AND AN EPIC TAIL (FYI, it’s loooong…)

The Cabaret Room, in the Playboy Club, was teeming with patrons; smoldering cigarettes glowing, a cacophony of ice clinking and an ambience embodying the dimmed esthetic of a classic noir setting. With the Bunnies performing their iconic ‘Bunny Dip’ – the White Russians, Harvey Wallbangers and Tom Collins were laid out for all to imbibe.

Suddenly one of the bunny-eared hostesses loses her footing…and while tottering, with tray clanking…that fluffy tailed server goes belly up. With an uproar of concern, one of the ‘Keyholders’ kindly lends a hand. Fortunately, the femme fatale quickly recovers and with ears in hand triumphantly yanks off HIS wig. Was there an impostor in our midst? That totter-clank-and-yank set the tone of what was to come and that the show was about to begin…

It all began, for me, when I found myself seated amongst a patchwork of unique, colorful, I guess one could say eclectic people, who would be my fellow cast-mates in this new show to be performed at THE FAMOUS PLAYBOY CLUB on Michigan Ave in Chicago. And I was in a cold sweat – some of these peeps intimidated the pants off me (which would come in handy later). Being a young, classically trained dancer…well, this was nothing like anything I had imagined being part of. I was a nice Jewish girl… But this sure wasn’t gonna be Fiddler on the Roof!!

This was “POUFF”, and although I have a very, very vague recollection of the audition – being told what the show would actually entail was conspicuously in question. And apparently I never bothered to ask (such wide-eyed innocence). Our director, Peter Jackson, had just come from staging the show in NYC and although I don’t remember much of his ‘directing’ style, his Frenchie accent, seeming like a ‘put-on’, continued to assure us that “ze dancing would be beautiful, no?”. Hmmm – not sure ‘bout that. But when Rita Charisse was introduced as our choreographer AND sister-in-law of Cyd Charisse…Cyd-freakin-Charisse…my fears seemed to subside, after all I was one step removed from Singin in the Rain dance royalty.

Though I can’t recall how long our rehearsal period was, I do remember that the arrival of our costumes was taking FOREVER. It was delay after delay until the box, quite small for a whole mess of numbers and a cast of twelve, finally arrived. When the teeny, tiny, itty bitty get-ups were extracted from within – it was clear all the feathers and rhinestones couldn’t even begin to cover those fragments of fabric. With mouth agape – I was freaking out.

While divvying out the scraps, Peter Jackson casually revealed that some of the routines we had been rehearsing would include the unveiling of boobs. WHAT??? And WHO?? I didn’t sign up for this…did I?  While relieved to find out it wouldn’t be me doing the exposing, my brand new friend was dealt an unexpected twist…her duet was to be topless. And I have yet to see an arm raise with such breakneck speed as hers did to catch his attention and respond with one of the following, “I can’t do that” or “these boobs are not going on display” or it might have been “are you shitting me?” Then, in her panic-stricken state, and a twist of fate, she managed to injure herself on a jump split. So her dancing was out and her boobs remained under cover. But guess who was the chosen one to take her place?! MEEEE! AND NOOOO…

With what looked like a headband, Peter Jackson handed over the costume to me… a bottom only (if you could call it that?).  “Uh excuse me, Mr. Director, I think you forgot something. There must be something else in that delightful box for me?” LIKE A TOP??!! And that’s when he handed me a wire contraption that had me very confused. So I responded, with, “I can’t do that”, “these boobs are not setting atop that wire contraption” …” are you shitting me?”

With great indignation and an I-didn’t-sign-up-for-this-nonsense attitude I informed the powers that be that under no circumstance would I be displaying my breasts and if I wasn’t given a top…well, I would wear a bra beneath that boobie cage. And I was serious. So Peter Jackson tried to sweet-talk me, “Mon chéri you will be so beautiful, no?” Uh, nope. Well I’d show him. Dress rehearsal #1 – giant feathers, tall headdress, bottom-ish triangle but no cover up… me in bra. Dress rehearsal #2 – giant feathers, tall headdress, bottom-ish triangle but no cover up…me in bra. Opening night – giant feathers, tall headdress, bottom-ish triangle but no cover up…ME IN BRA.

Next night – I got me that topper! That’s how you call one’s bluff folks!

I also played Anita Ekberg in a half-baked scenario of a ‘Fellini dream sequence’. Having already dealt with and managed my top issue (feelin’ pretty full of myself) now I was needing to contend with what to do about my bottom situation. Are you kidding me?  I kid you not. At the end of the convoluted dance routine I was directed to emulate the classic pose of Michelangelo’s statue of David’s. And then expected to unzip my diaphanous dress and let it effortlessly fall to the stage floor…leaving my butt fully exposed, revealed, au natural. So what’s a girl to do??

