The Vegas Diaries: Romance, Rolling the Dice, and the Road to Reinvention (2 page)

“The country here is rich and pleasant, but you must pass through rough and dangerous places before you reach the end of your journey.”

—L. Frank Baum,
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

February 2002

T
he velvet curtain raised slowly, teasing the expectant audience, as a collective intake of air seemed to still the room. Inch by inch, a decadent pair of jaw-dropping red six-inch stilettos were revealed, illuminated by a soft spotlight. Attached to these glittering heels were two perfectly toned legs that, as the curtain continued to rise, seemed to go on for miles. Seductively wrapped in silky, sheer stockings, these glamorous, glistening gams existed in a world of their own.

It was my first introduction to the world of burlesque, and I was hooked.

W
RAPPED IN A BLACK
vinyl dress that appeared to be painted on, a bouncing blond ball of energy had burst into a Playboy mansion buffet
dinner and smacked a flyer in the middle of the table advertising a burlesque show. It was 2002 and a petite beauty named Stacy Burke began frequenting the infamous estate, where I was then living. Stacy was a popular fetish model, and in Los Angeles during that period of time, the fetish scene and the world of burlesque tended to overlap.

“It’ll be fun, you really should come!” she repeated after meeting a bit of reluctance from Mr. Hugh Hefner. To say he was a creature of habit would be a wild understatement: He did the exact same things in the exact same order each week—and a Saturday-night cabaret show was not part of the usual agenda. Needless to say, I was surprised when Stacy’s charming enthusiasm did the trick: Hef announced that we’d be diverting from our previously scheduled programming in order to attend this adult revue the following weekend.

The show, called
Swank
, was held at the El Rey Theatre—an art deco movie house built on Wilshire Boulevard in the 1930s, which had since been transformed into a live venue.

I wasn’t sure what to expect from the show itself. I didn’t know much about burlesque at the time and was just grateful that we were doing something that was a departure from our rigid routine.

Our group arrived a few minutes before showtime, and we were led to a VIP table near the stage. Moments after we took our seats, sensuous music started pouring through the speakers, filling the room with a tantalizing, sexy beat. A spotlight hit the center of the velvet curtains, signaling the start of the show.

Each enthralling act, one after the other, topped the last. I was spellbound, my eyes fixated on the seductive performers who seemed to keep the attention of everyone in the room with such graceful ease. There was a woman called Mistress Persephone, with her skin painted blue, performing as a Shiva-style goddess; a blond tassel twirler; and the headliner, an on-the-cusp-of-fame Dita Von Teese. The raven-haired beauty spun around the stage, dancing en pointe—a ruby-red-clad, jewel-box ballerina come to life.

Besides the obvious—the glamour and the sex appeal—there was something else that made this show utterly intoxicating: it felt like art. The skill and craft each entertainer brought to the table was undeniable. The costumes were just homespun enough to say:
I made this. This is my creation
. Every routine was so well-tailored to the individual performer that I had to believe each one was an original number. Every act showcased the artist’s individuality. These performers weren’t carbon copies of one another, far from it, and they were celebrated for their differences. Sitting around our VIP table was one bottle-blond fembot after the next, clad in some version of the same outlandish bustier, and all slightly dead behind the eyes. In burlesque, a woman could be both sexy
and
unique. In the world I was in, you were compared and judged on your ability to assimilate to a set standard of what made a woman attractive, all the while feeling ever so lucky if you were thrown a token compliment once in a while.

From that night on, burlesque became my obsession. I was desperate to see every show I heard about and read virtually everything I could find on the topic. Not having had any professional dance or stage experience, I didn’t imagine taking up the art form myself, but as I learned a long time ago, sometimes fate has a funny way of putting things in your path.

During the second season of the E! reality series
The Girls Next Door
, Hef, the other two girlfriends, and I jetted off on a European press tour. This included a stopover in Paris and a visit to the iconic Crazy Horse, or “Le Crazy,” as locals call it.

