Andy Richardson: Her name was Dulce, she was a showgirl

It was an impressive opening line. We'd never met before, let alone got naked. She offered me her outstretched hand. I didn't know whether to shake it or twirl her beneath my arm.

"My name's Andy," I told her.

"Mine's Dulce," she replied. "Dulce Demure."

Our encounter was strangely exotic. She was the first 'Dulce' I'd met.

The closest I'd previously come to 'a Dulce' the War poem by Wilfred Owen: Dulce et Decorum Est.

I tell a lie. I'd also dabbled with a delightful dessert called dulce de leche, which is made by poaching condensed milk for seven hours in its own can until it turns brown and gooey. I'd made it without exploding the tin and showering the kitchen with caramel. Meeting a real live Dulce was beyond my wildest dreams.

I'd been with an actor friend on a Sunday night at an art deco cinema in Somerset. Like all the best Sundays, it had taken an unexpected turn. Dulce had made it extraordinary.

"Let me show you to the dressing room," she said, whisking us beyond a crushed velvet curtain into a dimly-lit room. It was filled with chocolates, M&S biscuits and a small fan heater.

Dulce whipped out her iPhone. "I'd like a selfie, please," she said to my actor friend, puckering up and smiling for the camera. I tucked into a big purple one while she snapped: I've always had a penchant for hazelnut and caramel Quality Street.

"Your turn," she said, striding towards me, iPhone in one hand, fluffing her hair with the other. She draped herself against my right shoulder, like leopard skin. My body went hot. I'd stood on the fan heater.

"What sort of burlesque dancing do you do?" I asked, making conversation as she flirted with the camera.

"Feather work," she answered.

"Ostrich?" I asked.

"No, slap and tickle."

I got the picture.

Even fully dressed, Dulce had showgirl sizzle. She had rock-a-billy hair, patterned stockings and a black steampunk dress that put the new into pneumatic. I continued the conversation.

"I do a bit of feather work myself," I lied, doing the age-old bloke trick of opening my mouth before engaging my brain.

"Really," she said. "Flaming Feathers or Feather Boa?"

"Dusting," I answered. "My light bulbs get filthy." I asked Dulce whether I could sign up for classes. "Do men do burlesque?"

She tittered. "It's called BoyLesque," she told me. "And there's a lesbian version, too, LesBurlesque." It sounded like a classic bistro dish from a restaurant, rather than a dance. "Could I have mine with garlic bread?" I asked. She scowled. I thought she might slap me.

We spoke about family. Dulce told me her daughters modelled and danced. "I pimp 'em out," she laughed. "That's fine," I answered. "I send my son up the chimney with a broom and tell him not to come down until it's clean."

On normal Sunday evenings in art deco theatres in Somerset – a sentence I've never previously have the privilege to write – I walk on to the stage and do a little introduction for my actor friend. Then I retreat to a small table and press buttons to show funny clips after he's told jokes. This Sunday was different. Dulce had decided that she would do the introductions. She banished me to a projectionist's room 40 metres away at the back of the theatre.

"Off you pop," she said.

I climbed a spiral staircase and stood among old-fashioned metal projectors and spools of film reel. It was like being in a scene from Back To The Future. From the stage, far below, my actor friend mouthed something at me. And then I realised the flaw in Dulce's plan. The projectionist's booth was entirely soundproof and the actor would have no way of cueing me in when he wanted me to show a clip. It was like being in a Harold Lloyd movie; pure slapstick.

As showtime approached Dulce took to the stage. My introduction normally lasts around 30 seconds but Dulce's was six times longer. She prowled the stage like a, well, burlesque dancer. I half expected her to break into The Drop. I thought about changing the normal introduction music, ditching The Rolling Stones in favour of Christina Aguilera's Express.

After the show, Dulce met me in the bar.

"It was a good evening, wasn't it?" she said, embracing me and beginning a conversation about her favourite Shakespeare play and explaining the nuances of iambic pentameter. Dulce was a real life Tales of the Unexpected.

Later, my actor friend sent a text. "That was a strange night, wasn't it."

I texted him back. "Dulce periculum." It's Latin. It means: Danger Is Sweet.