Authors: Kristi Lynn Davis
Satin was a voluptuous gal with lusciously long, blond hair. Under that soft, sultry exterior, however, was a tough little cookie. I’m sure she could hold her own, if not entirely slaughter almost any woman, in a mud wrestling contest.
Callie, Jasmine, and Rhonda were our well-seasoned singers. All three had performed in the Playboy Show at the Maxim in Vegas and were so well acquainted with Valerie they called her “Val.” Callie was a riveting seductress who reminded me of a young Morticia from “
The Munsters
” with her waist-long, brunette hair parted in the middle. On stage she had a dark, sorceress aura about her, but off stage she was as fun, funny, and lighthearted as a person can be. An L.A. native, she was always sporting some funky, ahead-of-the-trend clothing and was game for just about anything.
Jasmine, a nice girl from New Mexico, was an aspiring country singer and guitar player. She was tall, thin, flat, and wholesomely beautiful with waist-long, stick-straight blond hair. She did her best to put on a rock and roll vibe for the show, but underneath you could tell she was a country sweetheart. At thirty-something, Rhonda was our most senior and most experienced performer. This rowdy rocker from Vegas sported big, black, wild, frizzy hair, and a curvaceous, womanly body. She had found salvation in her Mormon church and was proudly counting the days she’d been sober. Rhonda had a rough edge about her, having lived on the wild side for so long. All three singers were amazingly sexy performers in their own way.
Besides yours truly, Porsche was the only other real dancer Valerie hired. The two of us were the only Playboy virgins, the rest of the cast being Playboy veterans in some respect, either on stage or in print. Porsche was a talented dancer with short, strawberry-blond hair and a fantastic boob job that was her pride and joy. She had married a sensible guy with a normal job and was the only wedded one of the bunch.
I was nervous and shy around these stunningly beautiful, overly sexy, talented, and worldly women. I felt like a frumpy housefrau in comparison. Many of them knew each other and chatted away as they dug through a box of old black leather, silver-studded S&M mix-and-match costume pieces claiming their favorites from previous shows.
“Remember this ugly thing? I’m not wearing that again.” “Hand me that belt. It’s mine.” “Here, Jasmine, this must be your tiny bra; I’d never fit into it. What is it: triple A?” “Very funny. Ha ha.” “Satin, this would look good on you.” “Does this make me look fat?”
The costume box contained as assortment of thigh-high black boots, black halter tops, black bustiers, lacy black bras, black leather gloves, dog-collar chokers, and wide black belts to wear over black thongs. It was Harley Davidson meets harlot.
Gulp
.
“Find something to wear, dear,” Valerie said to me. “These are the costumes for your opening number.” I pawed through the scraps of black, black, and even more black, hoping to find something that would cover up my flaws and accentuate my assets.
The veteran girls seemed to take over, leaving Val in the dust. A couple of them emerged from a closet where they hauled out another box to rummage through. “I’m sick of those old costumes. How about these, Val? These would look better,” Rhonda said holding up a colorful, sequined spaghetti-strapped mini dress in one hand. “We have five of these and three of these” she added, grasping a midriff-bearing sequined halter top and sequined shorty-shorts in the other hand. “The singers can wear the dresses, because I’m not showing my stomach, and this would look better with my boobs.”
The veteran girls grabbed their picks, and I was stuck with a halter top and shorts, which meant I was going to have to show my stomach. I kept wishing I weighed ten pounds less and had washboard abs. Still, I guess this was better than a black thong, motorcycle mama bra, and studded dog collar. We were given black fishnet tights and black stiletto boots to finish off the look.
For our photo session, we grouped together for a sexy pose that would lure those Southeast Asian men away from their bowls of rice and toward our bosoms. Sure that a massive pimple wouldn’t help our marketing efforts, I tried to part my hair so that a few strands hung over my forehead. Then I watched as the other girls instinctively arched their backs, stuck out their chests, cocked their heads, and pouted their lips for the photo. I had no clue how to make love to the camera, so I just sucked in my stomach, held my breath, and smiled.