This is what this girl did. My zipper just kept malfunctioning (wink-wink), and as hard as I tried to gracefully undo, it continued ceasing to function according to protocol (wink-wink). That darn zipper kept sticking until the lights went down completely…so, again…what’s a girl to do? Well, this girl do-ed that for months.  

The bizarre new musical, as the ad above describes, was (per Peter Jackson) “a Parisian style revue” with men in exaggerated drag makeup, acts playing on male/female ambiguity, that absurd Fellini dream sequence and a cockfight duet (me with the bra situation). But was the typical Playboy Club audience really interested in seeing this? And might the sensational deception and startling reveal each night been a bit too much for those ‘Keyholder’ members to handle?

The centerpiece of the show was performed by our ‘Star’, and my dressing room companion. Having appeared topless throughout the show, her final number and star turn began when she entered the stage in a filmy, silky wraparound robe. Based on the old Chiffon margarine commercial using the mother nature archetype, our Star, with perfect synchronization, mouthed the then famous phrase…” MOTHER NATURE, MOTHER NATURE – IT’S NOT NICE TO FOOL MOTHER NATURE”. And while the flashes of strobe lights pummeled her body she threw wide her filmy, white dress for all to see. And ALL did they see!

With her enhanced breasts, and because she was born with A PENIS, there was LOTS to see. For the audience, AT THE PLAYBOY CLUB, it was eye-opening, mind-boggling, startling and quite scandalous back in the day. When we all entered for our Can-Can finale those people were CONFUSED and giving us extreme once-overs trying to determine who had what parts – or what we were all hiding. Those Playboy Club Keyholders were reeling. Security guards were called in for our future shows…those spectators could not handle it!!

Our ‘Star’, one of Chicago’s top female impersonators, was unequivocally the most fascinating dressing room mate I had ever had. She was fabulous. And oh how I looked forward to her daily fashion flair… accessorized with veiled hats and vintage gloves. And she was FUN-NY. While delighting us with make-up tips galore and the secrets of the ‘tuck’, she also enlightened us on her desire to transition and all the psychological testing and expense she would incur. There was a lot to gain understanding of and I often wonder how her life evolved.

As to that Can-Can finale – we dancers were thrilled! Most of the choreography was fairly rudimental, but this was an all-out, raucous, high energy, high kicking, jumping into splits, cartwheeling, skirts a-swinging, howling, exhausting tour de force… reminiscent of the Moulin Rouge… where we could really show off our stuff. And not ANY of that stuff. And we captivated our audiences by doing it twelve times a week.

Within the first couple of months of our run, a guy I had dated a couple of times, but hadn’t heard from in a few months, decided to reach out to me. When I casually dropped a hint that I was currently in a show – he insisted on coming to see it. Uh-oh. (would he also be confused?) But with my top in place and my zipper still misfiring I permitted him putting in an appearance.  Standing backstage, my newest and now dear friend peeked through the curtains to give him the once-over. It took just one quick glance for her to crystal ball it and pronounce, “you’re gonna marry that guy”.* (was her g-string suppressing blood flow to her brain??!)

By the time our little show was about to come to a close my concerns about flashing an audience had certainly dwindled and my initial innocence had completely vanished. C’mon, I did the damn revue for six months. Yes, I did this show for 6 months. And when the star of our show made a hasty retreat – unfortunately never showing up again – we quickly needed to divvy up her parts. Naturally we cut “Mother Nature” from the rundown and I was charged with taking on her role in “What Makes a Man a Man”.

This particular piece of business began with one of our male dancers seated at a dressing table while applying drag makeup and lip-synching to Charles Aznavour’s version of ‘What Makes a Man a Man’. Then came my entrance through the curtains. Wrapped in a velvet robe I lip-synched my way through Peggy Lee’s ‘Fever’ ending with a sort of switcheroo of places trickery that would render me topless for a brief moment. No biggy… I had a plan. With a jar of Vaseline catching my eye and spying a tub of glitter – I frosted my bazooms with that petroleum jelly and dunked them in that vat of glitter. My “top” was complete.

As it was just a couple of weeks until we closed, the producers never hired a replacement. So…for two weeks I Vaseline-d and glittered my way through those 12 shows per week…and I am still finding remnants of that razzle dazzle.

“POUFF” was the best of times.

…oh, and Barry Manilow caught a glimpse of my naked tuchis. I bet he was thrilled. (smiley face)

*PS. That guy? Married him…