Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (26 page)

The flight to Indonesia was a whopping twelve hours. By the end of it, my hair was a grease pit, my eyes blood shot, and my mascara smeared. My clothes were wrinkled and smelly, and I desperately needed a shower. My throat hurt terribly and my head throbbed from congestion. Achy all over, I felt like hell. 

I went to the airplane bathroom to try to spruce up a bit before arrival. I brushed my teeth, wiped under my arms with a wet towel, applied deodorant, and layered on more perfume. I washed my face and reapplied my makeup. The hair was a lost cause. No matter how much brushing or spraying I did, it still looked like it was plastered to my head.

Jakarta is fourteen hours ahead of Los Angeles, so while it was the middle of the night L.A. time, the day was in full swing in Indonesia when we arrived. Driving into town from the airport, I felt like I was in the middle of a page from
National Geographic
. Indonesia was a beautiful, lush, green, developing country. 

Looking out the van window along the side of the highway, I noticed mini shanty towns made from all types of refuse including cardboard and corrugated metal. These structures weren’t much better than the play forts we used to build as kids from discarded appliance boxes. I was shocked to see the poverty. It was a real eye opener. 

In stark contrast, we arrived at the plush, modern high-rise President Hotel in the heart of downtown Jakarta to an entourage of Indonesian sponsors who warmly welcomed us with bouquets of flowers. Here we were a group of scraggly, stinky girls who looked like we stayed up partying all night and then fell asleep in our clothes, and we were supposed to be the alluring Playboy’s Girls of Rock & Roll. I tried to smile and be gracious to our hosts but, feeling deathly ill and going on only four hours of sleep in forty-eight hours, all I wanted to do was crawl into bed. When I found out we were to go straight into dress rehearsal at the nightclub, I thought I was going to die. 

We headed to our rooms to quickly change clothes. I was ecstatic that we each got our own room; at least I wouldn’t have to worry about getting along with a roommate. I looked out my hotel window and marveled at what an exotic and extremely foreign place I was in. My view revealed a thriving metropolis, including an impressive, massive circular fountain—the center attraction of a five-lane roundabout, chockablock with small whizzing cars. Across the busy street, over ten lanes of traffic, was the lovely Hyatt Regency.  

All in all, I was pleased with the beautiful hotel, which offered all the amenities of a western hotel except you couldn’t always find someone who spoke English. I just hoped I would get a chance to actually sleep there someday soon. 

I grabbed my makeup case and met the rest of our group in the lobby. The air conditioning in the hotel was on full blast. I found out why. The second we set foot outside, sweat began pouring out of every one of my pores. I’ve never felt air so hot and humid that it sucked the liquid right out of you. The humidity was unbearable. 

We climbed aboard our private state-of-the-art bus complete with TV, VCR, and male tour guide—a young, twenty-something English-speaking Indonesian who had the dubious honor of escorting us to and from hotel to venue. While the Bunnies downed massive amounts of Twizzlers red licorice, our host enthusiastically educated us about his country.

Our rehearsal and shows were held at the most enormous nightclub I’d ever laid eyes on. The name of it, “Dynasty,” was a testimony to its large scale. Even the stage was huge. We looked like eight tiny peas on a massive turkey platter trying to look like a full meal. While it was a job for us to fill the stage, all the black and silver and colored lights gave it that hard edge that any self-respecting motorcycle mama would be proud of. We looked hot.

First things first: The show would not go on unless we first passed government inspection. Our hosts assured us we were not to worry. The government censors “can be paid off here. No problem.” Thanks to Malcolm, they were, and we got the all-clear to perform. Sure, corruption was prevalent, but there was no shame attached, nor did they try to hide it—a refreshing change from our country.

Malcolm, being tall and imposing by American standards and positively gargantuan relative to the Indonesians (think Gulliver versus the Lilliputians), was the perfect person to troubleshoot the governmental red tape and look out for our interests. He dwarfed even the tallest of Indonesians and, therefore, did not look like a man to be messed with. Val was brilliant for bringing him on board. Plus, I just felt safer having him around.

Everything was big at Dynasty including our huge dressing room—something we would soon no longer take for granted. What a luxury. Mirrors all around and plenty of space to each have a seat, spread out our stuff, and even stretch out before the show. 

