Authors: Kristi Lynn Davis
Instead, Porsche and I flanked yet another Bunny. This time it was Satin as she confidently belted out “It’s Raining Men,” by the Weather Girls. We began in bright yellow raincoats twirling umbrellas as we ran around stage and then stripped down to our costumes: short, spandex, spaghetti-strap, rhinestone-studded disco dresses with fringed skirts. Satin’s dress was light blue and ours were black. While she showered the crowd with her sexy song, Porsche and I finally got to show off with more challenging choreography. Hallelujah!
Satin’s singing really took the audience by storm when she did her kittenish rendition of “Makin’ Whoopee.” She’d sit on a male audience member’s lap, stroke his hair, and otherwise embarrass him with her advances. That was the closest performance we had in the show to a lap dance (although much classier), and it was always a big hit.
Callie showed off her legitimate vocal talent by raising the rafters with her show-stopping rendition of “I Will Always Love You”—the Dolly Parton song made famous by Whitney Houston. I was blown away by her versatile voice and sultry stage presence.
To add some variety and to highlight Jasmine’s specific talents, the show took a country turn. For her solo, she sang “Achy Breaky Heart”—that goofy tune made famous and then infamous by mullet-haired Billy Ray Cyrus. Callie, Rhonda, Porsche, and I backed her up with some country line dance-type moves and a lot of improvised “Woos!” and “Yee haws!”
Our costumes were cute: cowboy hats and cowboy boots, gold lamé bras, fringed brown suede armbands, and little brown suede fringed skirts that were open in the front so our gold bikini bottoms would show. Jasmine’s, on the other hand, was stunning. She wore a brown suede fringed bra, fringed suede armbands, and gorgeous custom-made suede cowboy chaps studded in rhinestones. The chaps were so superb I was tempted to buy a pair to wear out dancing. Instead of wearing the chaps over jeans like a cowboy does (and like I’d do if going out for a night on the town), Jasmine wore her chaps over G-string trunks. This created an interesting effect as the back of the “pants” was completely cut out. Consequently, when she turned around, the audience got a panoramic view of the landscape, as the opening revealed a lot of bare behind and only a little thong with her song. She was very cheeky, indeed.
Back in L.A., Anita had sent us to Elaine’s—a famous Hollywood costume shop—to get fitted for our cowgirl costumes. While there, we had a star spotting: “That’s Nancy Sinatra! That’s Nancy Sinatra!” we whispered excitedly. Frank Sinatra’s daughter, famous for the hit “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’,” was there for a costume fitting, too. Unlike some of us, I’m sure she opted to have her derriere fully covered.
Back to the show. Kylie and the Bunnies kept the mood lighthearted with “I’m Too Sexy.” (Remember that narcissistic Right Said Fred song about being too sexy for everything from one’s own love, shirt, car, hat, and pussy cat to Milan, New York, and Japan?) The lovely ladies took turns strutting sexily on the runway in their lace teddies and fur stoles à la a fashion show. It was a Playmate parade of sorts in which they got to shake their little tushies on the catwalk.
In addition to prancing around in lingerie for “I’m Too Sexy,” Kylie was also required to do what was supposed to have been Taffy’s solo: an acrobatic dance to Madonna’s song, “Erotica.” Kylie wasn’t exactly a gymnast so, instead, she seductively rolled around on the floor, tantalized with her extreme flexibility, and did straddle splits all while spinning a long ribbon on a stick. At times, the ribbon was purposefully used like a whip, so anyone with an appreciation for dominant women got a little teaser.
After Kylie had finished whipping the audience into a frenzy, the singers reappeared with their Aretha Franklin medley, which included “Respect” and “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman.” This was Rhonda’s chance to shine as soloist. With her booming, gritty, powerful voice, she did Motown proud. She was the most authentically rock and rolliest of the group, so when she said to give her a little “R-E-S-P-E-C-T,” you knew you’d better do it.
