As the Belly Rolls

By Denise Cavaliere

This book of short stories chronicles the coming of age of a New York City girl.

From the street gang era of the 1960s, follow her along her mostly crooked path through adulthood. Along the way, meet her family, friends, animals, and love interests. Share in her adventures, travels and fascination with belly dancing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 12, 2008
• ISBN: 9781465333308

Book preview

As The Belly Rolls

Little Egypt I’m not, but from the time I first saw that famous belly dancer perform, the sensual movements of this ancient dance awakened something deep inside me.

To begin with, I am of French and Irish extraction, and do not resemble the dark, exotic belly dancers who gyrate through the Kasbah. That was just a minor obstacle. I was determined, so signed up for lessons at Carnegie Hall where, to my surprise, the instructor was a male. He was an absolutely wonderful teacher and explained that in several Middle East countries, male belly dancers perform in clubs. Unfortunately, he was obviously into something more than teaching and was deported within a couple of months. Undeterred, I searched for other teachers and, for the next couple of years, progressed from Greek to Egyptian to Moroccan schools.

Each teacher had her own specialty. Lisa of the Nile (actually a nice, Jewish girl from Brooklyn), had beautiful torso movements. Tamara, who eventually became my dear friend, could shimmy better than anyone I ever met. Then there was Karina, who left men salivating with her sexy belly rolls. I went through some very frustrating times—it took months for me to isolate my torso muscles into a somewhat seductive flutter. My initial tummy rolls looked like I was experiencing major intestinal problems and my face would get beet red in my efforts to vibrate my legs and hips. I can still remember Lisa coaching me, Smile—give them a hip thrust—flirt. Moaning at my wooden efforts to be sexy, she would shake her head, No, no, no. Oy, what am I going to do with you?

Just when I was ready to give up in defeat, some slight improvement would be noted and I would continue my efforts. I tested the patience of my teachers, but we all persevered. Finally, the months and years of struggle paid off. I was now ready for the professional world of belly dancing.

Since made-to-order costumes were extremely costly, I rented outfits for my first few performances. What disasters! The first one was a beautiful shade of green, which I thought would set off my coloring nicely. However, the color was not what attracted attention. My rented bra was so over-padded that it turned the corner before the rest of me. I could have simply walked across the stage—no one noticed my hip rotations—all eyes were on my EEE top! Undaunted, the next time I rented a beautiful gold coin costume, one not so exaggerated. With this particular outfit, the panties and skirt were attached. Rising clumsily from doing a floor routine, my heel caught on the skirt, causing it and my panties to slip and giving the audience a little more for their money! Thankfully, I advanced to where I could afford to have my own costumes made and not just provide comic relief at nightclubs.

I felt as if I lived a double life—during the week I was a shy, efficient secretary. Management, headed by the District Vice President Bob Novak, was very strait-laced and formal. There was a strict dress code and a no-nonsense environment in the office. Very few of my co-workers knew of my weekend activities.

All this changed rather dramatically one Saturday evening as I was performing at a large wedding in Manhattan. I was twirling around, losing myself to the exotic movements of the Moroccan music, when I heard a gasp. Looking up, I met the startled eyes of my boss, Mr. Novak. Obviously, he was a little shocked at the bare torso of this shy secretary.

My weekend job was no longer a secret and it was with not a little trepidation that I tip-toed into my office that following Monday. Mr. Novak never mentioned a word, but for the next year or so that he worked, I would often catch him glancing at me and shaking his head in apparent disbelief. I was so tempted to perform at his retirement party!

As I gained confidence and experience, I did more and more nightclub work. Occasionally, my Dad would accompany me so he could keep an eye on his little girl. One night, an over-zealous reveler became a bit too frisky and was attempting to push dollar bills in inappropriate places. My father jumped in to protect me. Fists and tables started flying and, needless to say, my stint at that particular club was over.

Occasionally, I would sign on to do belly grams. These were personal, rather abbreviated shows that were given as presents to a husband on his birthday, a boss on his retirement, etc. One time, a group of employees chipped in to send an ill colleague a belly gram to speed up his recuperation. The maid led me into the study where the poor man was propped up on the couch petting his dog. Striking my most seductive pose, I started my routine. Either he was bored out of his mind or his medication was taking effect, but after two minutes of gyrating, my audience of one was snoring. However, all was not lost. His German Shepherd was attentively following my every move. Halfway through my routine, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. For the rest of the allotted time, I slithered around the room trying to dislodge this amorous fan from my leg!

One of my most exciting belly grams occurred not during, but after my performance. The birthday bash was held in a very rough neighborhood in The Bronx. After the show, Dad and I left the tenement building. I still had on my costume and was clutching my veil around me while my dad was holding the boom box. We were about two blocks from my car when we realized that a couple of rather shady characters were following us. Cover it up, my father instructed as we quickened our pace. I started wrapping my veil more securely around my bare skin when suddenly my father grabbed it from me and covered the boom box with it. He yelled, They’re after the boom box, not you. We just barely make our escape with everything intact, except my bruised ego!

Toward the end of my less-than-illustrious show business career, I was performing at a local club. One devoted admirer was in attendance every weekend, but instead of throwing dollar bills at me, insisted on tossing coins. Unfortunately, after fortifying himself with several drinks, he would aim the coins with such force that I was dodging and making rather awkward moves just to avoid being pelted with quarters. Management soon decided the clientele needed a change and I was replaced with female mud wrestlers.

Looking back, I’m so glad I followed my dream of becoming a belly dancer. I had some rewarding as well as amusing moments. After thirty years, I still give private shows, but only for my husband. My hips sometimes creak, the rolls of my belly have multiplied and my shimmies have certainly slowed down, but to him, I will always be Little Egypt.

Class Reunion

I met Hannah in 1961. I was 13 and a freshman at a small, private, all-girls school in Manhattan. It was my first day and I was petrified. All my friends from grammar school were scattered around the city in other high schools and I had never felt so alone.

Sitting in my homeroom, I looked to my right and noticed a small, thin, black girl who looked almost as frightened. Catching her eye, I smiled tentatively. The tense look in her face softened as she smiled back at me.

From that day, we were inseparable at school. We had the same curriculum and shared our lunch table with three or four other girls from our homeroom class. But it was to Hannah that I confided my troubles with French grammar, the way I got tongue-tied when a guy from my block greeted me and my disappointment when I didn’t make the cheerleading squad.

Despite her quiet nature, Hannah was funny. She could exactly imitate Mother St. John’s strident lectures in our English class and wiggle down the hall just like our only lay teacher, Miss Moran. I was doing OK in