The girls’ dressing room talk was an education like no other. I sat quietly, applying my makeup and absorbing all kinds of interesting information. “Back in the old days, when I sang back-up for Wayne Newton in Vegas,” Rhonda said, “Wayne, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis Jr. always played pranks on each other. Once Wayne snuck a real horse onto the stage when Dean was singing!” I loved listening to her stories.

“So, how did you end up becoming a Playmate?” I finally asked Satin, intrigued by her racy lifestyle. “My mother was a centerfold in the 1960s.” “You’re kidding!”
My mother was baking cookies and teaching Sunday School in the 1960s
. “When I was sixteen, I sent a telegram to Hugh Hefner that said, ‘Bunnies do multiply.’ As soon as I turned eighteen and was legal, he allowed me to screen test.” They were one of only a few mother-daughter pairs to both earn the prestigious title of Playmate of the Month. (Of course, when I got back to the States, I searched the bookstore and found a collectors’ edition of Playboy Bunnies over the years. There she was, pretty in pink lace and white anklets, skillfully and beautifully baring all the inappropriate parts.)

Satin soon became my favorite Bunny in the show. She was no pushover and could beat the living daylights out of you if she had a mind to but also had a heart of gold when it came to old people, babies, and pets. Volunteering to clip toenails for an elderly lady or rescuing a stray dog seemed to be as second nature to her as popping you one if unduly provoked. “I want a tattoo right here,” she said pointing to her privates, “of the Pink Panther pushing a lawn mower. Then I’m going to shave a strip where the lawn mower supposedly mowed. Wouldn’t that be cool?” You just don’t meet fascinating characters like that in an office job. She taught me how to put my hair in a quick bun using only a ballpoint pen, for which I will be forever grateful. 

“I love my girls!” Porsche exclaimed giving both of her enhanced breasts a little squeeze. “I was so sick of being flat. Your boobs are nice, too, Mallory. They look great on you, but I could never go that big.” We all stopped to examine each others’ knockers. There were several people with implants in the cast. I glanced down at my size 36 Bs, which now looked somehow measly. I decided they would have to suffice. Funny how as a “real” dancer, I always thought my breasts were much too big and hindered my dancing. Now I was questioning whether or not they were too small to be sexy. We had everything from grape-sized to peach-sized to grapefruit-sized to Mallory’s plump melons—she by far out-bosomed everyone else in the group. There was something on the menu to please every preference. 

Then Callie and Jasmine started doing this Farmer Bob imitation where they’d stick their front teeth over their bottom lips and talk like hicks. It soon caught on and the whole cast was doing it. It was Gomer Pyle meets Goofy with an extreme overbite. We laughed and laughed. It’s good not to take yourself too seriously no matter how large and luscious your bust is. (Bear in mind, I actually have an Uncle Bob who was a farmer at one time, and I can assure you he is quite sophisticated and well-spoken.)

We began our Indonesian tour thanks to Lions International, who call themselves “the world’s largest service club organization.” They were sponsoring us for a Valentine’s charity night. We performed February 13th (8:30 p.m. and 11:30 p.m.), 14th (8:30 p.m.), and 15th (8:30 p.m. and 11:30 p.m.). The advertisement was in Indonesian but I could understand a few words—”romantik” and “erotis.” It hardly seemed like an event appropriate for the Lions Club—a group who pride themselves on serving needy communities. Perhaps this community was in need of a few stiff drinks and an evening of romantic erotica. Our hosts lovingly presented each of us with a Styrofoam heart with a rose inserted into it.

*******

While managing to avoid performing pornographic maneuvers, I wasn’t so lucky when it came to the opening costume. In order to raise the raciness of our show, we threw a bit of indecent exposure onto the bargaining table. Mainly, we had to bare some buns by dancing in G-strings. This was my first time performing in a G, and it was quite an experience.

No conventional underwear fits under G-string trunks, so our lead singer, Rhonda, brought us handmade “under-Gs” (a.k.a. “personal Gs”) from Vegas, like the real showgirls wear. They were basically tiny triangles of soft cloth held up by quarter-inch elastic. By design, the under-G covered the bare minimum and nothing more, because otherwise it would peek out from the skimpy G-string costume trunks we wore over it. The trunks were essentially thong bikini bottoms.

