Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (31 page)

The whole repeat experience felt like déjà vu in many ways, with one major exception: our accommodations went from five-star to no-star. The Ritz to the pits. No self-respecting star would set foot in that dumpy hotel. There had obviously been some bargaining done for this engagement. We had become a discount show—plucked off the clearance rack, brought back at bargain prices. Either that or Val hadn’t been made aware that they were going to cut costs by tremendously lowering the housing standards. 

Whatever the case, the end result was the same: no more lavishing in luxury. The rooms were drab and dingy and mine smelled musty. I searched for the location of the smell and found that my mattress was moldy. Disgusting. In keeping with the theme, the restaurant was a dreary brown, no-frills café with unappetizing food. The place had an odd odor —a combination of Asian spices; a hot, damp basement; and a stale, men’s locker room. We forced ourselves to eat from the mediocre menu but didn’t enjoy the experience. 

Another mentionable change was our new body guard. Malcolm had already booked another job, so Billy—a big thirty-something, long-haired, red-headed redneck, good-ol’ country boy—took over his position. I was fascinated by Billy’s past; he claimed to have been a pro football player and cocaine smuggler in his earlier, rougher, tougher days. Good thing he had dropped the drugs sometime back, or he may have ended up swinging by the neck next to the Dutch man. I had never known a cocaine smuggler before; it just goes to show you that you can’t stereotype. Not that I approved of his previous profession, but I preferred to have him and his sizable body on my side. He loved to play guitar and sing country western music and was as loyal a friend as they come. He was a big teddy bear to us gals. 

*******

Back at the Hotel Melia, where our gig was located, I picked up a postcard advertisement for our show, which read: “Heartthrob presents…Playboy’s Girls of Rock & Roll. The Sexy, Sizzling And Sensational Beauties Are Back Here By Popular Demand!” On the back: “A Week of Hot Sweaty Night!” (Yes, it said “Night” and not “Nights”). “Don’t Miss! Limited Season! See & Hear Them! LIVE!” There was also an R rating noted: Restricted. Above 18 years admittance only.

As if the nights weren’t already hot and sweaty enough in Singapore, as it turned out, we were in town at the same time as our sexy male counterpart: HotBod—six white, muscular, male strippers also imported from the States. With their long hair and bulging biceps, six-pack abs, and firm pecs, they were the perfect diversion for Singaporean women while their men were gallivanting off to our show. 

Of course, the newspapers played off this fortuitous synchronicity, comparing our sultry shows and noting that both were exciting Singaporeans with the tantalizing possibility that the authorities would finally allow more flesh to be seen. “Nightspots go for hot stuff. One strips the other struts…” “For the first time, Singaporeans will be seeing men stripping to their briefs.” There was also a lot of hype about us performing in see-through lingerie and possibly even being the first show in which women would be permitted to go topless. I was shocked! This was news to me. I wasn’t about to wear anything translucent let alone nothing at all. Was Val not telling us something?

But, alas, as expected, the charade inevitably fell apart. “Promises of see-through lingerie and hopes of a topless show were dashed when the authorities clamped down on what was supposed to have set a precedent for such shows,” reported newspapers. This was no surprise to me. I’m certain the government censors had never had any intention of letting us bare our breasts even if we had wanted to. But it made for a great marketing campaign and assuredly generated interest and ticket sales.  

The excitement even interested us enough to attend the HotBod show on our night off. Talk about a double standard. Their show was much more explicit than ours. They used a champagne bottle in ways Asti Spumante never intended, and we weren’t even allowed to bend in front of a bar stool. But it was amusing to see them strip down to their underwear, play cowboys and construction workers, and dress for bed in purple velour boxers and robes. They were every bit as buffed as their newspaper ad. The climax of the evening was being invited out to sing Karaoke with the HotBods after their show—just another little perk of being Playboy’s Girls of Rock & Roll. While they were so beautiful they could have come to life straight off the cover of a Harlequin Romance novel, they were just too pretty to be attractive to me. Still, it was intriguing to see their protruding muscles up close and personal.