For our closing, all the girls reconvened to sing the sappy, happy Michael Bolton tune “Love Is a Wonderful Thing.” We wore our gold bikinis from the cowboy number with gold sequin blazers over top and did simple, subdued dance moves. The number was tame enough that we could have performed it at a nursing home or an elementary school PTA fundraiser. This sentimental song led right into a rousing reprise of “Girls of Rock & Roll,” and tha-tha-tha-that’s all, folks.
When we walked around the club between shows, we noticed that there were a multitude of tiny private viewing rooms situated around the perimeter. Through the darkened windows, I could see what looked like a large bingo board. “What game are they playing in there?” I wondered innocently. On closer inspection, I realized this was not some mild form of recreational gambling for senior citizens. The numbered board corresponded to numbered women for sale for the night. BINGO! We termed such viewing rooms “the Zoo.” Kind of made us sick to our stomachs. There was blatant prostitution on the premises and yet the government censors insisted on inspecting our show. Quite the double standard.
I still felt horrible from the bronchitis, but I had made it through the show. Everyone had, and it seemed to go as well as could be expected. I was elated to finally go to bed and get a good night’s sleep.
*******
In addition to being a night club, Dynasty also claimed to be an “international restaurant,” which I think meant that it served Chinese food. That’s what they gave us anyway. Each evening we were escorted to a private dining room where our own private wait staff would serve us dinner. As word spread that it was feeding time for the Bunnies, much commotion would ensue; the employees would gather en masse, following us down the hall, more staff members joining the parade as we made our way to the dining room. Like animals observed at the zoo, we were stared at and spied on as we ate, people’s heads poking through the doorway to watch these foreign creatures in their unnatural habitat.
A beautiful and generous spread of what appeared to be Chinese food was placed on the table. Famished, I eagerly dug my fork into the pile of breaded fish nuggets only to discover the unwelcomed crunch of fish bones in my mouth as I began to chew it. I completely lost my appetite.
It seemed that everywhere we went, our food contained animal body parts, rubbery skin, bones, and slime that we wasteful Americans usually discard. By the end of the first week, I was ravenous and on the verge of tears when we were taken to yet another “parts-is-parts” restaurant. Finally, I found fresh pineapple juice on the menu. It was exquisite, and I drank it all evening while shuffling the rest of my meal around on my plate so as not to offend our hosts.
Even the most adventurous eater might be surprised at how unappealing the food can be after a few weeks of finding chicken parts and fish bones in your food. Usually, I love to try the native cuisine, but here I was squeamish about the animal remnants and was quickly becoming a vegetarian. More accurately, I was turning into a Pop Tart-ian—saved from starvation by the stash of Pop Tarts, instant oatmeal, and hot chocolate mix I’d brought with me. Thankfully, some wise, old showbiz sage had warned me that Asian breakfasts were unappealing to American taste buds, and it would behoove me to bring along morning munchables. Fortunately, I heeded her advice and devoted a considerable amount of precious suitcase space to pseudo astronaut food.
Ironically, I reserved these sugary, non-nutritious treats for dinner, as the hotel breakfasts were absolutely divine. The room service menu actually included a traditional American breakfast complete with cornflakes and milk, buttered toast and jam, bacon or sausage, two fried eggs, and the most delectable, dark, rich coffee I had ever tasted. I guess I should have expected some tasty java; we were in the capital city of the island of Java, after all. But this was heavenly coffee as if roasted and brewed by God himself/herself. I relished those morning feasts and ate every last morsel in case the rest of the day proved to be a fast.
Ordering was sometimes an ordeal, however, and it was always a surprise to see which items made it onto the breakfast tray. Typical American that I am, I didn’t speak a word of Indonesian and had to order in English. It was hit or miss whether or not the person taking room service orders on the phone understood any of what I was saying. No matter how loudly and clearly I annunciated “C-O-O-O-RN-FL-A-A-A-KES,” if they didn’t speak English, the higher volume and slower speed wasn’t going to help. Miraculously, most of the time, I got pretty close to what I had asked for.
Luckily, the hotel also housed a restaurant with open air courtyard seating and a delicious truly international menu, which we were able to eat at if we were there at lunch time.