Under the trunks we wore black fishnets. (Fishnets are mesh stockings that look like what they’re named after: netting for catching fish. For some strange reason, making one’s legs look like ensnared sea creatures was supposed to be sexy.) For added support and coverage, under the fishnets we wore nude tights, which prevented any jiggly bits from over jiggling. Although they kept us from feeling buck naked, it was in our best interest not to have too many layers underneath, or the tights acted like a trampoline and the bikini bottoms would just bounce around on top of them, revealing the parts we wanted concealed. Before the show, we gave ourselves wedgies to anchor the trunks in place as best we could.

It was surreal walking on stage in a G for the very first time. After a while, however, I forgot all about the fact that my rump was on display. Or maybe I just pretended it wasn’t really happening to keep myself in denial that I was voluntarily inviting people to leer at my bum. It takes a fine, tight derriere to look good in a G, and I never did feel quite right about flaunting it.

*******

Our opening number consisted of the entire cast singing and dancing to the original tune “The Girls of Rock & Roll,” written specifically for the Playboy’s Girls of Rock shows. Clad in black fishnets, thigh-high black boots, black thongs, bust-boosting tops, and assorted sordid accessories from that stash of black leather costumes, we strutted, air-guitared, flipped our hair, and rocked the house. Posing for sexy photos wasn’t my forte, but dancing sexy was another story. I had rock and roll in my blood. The number was almost Disney-esque compared to the blatant bumping and grinding that’s done on stage nowadays, but, thankfully, we got away with it.

When I was thirteen, the movie
Grease
came out, and I loved the part where Sandy (played by Olivia Newton John) transformed from a cutesy, goody two-shoes in poodle skirt and conservative sweater into a cigarette-smoking babe in black leather and stilettos, driving bad-boy boyfriend Danny Zuko (played by John Travolta) crazy. I always related to the Sandy character—my college boyfriend, who adored Olivia Newton John, even said I reminded him of her. Being a Playboy’s Girl of Rock & Roll felt like my fantasy transformation into that babe in black. It was a role I got a real kick out of playing.

Except for the opening and closing numbers, which included everyone, Anita wisely organized our show so that the singers alternated with the dancers and Bunnies, allowing time for costume changes. Our three singers remained onstage after the opening to sing a sizzling hot version of “Free Your Mind” (En Vogue’s hit single) while Porsche and the Bunnies and I changed into hip-hop clothes with black baseball hats, on backwards, of course.

The five of us did a watered-down hip-hop dance to C&C Music Factory’s “Everybody Dance Now.” It was pretty pathetic as the Bunnies were choreographically challenged, and I was hip-hop challenged. Porsche was in her element, but I had to fake it as best I could. Hip hop wasn’t even taught back when I was in dance class. Now it was all the rage, and I found myself trying to Running Man, Roger Rabbit, and Cabbage Patch like a home girl and not a lame girl.

Rhonda, Callie, and Jasmine followed with a girl groups medley, which included the Andrew Sisters’ “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” the McGuire Sisters’ “Sincerely,” and “I’m So Excited” by the Pointer Sisters. They looked beautiful in their long, slinky gowns and long, white gloves, doing jazzy and elegant armography and singing chanteuse style into mics on mic stands. Singers’ envy set in, and I wished I had their vocal abilities. I so badly wanted to do their numbers. 

Next came my favorite number to perform: Rod Stewart’s “Hot Legs.” Playmate Mallory spoke-sang the lead, and Porsche and I danced back-up. Sporting red fringed shorty shorts, red fringed bras, and long, red satin gloves, we danced seductively with chairs, arching over them and coquettishly showing off our hot legs. It was the sexiest dance I got to do, and I worked it. 

The singers returned to present a sixties medley—one of Anita’s high-energy cruise ship show favorites. They were dressed in funky black and white sixties garb and did famous dances from that era, including the mash potato, the alligator, the watusi, and the hand jive. “I could easily do that number,” I thought, wishing I were up there twisting with the go-go girls.