Located in one of Paris’s most fashionable arrondissements, the venue was lit with a simple neon sign that read “Crazy Horse de Paris” above white canopy overhangs. After entering the red-carpeted lobby, we descended the darkened stairway into the self-proclaimed “sanctuary of glamour,” an intimate cabaret filled with plush velvet chairs and banquettes swathed in the venue’s signature “crazy red” color. As an usher escorted us to our seats, I asked her about the women who performed in the show. I was surprised to learn that every Crazy Horse dancer had to be
classically trained in the art, and before even stepping onto the legendary stage, each woman was required to complete another round of rigorous training. This show was not for amateurs.

The lights dimmed and a video lit up across the curtain, showing a scene of the dancers preparing backstage in choreographed chaos. Suddenly the film went dark and the words “God Save Our Bare Skin” splashed across the sparkling curtain, which then lifted to reveal nine of the most flawless women I’d ever seen, wearing bearskins (the tall fur hats made famous by the Buckingham Palace guards) and bondage-inspired costumes that left little to the imagination. To the sound of a military beat, the dancers began stomping, kicking, and saluting their way through Crazy Horse’s most iconic routine, showcasing their perfect figures and glowing skin.

The elegant women who graced the Crazy Horse stage didn’t seem to be there merely to entertain an audience; rather, they created the illusion that we were their privileged guests, being offered a glimpse behind the luxurious veil of this private world. I was filled with admiration. Next to these gorgeous French burlesque dancers, I couldn’t have felt any less appealing. These enchanting creatures were captivating, commanding, and mysterious, brimming with sexuality and sophistication. When the show ended, I jumped to my feet to give a standing ovation.

The usher reappeared to invite us backstage to sign the showroom’s legendary guest book and to meet the show’s producer. I couldn’t stop raving to her about how much I enjoyed the production and how special I thought the entire experience was.

“How tall do the dancers have to be? Do you have a height requirement?” I asked.

“They are generally around five feet and seven inches,” she replied in a velvety French accent. I was surprised. The way the tiny stage was framed, the dancers looked like Amazons! I would have guessed they were all at least five-nine.

“How old are the dancers . . . generally?” I continued my line of ques
tioning, eager to find out what it would take for a girl to become one of these performers.

“Usually, as old as twenty-two,” she answered.

“Aw, damn, I’m too old then,” I said, only half joking.

“No, no, don’t be silly,” she said, quickly dismissing my resignation. “You could still do it,” she continued with a smile. Even though I assumed she was just saying that to be nice, the seed was planted: I wanted to be a performer.

Never mind the fact that I didn’t know how or when, or that it was completely incompatible with the short-leash lifestyle I was currently living at the mansion . . . I knew it was going to happen.

My love affair with burlesque was only beginning, but it wasn’t just the art form that had enchanted me; it was the people who chose to pursue it. The independent women who used burlesque as an artistic outlet to celebrate their creativity and their femininity on their terms and in their own unique way. Deep down, that was who I wanted to be.

August 2008

“For my second number, I was thinking of doing a routine where I’m wearing nothing but paint and a pair of thigh-high leather boots, painting a giant six-foot canvas with just my body.”

I paused, waiting for her reaction to my idea, but I had the distinct feeling that this woman had already heard it all.

“I like it,” she encouraged, with a small but kind smile. The producer of the Crazy Horse Paris at the MGM Grand was the same woman whom I had met backstage in Paris a few years earlier. She was a graceful, put-together blond woman in her mid-forties wearing a fitted white T-shirt and a chic black blazer. She crossed one perfectly tailored denim leg over the other to reveal a pair of classic stilettos. She radiated confidence and success simply through the manner in which she conducted herself, and she didn’t require obvious designer labels to showcase that.
Her straight shoulder-length hair fell around her face, framing her deep blue-gray eyes and high cheekbones. She looked equal parts European model and boardroom executive. I could easily have been intimidated by this woman, but there was a warmth to her that made me feel comfortable.

