It’s Thursday night, and a group of women in various states of undress fill the small room ... Everyday women steal the s

It’s Thursday night, and a group of women in various states of undress fill the small room at the back of a dark, cozy bar tucked away on Manhattan’s Lower East Side. A woman in olive pants and tan sandals stands at the front of the stage and applies tape and pasties to her nipples. Moments later she is donning a short, sheer skirt and an orange bra with black fringe, part of the costume she will wear when playing the role of a tiger onstage. After adding a few touches of makeup and adjusting her strawberry-blonde wig, she has nearly completed her transformation into a stage persona she calls Creamy Stevens.

From behind the red, velvet curtain that barely separates backstage from the audience, saunters another woman wearing an emerald green dress. She is known to a core group of downtown hipsters (and to most of her close friends) as Little Brooklyn. The heavy glitter on her cheeks—the beginnings of a clown face—shimmers in the stage lights as she smiles widely and waves energetically to an acquaintance. She disappears, and two men attach a bright, yellow marquee bearing the words “Starshine Burlesque” in red glitter to the black curtain at the back of the tiny stage.

The audience quickly settles into the rows of chairs and presses against a back wall. The energy in the room is now palpable as the din of excited voices cuts through the air. At 10:52, the lights dim. The pre-recorded announcement, complete with a laugh track and canned applause, welcomes the audience, warning patrons in English and Spanish to keep their “hands inside the ride at all times.” The catcalls and cheers have already begun.

Welcome to the new burlesque, a post-modern update of an American art form that has morphed in surprising ways from its 19th century origins. Every night of the week, New Yorkers can sample it in some variation. Over the last decade, the genre has developed a quasi-underground following in cities across the country, from San Francisco to New Orleans. In New York, the scene thrives among a close-knit community of performers who work a variety of venues like Galapagos, the Slipper Room and RiFiFi, a bar and performance space that is home to Starshine Burlesque. With its $5 admission fee and grassroots, homemade feel, this show remains one of the most popular.

The performers range from full-time professionals, toting playful stage names like World Famous *Bob* and Dirty Martini, to part-timers like Creamy Stevens and Little Brooklyn, women who have day jobs unrelated to their nocturnal diversion. Despite other responsibilities—like jobs, boyfriends and family—these women spend many of their few free hours booking the guest performers and hosts, developing routines, creating costumes and even touring. Their minimal compensation comes from the admission fee and the tips split between the performers. Without room in the budget even to advertise the show, they rely on a regular crowd of supporters and word-of-mouth to attract new audiences. But the show is a knockout, with a standing-room-only crowd week after week.

Started in 2001 by a performer named Eva the Diva, Little Brooklyn and Creamy Stevens took over Starshine just over three years ago. Since then, the two co-producers have evolved from amateurs to professionals. Little Brooklyn as a dancing clown dressed in black and white, topped off with a sparkly, black nose and Creamy Stevens’ cast-wearing, bandaged accident victim—both acts performed last Thursday night—are just two of the quirky characters and bizarre scenes are prime examples of the new burlesque’s gritty downtown sensibility. Such acts have helped the women shoot to the forefront of the new burlesquarati.

The acts captivated her. Watching the performers she thought, “I love the way you make me feel. I want to make other people feel like this.” She developed the performance name “Little Brooklyn” as homage to the borough in which she grew up. Her stage name is also a knowing nod to “Little Egypt,” an early 20th century dancer often credited with inventing the “hootchie-cootch,” a dance that was a precursor to the hip-swinging moves associated with traditional burlesque.

The off-color, grotesque and absurd are what Creamy Stevens, 33, brings to the stage when she performs. Hailing from Washington, D.C., she recently left a job in the publishing industry to start a new one at a non-profit dedicated to animal welfare.

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