The Tease Queens

(Go back to Part I.)

The Plaza Hotel is basically a dump, surviving on penny slot machines and three-dollar craps tables.  It’s never a good sign when you see grandma in a wheelchair pulling slots.  Worse when she’s on oxygen.  Worse yet when she’s on oxygen AND smoking.

The Thursday night opening bash didn’t start until 10pm since the theatre has a regular show (some Rat Pack BS).  Cue standing in line in front of the theatre shmoozing before being ushered into a glorious space that, if you seen before seeing the casino, would have made you feel properly pimp.  Big stage, big house, plebe seats crowded in between tiers of sexy booths—with table service.  Palpable vibe of an awards show—less Oscars than Golden Globe— familiar and new faces in a blur of sensuality, glamour and charm, and the ratio of women to men looks like a whole number.  Suddenly professional pervs like Don Spiro—and the aspiring, like me—look like genii.

Cohost Thrill Kill Jill can not only call me but come over, hit me in the face and drag me into the back seat of her car and ravage me like a Schnapps-upped virgin on prom night.  And she’s got mad sideshow skills.  But I’m wondering about the carnival barker Tyler Fyre, who was adequate for a half hour… but after three hours of the Guy Smiley on crack routine I started to see him as Penn Gillette playing first fiddle to the overskilled Thrill Kill Teller.  Where the fuck is Scotty the Blue Bunny?  Too profane for this event?  What about Bastard Keith?

Thrill Kill Jill

Starwipe to Tyler skillfully swallowing a pair of swords, and Jill swallows a stubby and the few male minds in the house rapidly do the math.  Meanwhile, dig the fiber-optic star drop on the back wall—and hold on tight, because the lighting all weekend is going to kick ass thanks to the same skilled technician we had last year, “Aaron” (I haven’t tracked him down so far, but watch for my upcoming interview in Professional Lighting Magazine).  Austin’s statuesque brunette Coco Lectric kicks off the festivities with a skilled bite to back down her red gloves, dragging a long red boa across her bod, ending with a nice backbend twirl.  Chicago’s full-figured Frenchie Kiss pushes a yellow shopping cart and balances on it, striking impressive back bends and a mad tassel twirl.  Burgundy Brixx belts for us and shows off how she reels ‘em in.  Tucson’s Stormy Leigh turns in a comedic act to “La Cucaracha,” spraying cockroaches off her pale skin—BTW, did you know that song is about weed?  But while I can relate to the jonesing roach, I’ll never understand the Japanese.  And I don’t want to—they’re just too awesome.  Tokyo’s Coppelia enters in a sparkly polka dotted dress, pulls some pink pasties out of a bag and tries to figure out what to do with them; walks upstage, tucks them in, and turns back towards us holding two magical strings, pulls and—blammo! Is out of the dress and shaking it, pulling off a ridiculous backbend and a cartwheel in heels, a tiny firecracker of charming love, breaking her bra off in two pieces to spin them.  Absolutely charming.

Champagne Sparkles

Which brings us to Champagne Sparkles.  What I love, more than anything, is something stupid.  And what could be more stupid than “Mahna Mahna?” And I’m talking about the Mahna Mahna and the Snowths version, with the “do doo” backing.  Anydiddle, this girl had the unmitigated genius to put a beak on a boa and let it sing along—and undress her.  She keeps trying to shush him, he keeps scatting—he bites off her top, unwinds himself, bites her crotch and mumbles into it.  Delightful and simply satisfying.

Jett Adore

Can someone please explain how Jett Adore wasn’t invited to compete for Best Boylesque?  Motherfucker got a standing O—and gave half the crowd a real O—for his Zorro act, black cape white on the inside, slicing off his sleeves and pants, flashing his cape around his nekkid body and giving us the tease—side reveals, ass tease—that left only his religion to the imagination.  It was like a Beatles concert up in there.  On the opposite end of the gender spectrum, all I can say about Dinah Might is that I hate her perfect body and her stupid face—sorry, my thirteen year-old girl coming out.  Seriously, isn’t burlesque for ALL body types and can’t someone whose face is jammin’, body hecka slammin’, go pose for FHM or something?  Cash it in, hon.

Dinah Might

Lil Steph, a petite platinum blonde in pale pink corset, will haunt my waking dreams—what is it about small-breasted women that makes me nuts?—but for the rest of you, get a gander at that single-cheek ass-bounce.  Skillful, unique, awesome.  The leggy, heavily-tattooed Mena Von Fleisch of Halifax—they have BQ now in Nova Scotia? WTF, Canada?—busted an evil Red Riding Hood complete with wolf puppet licking her—you got me—biting her and getting a smack—you really got me—then ditches the puppet without ceremony—you completely lost me.  Got me back with hot reveal with wolf tail.  Speaking of wolf whistles, Gigi la Femme walked the line of “appropriate for BHOF” with the spanking act much-described in these pages.  Too risqué for Vegas?  There was an edge of discomfort in the room—a little NYC Slipper Room FU for the squaresies.  My reaction?  Awesome.  The legends?  Hard to say.  Maybe never heard of the Gorillaz.

Belle Cozette & Evilyn Sin Claire

Tempest Rose sings a lounge version of 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop”; Leroi the Girl Boi busts that awesome robot act—even better here in Vegas with the killer lighting than it was in New York; Kiss Me Kate channeled the WWII era with fighter pilot helmet, airplane wings, and fins on legs.  Girl as airplane pinup.  Betsy Bottom Dollar cowgirled it up, pulling ropes and ribbons from her outfit and swinging with dude-ranch skill, twirling her six-shooters like high noon.  Belle Cozette and Evilyn Sin Claire rode in on twin silver toilets, instantly hilarious.  What followed was a balletic synchronized slo-mo Farrelly Brothers routine—white flowing gowns and poop jokes.  Cramps, raising the seat, gloves as seat-protectors, reading magazines, using TP for rhythm gymnastics, air freshener—hysterical, and Busby Berkeley is rolling in his grave.

Next trip:  Finland, to see the Tease Queens.  I didn’t watch “Witches of Eastwick” five times in a row because I give a fuck about John Updike; no, it’s the Neapolitan Ice Cream Fantasy: the desire to get into it with a hot redhead, a hot brunette, and a hot blonde—all at once or on sequential evenings.  They don’t even all have to be hot, really—Cher would be a little scary if not flanked by Susan and Michelle.  (All I’d be thinking of is Will & Grace’s Jack in drag.  But for more on Cher—and her glitzy BURLESQUE movie versus the reality—watch for my upcoming article in Vanity Fair.)  ANYWAY these girls got my Neapolitan number—a hot blonde, a seriously stacked redhead, and a drop-dead gorgeous brunette drop their skirts to reveal laced corsets and garters—classic!  Like good Scandal-navians—perfect bra strap tease, nix corsets, nix garters, stretch a stocking and bounce them off—1, 2, 3.  Great timing, so hot, so simple.

Hello, whiplash, and this is only the opening night.

(Go on to Part III.)

Photos ©2010 by Melody Mudd. Contact her at melodymudd@gmail.com and find her on facebook, twitter and flickr.