Naturally, after the big media hoopla promoting the hope of indecent exposure, customers were disappointed when we showed up on stage with completely opaque costumes and—except for the new Bunny rabbit, Athena—the exact same decent show. While Athena was certainly highly seductive, exotic eye candy, even her Greek goddess appearance could hardly compete with the allure of actual, bare-naked, private parts. The dashed high expectations caused some of the appeal of our group to droop.

Athena did add an entirely new energy and dynamic to our cast, though. She and Satin were either bosom buddies or in a cat fight. Athena was harmless and friendly enough, and I liked having her around. 

In addition to Athena’s antics, our new source of backstage entertainment was a very realistic-looking rubber cockroach one of the Girls had purchased back home in the States after seeing so many cockroaches on our first trip to Singapore. The game became to attach it to or hide it in someone’s costume to make her scream before or during the show. We’d be innocently putting on our gold sequin blazer only to discover a large, hideous brown insect on the sleeve. “EEEEEEEEEK! COCKROACH! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off!” we’d screech batting at our jacket and jumping up and down like a madwoman. This, of course, was hilarious to whoever deviously planted the roach. Even when it finally became obvious that the bug was bogus, we’d still shiver and shake off just the thought of such a disgusting creature crawling on our personal attire. Although we knew the faux insect was making the rounds, there was still such a high chance of it being the real deal that we got scared and screamed anyway! Plus, after that first prank, we were always paranoid wondering when the next cockroach would turn up, fake or otherwise.

Even more thrilling than the rubber cockroach game was the night that some of our costume pieces were stolen between shows by some American college kids. This was kind of gross and embarrassing, as the apparel were surely sweaty by that point. The criminals were stupid and/or drunk enough to be flaunting the goods in the club, so it didn’t take long for Billy, our body guard, to figure out who had done it. After politely asking, “You boys wanna eat your teeth? No? Then you best hand that over NOW,” he recovered most of our stuff. Strangely enough, he also collected about $150 that wasn’t ours. We all split it and felt a tad less violated. I just loved having a body guard. 

Another highlight of the trip was our performance on a Rock & Roll TV show. It just happened to be the night of the Elvis impersonators contest, and there were Asian Elvis’s everywhere. It was as surreal as being inside a strange dream image: “There I was, bedecked in sequins, dancing on national television with real Playboy Bunnies, when I am suddenly surrounded by a group of Asian men dressed as the King himself—Elvis—and they are all singing ‘Don’t you step on my
Brue
Suede Shoes.’” Pinching myself to check if I were dreaming would have revealed that I was very much awake, and Elvis was probably rolling over in his grave.

*******

On this return visit to Singapore, we were fortunate to have more time to shop and see the sights. Excitedly, I purchased yards of plain white silk at bargain prices to use for silk painting back at home. With trepidation, we entered strange, ornate Buddhist temples, adorned with lit candles and incense, red lanterns, and what appeared to be cement dog statues cloaked in golden fabric capes, fresh raw meat atop their heads. Billy, Jasmine, Porsche, Satin, Callie, and I took a riverboat tour around Singapore harbor. Billy and I also went to the impressive Jurong Bird Zoo to commune with colorful, exotic birds and throngs of pink flamingos.

What a bonus to discover that Singapore was home to my beloved Tiger Balm—the self-proclaimed “world’s best analgesic ointment” and one product that no dancer should live without. Many a dressing room is permeated with the pungent odor of the miraculous pain-relieving remedy that sets sore muscles afire with its healing herbs. Its applications were more far reaching than dance injuries, however. Back in the day, Chinese emperors were said to have employed the magic formula “for aches and pains from the stresses of court hearings, and the strains of the imperial harem.” I’d be wanting me some Tiger Balm, too, if I had a harem to satisfy. Every dancer (and harem owner) really should make a pilgrimage to the Tiger Balm factory and give thanks for it. We dutifully drove past and paid homage.

