BrownBettiesThisWoman

Need
(and "Harlem")
Peppur Chambers

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 stands, as poised as Lena Horne ever
was. Her bare shoulders speak volumes.
Her corseted valley of caramel cleavage
glistens. She caresses a stray chocolate curl
back to its place before she speaks. A hush
falls. As if on cue, three other women,
equally sultry, equally sassy, equally
sophisticated join her on stage like an
undulating wave that licks the shore on a
summer 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. "

Her steamy mocha legs, from the strap of
her stiletto up to the lace 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 have waited for
her patiently.

This woman...
This woman... .

She saunters through the velvet curtains,
eyein' 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 that by the end of this evenin',
he'll be her cub....

This woman...
This woman...!