“Let’s call that number ‘Boots’ for now, shall we?” She waited for me to nod in approval before turning to the show’s choreographer, signaling her to take a note.

Our first meeting, as I was told, was intended to be a “creative discussion” about my possible guest spot with the show’s producer, choreographer, and publicist—and I had prepared a list of ideas I thought were both provocative and original.

Weeks earlier, when I was contacted by the Las Vegas branch of the legendary Parisian cabaret, I couldn’t believe it! Sure, I had dreamed about being in the production, but I never thought for a minute that they would actually want me to do a guest appearance. When I received the call, it immediately occurred to me that performing in a burlesque show could be a great story line for the next season of
Girls Next Door
.

The series was a huge blessing. Living at the mansion required adhering to a strict set of rules about what the girls could and could not do—but under the auspices of a “plot line for the show,” I had been able to do things I wouldn’t ordinarily have been able to, such as travel or accept jobs.

Soon, though, worrying about the rules was something that would no longer concern me. In August of 2008, after finally facing the reality that living in Hef’s world was not all I wanted out of life, I made the sudden decision to leave him, the mansion, and
Girls Next Door
simultaneously, as quickly as one might pull off a Band-Aid. Naturally, I assumed I would have to abandon my Crazy Horse dream along with it. Why would the production be interested in me if I couldn’t offer them some airtime?

“They know I’m not on the TV show anymore?” I asked cautiously when I was contacted to set up a creative meeting with the producers.
The associate kindly reiterated that they were interested in me, not in the reality show.

Eager to get out of L.A. for a bit and escape the tabloid and social scrutiny I was under in the wake of leaving Hef and the show, I happily agreed to fly to Las Vegas for the meeting. I didn’t have representation yet and hadn’t asked about compensation or what my deal would look like . . . but I really didn’t care. They could have paid me nothing and I still would have wanted to do the show. Money was just money; what I wanted was a new project, life experience, and a career.

When we finally took our seats at Wolfgang Puck Bar & Grill inside the MGM Grand, I ordered a meal befitting an aspiring dancer: the chopped vegetable salad. The stylish producer ordered a plate of truffled potato chips with blue cheese sauce for the table, insisting they were absolutely to die for. But when the towering stack of house-made chips arrived, she plucked only one from the top before offering some to the choreographer, who declined. She explained that she was also a dancer in the show and didn’t like to eat this close to showtime.

If only I had such restraint
, I thought, desperately wanting to gobble up the whole plate of chips. It’s not like I devoured handfuls, but I definitely made a dent in the pile.

I took a moment to study the woman sitting across from me. It wasn’t just her discipline and manners that had me so enchanted. This woman was a different kind of sexy. She was dressed simply and modestly, covered nearly head to toe, but at the same time exuded such style—the kind that only a Parisian woman can pull off. How could it be that the same ensemble of jeans, white shirt, and black blazer could appear so plain on another woman, but on her it was undeniably polished? Was it the fit? The quality of the garments? Or perhaps just the way she carries herself when wearing them? I wondered if I could ever learn the secrets of how to possess
this
type of glamour.

I looked down at my own outfit: a flouncy black-sequined halter dress that exposed enough cleavage to be considered uncouth by most
women, but for me, at the time, was de rigueur. Because the fabric was so light, I thought it was appropriate for daytime, but in reality, the average woman would have worn such a garment only to a nightclub. On my feet was a pair of delicate peep-toe black pumps with three thin, buckled straps running across the width. The women had complimented me on my shoes before we sat down, and that made me glow with pride. Even though it was chilly in the heavily air-conditioned restaurant, I stashed my black hooded jacket underneath the restaurant chair. I couldn’t possibly wear a hoodie in front of these ladies! It just seemed so utterly gauche.