My eyelids sag beneath the enormous false lashes that gave me such a vampish, come-hither look when applied this morning. Now they feel like two heavily Mortein-ed huntsman spiders have settled on my face to die.

And surely there is a responsible safety officer somewhere in this theatre, tucked away in the Brisbane suburb of Moorooka, who will step forward soon to declare that my black knee-high platform boots are a health hazard that must not – simply cannot – be worn to dance?

Instead, the only declarations come from MC Clara Cupcakes, a diminutive woman dressed today as a giant, glitter-infused strawberry, who elicits an exuberant roar from the crowd as she announces that the next dance routine will involve … chairs.

The stage manager flashes a broad grin as she waves for our group to pick up our props – which are, indeed, black wooden dining chairs, sourced from Ikea – and take our places amid the wash of noise and blazing light.

And all I can think is: “What’s a 50-something mother-of-two like me doing in a place like this?”

Cultural commentators credit Dita Von Teese for a 21st century resurgence of enthusiasm for the risqué, often irreverent art form known as burlesque. (The performance style itself dates back to the Victorian era, when its name evolved from the Italian word “burla”, meaning “a joke or mockery”).

Others say their interest was piqued by seeing Cher and Christina Aguilera strut their leggy stuff in the 2010 film Burlesque, although veteran performers will tell you that what you see on screen in that glitzy extravaganza bears limited resemblance to the elaborate artistry they create on stage.

But neither Dita nor Cher was responsible for my conversion.

As unlikely as it might sound, my inspiration can be traced instead to New Jersey’s greatest philosopher, that hero of the working man, Bruce Springsteen.

I know, I know. The Boss, with his battered vests and stubble as rough as the lanes of Thunder Road, is probably as far as you can get from sequins, spangles and fishnets.

But when Bombshell Burlesque Academy tutor Lenore Noire (Miss Burlesque Qld 2016) asked our cluster of wide-eyed newbies what prompted us to sign up for her Beginner Classic class, the words tumbled straight from my soul.

“I’m just tired and bored with myself,” I replied, citing the line from Bruce’s monster ’80s hit, Dancing In The Dark.

That got a laugh – but also some nods of recognition and solidarity, mainly from the older women in the group, of which there were quite a few.

Privately, I blame what I call the M-Triple Threat: motherhood, menopause and misogyny. At some point in our late 40s and early 50s, the rushing currents of our lives wash us up on the shores of middle age, an unfamiliar and not entirely welcoming territory.

We gain weight. And we sag.

We can’t sleep. But we’re tired all the time.

We’re almost finished caring for our children – and now our aging parents need a hand.

We look for help, or at least for some explanations, and too many of us are met instead with misogyny: the many doctors who still refuse to take menopause seriously; the legions of lawmakers who consistently undervalue the work of caring for our young, our sick and our elderly; the spouses and partners who decide it’s just no fun anymore and cast us off for sleeker, fresher models.

So, yes, we’re tired. But I was also bored.

I was bored of chasing society’s impossible expectations of women, only to see them change again. And again.

Bored of getting out of bed in the morning and looking in the mirror to hear a small voice say: “You must try harder.”

And going to bed at night, after a day of juggling the multiple roles in the public and private worlds, with a to-do list glowing in my head that never seems to diminish.

Then one day, I simply became bored of being tired and bored.

How wonderful it would be, I thought as I watched a group of small children pretending to be pop stars, to be able to lose myself again in the magic of dress-ups and imagination, the way we did before the moral arbiters of the grown-up world started enforcing all their rules, like how boys should play with trucks not tutus, and girls can only dance if they are pretty and sweet.

And a lightbulb – or was it a stage light? – went on in my brain.

“Burlesque is absolutely a kind of rebellion,” Bombshell Burlesque owner Lila Luxx tells me from her Paddington dance studio.

Like everyone teaching and performing in the burlesque world, she goes by a stage name that is registered formally with the community.

“It subverts commercial beauty standards by elevating all kinds of bodies and giving them space and agency through art.

“And for audience members too, there’s something powerful in seeing a stunning performer on stage and realising that their body is just like yours.

“We need more of that in the world!”

Luxx speaks from hard-won experience. Formerly a contemporary and commercial dancer, with additional experience in American cheerleading, she says the conventional dance world was brutal, physically and psychologically.

“I was judged endlessly on my size and my ‘look’, sometimes more than my actual dancing ability, and it was awful for my mental health.

