I do not own Bones or these characters. This is a work of fiction. No FBI agents or entomologists were harmed during the making of this story. Enjoy. Take me to the beginning of the story before I read this installment of “The Culture in the Club”>>>
“I see some men out there in the audience tonight,” says the beautiful woman who Booth thinks looks like her name is probably Betty, or Cassandra, Marilyn, or Talulah. Certainly not Bambi. She raises a perfectly manicured hand, nails perfectly tapered and coated in crimson to match her dress. She shields her eyes from the bright stage lights. “Can you shine those on the audience for a minute, Cheryl?” She’s talking to some faceless light technician who is somewhere above them all. “Thanks,” she says, when Cheryl does exactly that.
“There you are! Brave souls. And, you are brave,” she says, peering into the audience, pacing back and forth like a she-lion awaiting a delicious steak. She smiles, but you know you shouldn’t trust her. There’s something wicked behind those eyes.
“She dragged you here, didn’t she, boys?” She nods.
The groans of agreement from about twenty men and the chuckling of 600 women wafts up from the audience.
“Yeah. I thought so,” she purrs, her voice still as calm and smooth as her taut satin dress. “What did she promise you, huh?”
The crowd roars with laughter.
“Did she tell you how long this little … event … is tonight? Huh? Yeah, I know you’re usually the ones with the tape measures, aren’t you, boys?”
Female giggling from the audience, male chuckling.
“You don’t like us to get our hands on those tape measures do you? We might learn a thing or two, right? Am I right, ladies?” she drops her chin to her chest and peers over the microphone at the crowd. She snickers, her eyebrow rising even further.
“We’re not talking about dick inches, here, Sweetheart. Are we, ladies?” She flashes her dazzling smile at the audience, pausing dramatically. “Yes, I said it. I said dick inches. Did you know that’s an actual Urban Dictionary term, dick inches? Look it up when you get home. Eh, you probably already know what it means,” her chuckling breath sounds like a flag flapping against the pole.
“Anyway,” she says, “We’re talking time, duration, fellas. Know anything about duration?”
Crowd laughs enthusiastically, then claps.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” she says. “See, men, women have an altogether different idea about length and duration… than you do.”
Laughter, some hands being clasped over mouths. Those not laughing are grinning toward the stage.
“Anyway, I want to thank each and every one of you for coming out tonight. We’ll be together for two hours. That’s right, fellas. In case you’ve forgotten, that’s as long as the foreplay for about a hundred sessions of love-making.”
The crowd falls to pieces. Even the men.
“This isn’t so bad, huh?” Comments Booth out of the side of his mouth toward Hodgins.
“She’s actually really good,” he says back, surprised. “I’d forgotten how much I love stand-up, and how great it feels to really, really laugh!”
“Suck it up, Buttercup, you’re a parent now,” murmurs Booth.
“Nah. You’re going to be fine, gentlemen,” continues the black haired devil with the microphone. “You’ll survive, I promise. We like to give you men a hard time … Oops! Man, that wasn’t even planned!” she giggles at herself. “Anyway, we do it because we can. You’re outnumbered here tonight, boys.”
Laughter all around. Women nodding at the few men present.
“Why do I do it, you might ask,” she says, turning and walking to the other side of the stage, looking at the ground the whole time. “Well, primarily … because I have the microphone!” She laughs at her own joke.
“Nah, do not worry guys, we have some love and appreciation for the blessings you bring to our lives … some true appreciation in this show. I think you will agree, those of you who have seen this before, am I right?” She holds her hand out, palm up, to the audience, wiggling her fingers as she nods, encouraging a response.
Three hundred random female voices shout their affirmation.
“Well, we have to appreciate you, men, do you know why?” She pauses for dramatic effect. Her voice has yet to rise during this entire time. She remains smooth, witty, and sexy. You can tell even the women agree.
“We have to appreciate you – do you know why? Because you have something that is very important to us,” she says, raising her other eyebrow suggestively. “Yes. You know what I am talking about,” she pauses again. “You have us, right?”
Laughter, guffaws, clapping.
“And we need you, men. To take care of us, right? We need you to take care of us. And we love you.” She pauses once again. When it feels like she’s finished, she looks at the audience again, stands perfectly still and perfectly delivers this line: “That is why we make you come … … … to The Vagina Monologues.”
The place falls apart. People are bending over laughing. Some are choking on their own spit. The men can’t help themselves, they are wiping tears from their eyes.
“That, and we love jewelry,” she mumbles into the microphone and quickly continues. “Now, you may feel like leaving in the middle of our show, but, I will let you in on a little secret. Now listen carefully, boys,” she says, lowering her voice. “If you stay, if you stick it out … Sorry, there I go again,” she says, leaning her forehead on the microphone in mock shame. “You people are nasty. Get your minds out of the gutter! Where was I?” She can’t help laughing at herself. She steps back and takes a moment, then steps forward once again.
“Men, if you stick-, if you make it, if your survive through the end of this show without bolting, do you know what you are going to get?”
“Laid!” Shouts an anonymous patron from the back of the theater. Chuckles all around.
“Well, you might get that … but I was going for respect. You are going to get respect from your lady friends. That is what you are going to get.”
“I bring up respect because that is what this show is all about. Respect. And we expect that from all of you, okay? I’m talking to everyone, but specifically to the four drunk assholes in the back of the auditorium,” she says. The whole audience turns to look toward the back.
“Yes,” she says, shading her eyes once more and leaning forward. “You know who you are. There are always a small number of men, boys, here – and you can always tell who they are because they come without women.” She stops her jaunt across the stage and stares straight at the crowd while hesitant laughter builds and then pours over the whole auditorium.
“Get your minds out of the gutter!” After a pregnant pause, she continues, “They arrive here in response to a dare from their fraternity brothers. Pay attention, boys, you just might learn something. Then won’t your brothers be envious?” She giggles to herself, but everyone hears it.
“Okay. There will be no cajoling, no cat calls,” she says, ticking off each item on her fingers, “no heckling, no whooping, or hollering-” She looks up at the audience and smiles for a beat. “-Unless you’ve got a vagina. In that case, you can do or say whatever the hell you want.”
The crowd whoops and hollers, claps, whistles. Most of the souls in the room are proud to meet that criterion.
She looks at the rows closer to the stage and puts her fist on her hip. “You sober assholes, I am not worried about you. That woman sitting next to you will keep you in line,” she says, snickering.
“Shall we get on with the show?”
“That’s not the show?” Booth turns to Brennan. “That was fantastic. Is there more?”
“Well, yes, and no,” says Brennan hesitantly. “There’s definitely more talking, more humor, and more women, but it’s not only a comedy. Just wait. You’ll see,” she says, smiling at her highly evolved mate.
“Booth, they mentioned cat calling and whooping,” rasps Hodgins leaning toward Booth. “It can’t be a dance of some sort, can it? Maybe some strip tease … pole dancing. I don’t know man, this might end up to be awesome.”
“You’re wacked. No way Bones would bring us to a strip show unless it was for educational purposes.,” says Booth, chuckling and grimacing at Hodgins.
He turns back toward Brennan and laces his fingers between hers. “Is this a strip tease, Bones?”
“Not hardly,” she says, a quizzical expression her face. “Well … not technically, that is. But feel free to imagine anything you want,” she replies without looking away from the stage.
The audience quiets as a white, screen-printed canvass unrolls as the backdrop against the red velvet curtains. On it is that beautiful pair of legs wearing the red stilettos. In bold red type is written: The Vagina Monologues.
This should have been their fourth clue. But, denial being what it is, neither man has caught on yet.
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