No trip to Singapore is complete without a stop at one of the world’s most famous luxury hotels: the Raffles Hotel, opened in 1887 and named after the founder of Singapore—British statesman Sir Thomas Stamford Bingley Raffles. Stepping into the historic hotel was akin to stepping into a set from
Casablanca
with the ceiling fans whirring overhead and the beautiful polished wood bar. Our main mission was to sample the “Singapore Sling”—a famous, fruity drink invented around 1915 by Mr. Ngiam Tong Boon, a Raffles Hotel bartender. His recipe was said to contain gin, cherry liqueur, pineapple juice, lime juice, orange liqueur, benedictine herbal liqueur, grenadine syrup, and bitters. As I sipped the vibrant red concoction served in a tall glass and topped with a pineapple wedge and maraschino cherry, I daydreamed that I was standing in this very room next to Somerset Maugham—the legendary English novelist and dramatist from the early 1900s—during one of his many visits to the Far East. “Legend has it that he worked all mornings under a frangipani tree in the Palm Court, turning the bits of gossip and scandal overheard at dinner parties into his famous stories,” declares the Raffles Hotel website. What an exotic life.

We also managed to squeeze in dinner and dancing at the Singapore Hard Rock Café. When the manager discovered who we were, he asked permission to take our picture to hang on the wall with the other famous rock and roll acts that had been there.
Playboy’s Girls of Rock & Roll on the wall of fame at the Hard Rock! Cool!

The final bonus of the trip was awarded us on our flight back home. R&B singers Whitney Houston and her husband Bobby Brown and all of Bobby’s dancers were on our airplane! We found out, because Bobby bravely ventured out of the safety of first class and into the dregs of coach, perhaps on some humanitarian mission to entertain the lower class. Or perhaps he was just involuntarily magnetically drawn toward groups of sexy woman, his massive gold and diamond BBB (Bobby’s initials) ring leading the way. Whatever the case, I couldn’t believe it when he walked over to us and started chatting. He was very friendly, even flirtatious. Whitney must have sniffed danger, because, before Bobby could say “It’s my prerogative,” she flung back the first class curtain in search of her wayward husband. I felt better that Whitney wasn’t wearing any makeup either, but it made her look even scarier when she gave the evil eye to all us females. Needless to say, it was the most famous evil eye I had ever been given.

*******

A month later we received confirmation that the Playboy show was going to go to Japan for the entire summer! Not just one week. Not two weeks, but the entire summer! That was a solid eight weeks of confirmed work, pay, and, more importantly, adventure. With the Japan gig in my back pocket, I decided it was time to leave Adam. I was too young and restless to commit to a relationship; and if I were serious about giving this entertainment career a go, I needed to bite the bullet and get myself up to Los Angeles. Cindy had already made the move there to pursue screenwriting, and my four- to five-hour, round-trip commute from Del Mar to L.A. and back for rehearsals had been grueling. Although it was hard leaving Adam, my Del Martian friends, and my cushy, comfortable life, I knew it was time to commit to my career.

Since I’d be gone all summer, there was no use in getting an apartment right away. Dancers had to save money every chance they got, and paying rent (my biggest expense) while I was out of town for more than a couple of weeks was ludicrous. Instead, I packed up most of my belongings and put them in storage—the cheaper option—and mooched off my sister while rehearsing in Los Angeles.

Singing was still a dream of mine, burning even more brightly after filling in for Rhonda during her malaria crisis, so Val hooked me up with an ex-Playboy’s Girl of Rock & Roll lead singer for voice lessons. Formerly known as Melanie, this fantastic rocker had changed her name to “Kali”—the Hindu goddess of empowerment and destruction. She lived, worked, and taught lessons at Michael Sembello’s Zendetta Studios—essentially his home with a recording studio in the back yard. Once again, I was oblivious that I was standing on sacred musical ground, treading where a star—Michael Sembello—had tread before me. Had I known at the time that Michael was the artist who performed the song “Maniac” from the 1983 film
Flashdance
(touted as the third highest-grossing song from a soundtrack), I would have flipped out.
Flashdance
premiered my senior year in high school, and I absolutely went crazy over that song, which served as the background for Jennifer Beal’s shimmying sweatfest in the movie. As a teenager, I used to put on my favorite turquoise leotard and pink leg warmers, skedaddle down to the dance studio in my basement, pop in the cassette tape, and unabashedly boogie down.