Not last night but the night before, a gaggle of us from the magazine Maxi Taxied out to Rooty Hill RSL for a Bombshells burlesque show. Why travel 2973 miles (approx.) for a perv when there are several strip joints in the CBD? Because the headline hotty was our sex-advice columnist Jewell, who was also promoting her ace 2008 calendar. And we got free entry. And the editor had granted us Cabcharges to cover the trips to and from. That's why.
After a quick feed, we grabbed the first of many gotta-love-those-club-prices schooners and made our way to the grandly titled Tivoli Showroom, which was located up a set of stairs and past some pool tables. We were ushered into a darkened space where a rotund, goateed, brow-dabbing comedian was part-way through his routine. It was a combination of sound effects (remember Michael Winslow from the "Police Academy" movies?) and tired, often racist jokes that made me wonder if the cab had actually transported us back in time. I kept looking across to SC, who seemed to be shielding his eyes in horror.
A word about our fellow audience members: they were 99% male (4/5 non-performing women in the room were at our table), intoxicated from the get-go, very vocal about the anatomical regions they desperately desired to see, and a tad too eager to be involved with the onstage proceedings. But apart from a stern warning from the MC for emptying jugs of water in the direction of the wet T-shirt contest entrants, the rambunctious lads didn't do anybody any harm.
I won't dwell on the opening burlesque babe - blonde, curvy, moved with practised ease to Rammstein's "Du Hast", etc. - and the tee-drenching tourney (with RS and CM on sponge duty). Nor will I debate whether our photographer DM should have loudly informed the room which staff member had just had her nipples pierced. 'Cos I'm eager to tell you about Jewell...
Of Caribbean extraction, voluptuous, pageant-pretty, transmitting delicious mixed signals of gentle grace and extreme raunch. J. was under the weather in a non-self-inflicted way but carried on like a trouper. Her act combined stripping with magic tricks, and as cheesy as that sounds, it worked. To music that featured Rammstein's cover of Depeche Mode's "Stripped", Jewell made silks disappear into her hands and reappear from her lingerie, poured water into a newspaper that remained dry and produced tiny flames (red lights, but let's pretend they were flames) that she dropped into her top hat. She also removed all but her G-string.
An intermission followed, during which our columnist hawked her schwingin' schedules for $20 a pop, personally inscribed.
At the risk of seeming disloyal, the remaining three Bombshells made an even greater impact. There was a pirate queen of such sauciness she could cure scurvy. Headscarved, thigh-booted, tastefully tattooed, guarding a treasure chest with only a pair of toy cutlasses and her dazzling natural smile.
Next came a multi-talented lass whose routine started in Dita Von Teese territory and ended on Bizarro World. Picture a near-nekkid stunner lying on her back, legs in the air, a full-tilt rock version of the "Mah Na Mah Na" song playing, and glove puppets of Ernie and Bert from "Sesame Street" competing to give her oral pleasure. Whatever you imagined, the reality was 50 times better and funnier.
The final stripper was Trinity, who moonlights as a valet in Sydney wrestling federation IWA (broadcast on Aurora Community Channel). Her character was a trumpet-blowing marching girl and she moved with "Bring It On" precision. It was obvious why T. closed the show as no-one worked the crowd as deftly and her energy level was amazing, leaving us on a huge high.
So what happened next? SC, CM, NP, his wife K., HS and I continued drinkininining in the downstairs bar. There was a live band. Members of our group began grooving. Worried about getting a return taxi to the city, I suggested calling it an evening, only to be pooh-poohed and told to enjoy the moment. I warned the others that once sufficiently inebriated, I would be hard to dislodge from the dancefloor. They didn't care. Four of us stayed 'til long after the band had left, discoing to Music Max on a giant screen. I got home at 4am :-)
PS. If you think there's a mistake in my heading, you need to duck off and read this - en.wikipedia.org/wiki/All_your_base
