tiring. Heck, I figured I’d be a natural. Randy told me I could start the next day and, if I was satisfactory, work two or three sessions a week. And it was a very well-paying gig, he reminded me, to be paid in cash, on the spot.
Ah, that next day is forever etched in my memory. In Nettie’s old beige chenille bathrobe, I climbed the steps onto the stage and slipped off my sandals. I dropped the robe nonchalantly off my shoulders, strode center stage, naked as a jaybird, and struck a pose. The students bent intently over their sketch pads. Attempting to relax, I breathed lightly, not moving a muscle, and tried not to wonder if they were all noticing how small my breasts were.
“Okay, everyone cool it a few,” said Randy, walking through the standing artists, pointing out this and that. I didn’t know whether to put my robe on or not. Everyone ignored me. I might as well have been a bowl of fruit. After two more twenty-minute sessions, Randy called an end to the class and I went over to put on my robe.
“You’re good, honey,” Randy told me. “Come back Wednesday at three.”
And he gave me two crisp, lovely one-dollar bills.
I’d been searching the paper for real jobs and saw that the Harlequin Supper Club in Azusa was looking for “singing and dancing waitresses to present musical material.” Fifteen miles east of Pasadena. A bit of a shlep. But I could dance, I could sing passably, I was a choreographer, and although I was never a waitress (at least, not yet), the owner felt I could swing it. All the meals were to be served from a rolling cart, after which we three servers—me, another girl, and George Kelley, who happened to be the current Mr. Pasadena—would perform floor shows at eight, nine, and ten, each night featuring food, songs, and dances from a different country. Monday was England, Tuesday France, Wednesday Spain, Saturday Hawaii—you get the idea. Pay? One dollar an hour, plus tips. We had to come up with costumes, but the owner (who was also the chef) would foot the bill, provided it was modest. We were paid twenty bucks a week for the rehearsals, and it worked out that we’d end the daytime rehearsals and open the restaurant the very night before the Pasadena Playhouse was to begin
its
daytime rehearsals. Unbelievably good timing! I’d have seven weeks of employment. I was desperate to get Mark out to California, and I still wanted keenly to go to New York, but that would take a lot more moola than I was earning now—with or without clothing.
After posing the following Wednesday, I told Randy I’d found a steady job and wouldn’t be available anymore. It had been stressful for me standing there nude, even if they did see me as a bowl of fruit.
“I’m sorry to lose you,” he said. “Will you at least share a farewell glass of wine with me this evening? The lobby won’t be available. Come to my room in the basement of the hotel.”
“Your room?” says I.
“Third cubicle on the left,” says he.
Hmm,
farewell glass of wine, huh? He’d always behaved professionally, so…oh, who am I kidding? This had all the earmarks of a real Beatnik experience. A one-time, far-out, unheard-of piece of audacity: strictly sex. But dare I?
Dare I?
Did I
dare
?
Oh, I daresay, I did.
That evening, I descended those basement stairs, trembling like a leaf, wondering who exactly I thought I was and what exactly I thought I was doing. On the floor of the third cubicle on the left was a mattress surrounded by candles. Randy appeared, drained his last swallow of wine, said “Hi!,” and jumped me. Was this Beatnik foreplay? I’d never been jumped before. And never had sex like that before. It was athletic. Like,
wild,
man. And I liked it. I didn’t feel guilty. In fact, I felt liberated. I was getting a fast course in a brand-new area. Pure sex!
One night about two months later, there came a knocking at my chamber door and there stood a haggard Randy, flanked by two skeezy pals.
“Can I
Ah, that next day is forever etched in my memory. In Nettie’s old beige chenille bathrobe, I climbed the steps onto the stage and slipped off my sandals. I dropped the robe nonchalantly off my shoulders, strode center stage, naked as a jaybird, and struck a pose. The students bent intently over their sketch pads. Attempting to relax, I breathed lightly, not moving a muscle, and tried not to wonder if they were all noticing how small my breasts were.
“Okay, everyone cool it a few,” said Randy, walking through the standing artists, pointing out this and that. I didn’t know whether to put my robe on or not. Everyone ignored me. I might as well have been a bowl of fruit. After two more twenty-minute sessions, Randy called an end to the class and I went over to put on my robe.
“You’re good, honey,” Randy told me. “Come back Wednesday at three.”
And he gave me two crisp, lovely one-dollar bills.
I’d been searching the paper for real jobs and saw that the Harlequin Supper Club in Azusa was looking for “singing and dancing waitresses to present musical material.” Fifteen miles east of Pasadena. A bit of a shlep. But I could dance, I could sing passably, I was a choreographer, and although I was never a waitress (at least, not yet), the owner felt I could swing it. All the meals were to be served from a rolling cart, after which we three servers—me, another girl, and George Kelley, who happened to be the current Mr. Pasadena—would perform floor shows at eight, nine, and ten, each night featuring food, songs, and dances from a different country. Monday was England, Tuesday France, Wednesday Spain, Saturday Hawaii—you get the idea. Pay? One dollar an hour, plus tips. We had to come up with costumes, but the owner (who was also the chef) would foot the bill, provided it was modest. We were paid twenty bucks a week for the rehearsals, and it worked out that we’d end the daytime rehearsals and open the restaurant the very night before the Pasadena Playhouse was to begin
its
daytime rehearsals. Unbelievably good timing! I’d have seven weeks of employment. I was desperate to get Mark out to California, and I still wanted keenly to go to New York, but that would take a lot more moola than I was earning now—with or without clothing.
After posing the following Wednesday, I told Randy I’d found a steady job and wouldn’t be available anymore. It had been stressful for me standing there nude, even if they did see me as a bowl of fruit.
“I’m sorry to lose you,” he said. “Will you at least share a farewell glass of wine with me this evening? The lobby won’t be available. Come to my room in the basement of the hotel.”
“Your room?” says I.
“Third cubicle on the left,” says he.
Hmm,
farewell glass of wine, huh? He’d always behaved professionally, so…oh, who am I kidding? This had all the earmarks of a real Beatnik experience. A one-time, far-out, unheard-of piece of audacity: strictly sex. But dare I?
Dare I?
Did I
dare
?
Oh, I daresay, I did.
That evening, I descended those basement stairs, trembling like a leaf, wondering who exactly I thought I was and what exactly I thought I was doing. On the floor of the third cubicle on the left was a mattress surrounded by candles. Randy appeared, drained his last swallow of wine, said “Hi!,” and jumped me. Was this Beatnik foreplay? I’d never been jumped before. And never had sex like that before. It was athletic. Like,
wild,
man. And I liked it. I didn’t feel guilty. In fact, I felt liberated. I was getting a fast course in a brand-new area. Pure sex!
One night about two months later, there came a knocking at my chamber door and there stood a haggard Randy, flanked by two skeezy pals.
“Can I
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