“It was while I was recovering from a surgery, and not feeling as strong as I’d been, that I discovered the sparkle, performance art and sheer fun of burlesque.

“It had a self-made element that captivated me; it was perfect for bodies like mine as it could be endlessly adaptive.”

That adaptivity is evident in the sheer range of styles that may be seen at any burlesque show. While all routines are founded on the “art of the tease”, where layers of often extravagant costuming are expertly removed down to the (very) bare minimum, acts can vary widely, from the classical, featuring props like feather fans and vintage bump’n’grind moves, to those infused with elements from circus, comedy or pop culture. (I’m pretty sure Mick Jagger would approve of Lila Luxx’s interpretation of Sympathy For the Devil, should he stumble across it on YouTube.)

But critically, the diversity is also reflected in the range of performers themselves.

When she quit her job in government arts in 2012 to take over what was then The Bombshell Burlesque and Beauty Academy from international performer La Viola Vixen, Luxx was determined to place the mantra “Burlesque Is For Every Body” at the heart of every program, even as Bombshell’s schedule of classes grew from just two a week to more than 20.

In the communal dressing room, as I slowly learn to embrace my own physical characteristics after several decades of being told to hide them away as flaws, I chat with everybody from Charmaine, a midwife who is a grandmother and mother-of-nine, to schoolteachers, corporate execs, and an adult entertainer who says she loves learning new moves to incorporate into her bucks night routines.

What quickly becomes apparent is that we have all been shortchanged by society’s insistence that there is only one acceptable body type, despite the hypocritical fact that even that prescript changes regularly.

Just ask any woman who grew up with the beanpole aesthetic of Twiggy in the ’60s, or “heroin chic” in the ’90s, only to witness the ascendancy of Kim Kardashian and the Brazilian butt lift.

Or ask the many gay and non-binary folk who have grappled with being treated as outsiders for most of their lives. It’s hardly surprising that they, too, find a liberating space in the burlesque world.

When he moved to Brisbane from Sydney in 2020 to join his now-husband Will, Phoenix Knight was encouraged by a friend to sign up for burlesque classes as a way of meeting new people.

“That was a true sliding doors moment if ever there was one,” Knight reflects, adding that he hadn’t performed in a dance show for more than 20 years at that point, although he had studied dance as a high school student.

“As a middle-aged dad with a matching dad bod to boot, it was daunting. Still is. I knew sexiness and self-worth should not be tied to socially prescribed aesthetics. But I don’t think I truly believed it back then.” It’s hard to reconcile this confession with Knight’s sizzling routine to Sam Smith’s Unholy, which earned him the title of Mx Burlesque Brisbane 2023, as well as Performer of the Year at Brisbane Pride Queen’s Ball.

“Ultimately, it’s been incredibly freeing,” he says.

“It’s changed my life for the better in so many ways. And for those who aren’t in the impossibly tiny-waisted, corseted goddess club, it shows them by example that true sexiness comes in all forms.”

In 2025, Knight is determined to “push the envelope even further in my solo performances, meshing overt sexiness with relatable humour”, while also making his debut as a Bombshell tutor. His first class, enticingly called Thirst Trap Commercial Heels, booked out within 24 hours and will no doubt be as sharp as a Louboutin stiletto.

“I’m aiming to create a safe yet electric space for people of all ages and body types to imbue an unapologetically sexy, bad-ass confidence that is usually hidden away from others, even their loved ones,” Knight says.

“In my class – and on the stage – my students will own every part of it, and I can’t wait to hear the audience roar.”

Back at the Bombshell Ball, MC Clara Cupcakes has the audience in the palm of her red-taloned hands, as always.

She introduces us as tutor Effie L’Amour’s neoburlesque chair class. Few in the adoring crowd would know that Effie, a liquid-limbed vixen whose hair flicks are legendary, has an alter-ego; by day, she is also a criminal defence lawyer who often arrives straight from court to teach the art of the tease.

The crowd settles, the lights dim for a moment as we take our positions, draped languidly over the straight-backed chairs that will form a key part of this routine.

Then the sensuous strains of Troye Sivan’s One Of Your Girls spill from the speakers.

I kick one knee up, prop it on to the chair before arching my back into a simulated swoon. I realise I love this. I love the creativity, the ability to play with different personas – and with the audience. But most of all, I love the community of gorgeous humans who share this space with me.

And I realise I don’t need The Boss’s words of wisdom anymore. Sorry, Bruce, you can stay dancing in the dark.

But me? From now on, I’m dancing in the light.

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