I am way out of my league here.
Next, we changed into super-short, simple, sexy spaghetti-strap black dresses with long, white satin gloves that came up to the elbow. It was a classier, more romantic look. Having no cellulite showing and being fairly hidden in the back of the group, I had a much easier time posing like a lady of the boudoir.
Glory be! The promo pictures actually turned out pretty nice. I was relieved that one had to look very closely to see that boil I had sweated buckets over. Anyway, no one was going to be looking at me when there were professional sex kittens offering an eyeful. Meow.
*******
Once the photo shoot was over, it was time to get down to business and learn the show. Our rehearsals were held in Santa Monica at the studio of producer/director/choreographer Anita Mann. Sadly, my fabulous friend Gino was ousted as choreographer before we even started. He was replaced with Anita, who was much more experienced, but I felt terrible for Gino and am forever grateful for his recommendation. If you are out there, Gino, I hope when this door closed, a better one opened for you.
Anyway, Anita was this forty-something, super sexy blond dancer/actress who used to choreograph for the 1980s TV show
Solid Gold
—a musical countdown in which the sultry Solid Gold Dancers would move alluringly to the top ten pop hits of the week. These women knew how to work the camera and were always shown in their close-ups making seductive faces for the people watching at home. Of course, I loved the show, which aired when I was a teenager, so Anita was a celebrity to me. Her work there even got her nominated twice for Primetime Emmy Awards for Outstanding Choreography. (She later earned a Primetime Emmy Award for Outstanding Choreography for her work on
The Miss America Pageant
and continued to produce phenomenal productions for stage, screen, and television, even garnering recognition by the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences as “one of America's top five contemporary choreographers.” Anita was also born in Detroit. What an amazing talent hailing from my neck of the woods!)
To stay young and gorgeous, Anita was game to try a facial peel or some Hollywood miracle beauty treatment or a special diet. Whatever she did, it worked. She also sported stylish clothing, especially shoes. Dancers are very trendy; when her dancers would come in wearing the latest cool duds, she had to have them right away. She looked sensational.
Scads of distractions, however, kept Anita spread so thin that they made it hard for her to focus on one task. When she first started her business, she actually choreographed shows herself. You’d learn two sets of eight, and she’d have to answer a phone call about another project or her boys would come in or someone had to know if she wanted Chinese take-out or chicken burritos for lunch or one of a hundred other questions had to be answered. She’d return to rehearsal wondering where we’d left off. This was the way she worked, and you could count on her projects being tweaked and perfected up until the last moment.
Used to working television where she choreographed on the spot, Anita seemed to thrive best with the push of a deadline looming in her face. To succeed with her, you had to be able to work with organized chaos, rehearse yourself, do your homework, and be flexible and prepared for last-minute changes. She was extremely kind and friendly and happy to have you, but if you could steal a minute to talk to her it was probably while she was on hold on her cell phone, in between bites of chop suey and running to her next meeting. She was like an espresso shot in Doc Martens. I wanted to be her, looking Hollywood hot and sassy in jeans, black leather jacket, and with cell phone, before cell phones were popular.
Anita often critiqued her choreography as she created it, saying, “This isn’t right.” I thought, “How can it be right or wrong?” She was attempting to work the choreography so that you didn’t have odd weight changes or “cheats”—where you have to quickly switch to another foot to be prepared to go in another direction. Her attention to these sorts of details made my job easier and less disjointed. I learned a lot from Anita and thoroughly dug working with her.
Anita had her hands full in teaching the show due not so much to her business juggling act as to the impulsive Playmates. These unpredictable Bunnies didn’t have the same work ethic as did the professional singers and dancers. Everyone held their breath wondering if they would show up on time, if at all, for rehearsals and, once there, if they would agree to do what was asked. The choreography had to be amended to fit their abilities, as they weren’t professional dancers. In general, reliability was an issue. Perhaps some ladies weren’t used to the daily discipline required to practice and perfect a production.