*******
If I had really wanted to complain about something, it shouldn’t have been the food; a far greater problem was the water, which was unsafe for us to drink. Ice cubes or anything washed in the water (like fresh fruits or vegetables) were strictly off limits. At one club, I was relieved to receive real Coca Cola in glass bottles instead of a cup of Coke on the rocks, which would have been a digestive disaster. We drank the precious liquid with a straw so as to not touch our lips to something that might be contaminated from the water.
While we did our best to not ingest the unsanitary H2O, other unexpected ramifications were unavoidable. After a few days in Indonesia, for instance, I noticed that my sweaty costumes smelled like the worst body odor ever. I was mortified and embarrassed, worried I’d be forevermore labeled the “smelly girl”—like the poor middle school kid who reeked with B.O.
Thank goodness, as it turned out, everyone’s costumes were rank. It’s not unusual for costumes to get ripe after repeated uses, especially when wet with perspiration. Still, Valerie was appalled and had us all hand wash whatever items we could in the travel packets of laundry soap we’d brought along. Playboy’s Girls of Rock & Roll were supposed to be funky, but this was ridiculous. And highly repugnant.
The washing hardly helped at all, however. We still smelled repulsive. What was going on here? Then one day I detected a terrible stench in my room, surprisingly similar to the one emanating from our costumes. Sniffing around my room like a police dog hot on the trail, I traced the scent back to my bathtub drain. Horror of horrors! The water smelled like sewage. We were dousing ourselves daily in this bacterial soup, soaking our skin and our costumes in filth. Case closed.
Unfortunately, there was little we could do to rectify the situation. The more we showered, the more we marinated ourselves in microorganisms and pollution. We smelled worse than a men’s locker room after football practice on a hot summer day. It was disgusting. You really learn to appreciate the luxuries you take for granted—like good water—when you no longer have them. I LOVE CLEAN WATER!
While our “
eau de excrement
” effluvium may have repelled the audience, it appeared to attract rats and roaches like an alluring perfume, for we found both scurrying about our dressing rooms. Screams and shouts of “Oh my God, I saw a rat!” “Ewwww….cockroaches!” and “Get your stuff off the floor!” launched a flurry of activity as we fast and furiously hung costume pieces everywhere to avoid becoming a rat or roach motel. As if roaches and even rats can’t climb walls. I cringed at the thought of stepping my foot into an insect-infested cowboy boot.
Finding places to suspend our outfits and elevate our accessories was particularly tricky at the second club where we performed, because, unlike the palatial expanse we enjoyed at Dynasty, this dressing room was akin to a teeny, tiny closet. It probably was one at one time. All of us could barely fit in the space simultaneously; there was no room to spare. But we did the best we could, were careful not to leave food around, and made sure to check our costumes for critters before putting them on.
Of all the possible performance problems I anticipated, rats and roaches never crossed my mind. The constant vigilance required to avoid unwanted contact with these vermin far outweighed the extreme challenges of eight women attempting to fast-change in our cramped compartment. Here again, I had taken sanitation for granted. I LOVE SANITATION! Perhaps we should have traveled with an exterminator instead of a body guard.
While I’m talking about privileges I’ll never take for granted again, I’d like to also mention good teeth, because most of the Indonesians had horrible, rotten teeth. Even twenty-year-olds. Can you imagine being a youngster, hot on the prowl for dates, and smiling your sexiest smile only to reveal a mouth full of black holes and decay? I don’t know if it was the bad water, lack of proper nutrition, dearth of health services, or something else entirely, but those poor people were in serious need of dental help. I LOVE GOOD TEETH!
*******
Once the show was up and running, we had free time during the day to do what we wanted. The girls decided we would treat ourselves to massages and an afternoon at the hotel spa. The spa had a room filled with massage tables separated only by some flimsy curtains to offer a bit of privacy. Consequently, we were all able not only to be massaged at the same time, but also to hear what was going on in the rubdowns next to us.
Not knowing how they did massages in Indonesia, we stripped down to nothing but our underwear—a typical practice when getting massages in California. When the tiny Indonesian masseuses walked into the room and saw that we were wearing G-strings, they burst out giggling. I didn’t know what to think. Were their clients usually completely naked? Or did they find it funny that our underwear appeared to have been swallowed up by our buttocks?