hips swinging. She is off the floor and revolving upstage, stretching toward the break in the curtains. A pause. A look. A finger to the red of her glossy, swollen red lips. Hesitation. Then, as if she had been a mirage, she vanishes.

      It started with a dance.

      It started with desire.

      It started with a beautiful girl.

      It started with the dance.