In fact, partway through the rehearsal process, Taffy, a Playmate who came with a designated talent (gymnastics), up and quit on us. I was disappointed, because she really spiced up our act. She was replaced by Kylie, a professional dancer from Anita’s talent pool, who was another sexy, petite blond with a fantastic body and the ability to be provocative. Sadly, we were now down a Bunny. Gladly, we were up a real dancer.
My track was easy—no difficult choreography or challenging singing. It was all fun and few worries. Between performing and changing costumes, I was busy the entire show—no time to sit down and take a coffee break—but the pace was comfortable enough.
Some of our show consisted of slightly altered and patched-up hand-me down numbers from Anita’s other shows. Being a smart business woman, Anita recycled her work when appropriate. The numbers were entertaining and energetic, seductive and flirtatious, but they weren’t particularly pornographic; this was no XXX Adult Girlie show like you’d see in Vegas. For me it was just the right amount of risqué without crossing over into sleazy. I could do this show and still show my face in church. Maybe.
In retrospect, I feel extremely lucky that the show was as respectable as it was. Being an adults-only production, I could have shown up for rehearsal and been required to do lord knows what with lord knows who. What would I have done? I was just that naïve that the thought never crossed my mind about what trouble I might be getting myself into.
*******
February rolled around, and before we knew it, it was time to leave the U.S. for foreign lands! Val was constantly on the phone with the booking agent, but we still didn’t have a definite itinerary. All we knew was that we were starting out in Indonesia, and the rest was up in the air. We were prepared to be gone for six months to places including Singapore, Malaysia, Japan, and India. After that, maybe we would visit Germany or other venues in Europe. There were so many options on the table. We didn’t know where this journey might take us, but it was sure to be exciting.
Half a year was a long time to be gone from those we loved, so Callie planned a bon voyage party at an Italian restaurant in L.A. for all of us and our friends. We were Playboy’s Girls of Rock & Roll, but we hadn’t gotten paid yet, so the invitation had a disclaimer:
Due to the current economic climate,
we can only provide location, fun & good looks.
Not grub.
Simply put, if you’re hungry – bring money.
My boyfriend, Adam, also threw a big farewell party for me. All his friends came, and they even brought presents. I was uncomfortable about it because I didn’t know these people well, and they were probably ambivalent about my leaving. I’m sure they came mostly to support Adam. It was a little embarrassing to have all that attention lavished upon me, but what the heck. I was leaving on a grand adventure and wouldn’t see these fine folks for many months. Why not celebrate?
Unfortunately, during all the hoopla and preparations for the trip, I came down with bronchitis. I was so sick I finally went to the doctor, afraid that he would tell me I wouldn’t be able to fly. Luckily, he gave me permission along with a prescription for antibiotics. I stocked up on meds and Sudafed day-time and night-time decongestant.
*******
Playboy’s Girls of Rock & Roll packed their bags for Jakarta—the capital of Indonesia and its largest city. For going away gifts, Val presented us all with Playboy T-shirts and blue jean jackets each with a huge bunny logo emblazoned on the back and our names embroidered on the front. We were to wear these on our trip. Forget about going incognito; we were shamelessly and conspicuously advertising our affiliation with Playboy. At the time, I just thought it was exciting to be part of the club. And it sure beat wearing bunny ears and a fluffy tail.
It was unbelievably thrilling to be standing in the ticket line at Los Angeles International Airport in the Southeast Asia terminal. I never thought I’d visit that part of the world as a tourist let alone a star with Playboy. I felt like I was embarking on an exotic adventure. I was.
Besides Val and the eight of us girls, we were also traveling with one very important man—Malcolm. Val had the smarts to hire this 6-foot 5-inch tall, dark, and handsome, fortyish-year-old bodyguard and company manager of sorts. The Asians were used to dealing with men as authority figures, and Malcolm was better suited than Val to being the tough guy. He helped us with anything and everything from making sure our huge costume trunks made it on the plane to protecting us girls from overzealous fans. Having Malcolm’s brains and brawn along was a big bonus.