On the Best of Burlesque 2009 (Miss Exotic World, Queen of Burlesque, Burlesque Hall of Fame or whatever they’re calling it)

by J.D. Oxblood

(Editor’s note: the first paragraph of this piece has been moved below the fold due to profanity, suggestive language, nudity and adult situations. Please click to read the entirety of this story.)

Fasten your motherfucking seatbelts, coz this is a wild ride. Miss Astrid introduces the judges with sarcasm so sassy you can feel it dripping down your leg like something Miss Astrid left behind the last time she sat on your lap—Sugar Kane from Helsinki does a Carmen Miranda complete with fruit basket on the noggin and a lime green boa to the Esquivel classic Mucha Muchacha, a Finnish fantasy—tropical fruits and being able to take your clothes off –bloomers, pasties in the form of red stars, statuesque like the Luxor and lively—and Chicago’s Vicky Sin busts out of the jailhouse of her costume—jail-striped short dress and stockings, uber-cute little minx of a redhead, hands pre-cuffed and leg irons to boot, drops to the splits and shakes the fringe and pulls off her panties backwards—and leaves you starving for more—and don’t forget to notice that her pasties are chained together like Sebastian Bach’s face back in the day—then Melody Mangler—from Vancouver? There’s hot chicks in Vancouver now?—goes all Little Bo Peep to “Mares Eat Oats”—I’ll eat whatever you tell me to eat—and strips as rose petals go flying, her shocking red & blond dyed hair atop a white corset atop a winding snake tattoo on her left thigh—pops the corset and out pop butterflies, climbs a prop staircase and turns in the breeze, a gossamer sash flowing out and caressing her and narrowly avoiding the comparison to rhythm gymnastics but getting dangerously close to aping that Botticelli painting, which ain’t fucking bad—are you following me?—then one of my hometown local faves—that’s New York City, baby, and that’s Madame Rosebud in the acid Geisha outfit moving so seductively to a string ensemble cover of Radiohead’s “Airbag”—rainbow wig, nice floorwork, face angelic as always and the patented pre-spanked ass, doing straight up striptease on POINT—not a Brooklyn euphemism for “good,” which is also apt, but literally on point—shoes, ballet, you know, try to keep up—big turns with fans and almost no true reveal—devastating—and another one from Vancouver? What the hell is going on in Vancouver and how quickly can I get there?—Dinah Might, in a big, long, black fur coat and what might be custom-made music—Glamorpussy?—and a big feather headdress, her face fantastically expressive, classically gorgeous—the music stops and a cat mews, whining, again—she pulls it out from under her dress—it’s a puppet—“Are you ready for a real pussy?” the soundtrack asks—she loses the Hensen & moves upstage, drumroll, drumroll, flipping the edges of her coat, teasing, and

BLAM!—tears the coat off donning cat ears and strutting in a fab yellow getup to—of course—“Stray Cat Strut”—best reveal, no shit J.D. that award makes some kind of catty sense—don’t breath coz Vancouver ain’t done kickin’ your ass—it’s Rita Star digging the White Stripes in her black and pink matador outfit—the skirt comes off to become a taunting cape and half the crowd is ready to charge this vixen and the whole row in front of me is Canadian so the screams are for REALS as she hip shakes out of her knickers and twirls the cape and twirls them pasties—and is replaced by a MONKEY in a French Maid’s outfit—I swear I can’t make this stuff up but the Shanghai Pearl did—ok, not Canadian but Seattle’s damn close—and she’s a pink ape and also a French Maid who eventually loses the pink fur but keeps the monkey mask on her otherwise perfect example of tiny-Asian-sex-goddess-body and I’m reminded of that Godzilla piece Jo did in Coney Island last year—PAY ATTENTION—LONDON’S Trixee Sparkle rides in on a fucking throne to “God Save the Queen” in royal red with a purple crown and a goddamn scepter—jet black hair—y’all know I love brunettes and this is the first one since Rosebud—and the needle scratches off the record and it’s the Sex Pistols’ “Anarchy in the U.K.”—I think I like this girl, punk it out—so she rocks the scepter in a Prince haircut getting down to a white corset and peeling off the stockings on the throne and smacking her own delightful British bum in her silver underthings and twirling them tassels—NOW breathe.

Do you feel dizzy? Because those were just the contestants for Best Debut at the 19th Annual Burlesque Pageant. If you feel like you’ve been slapped around a little, you’re 1/100th of the way towards understanding what it was like to BE there. I’d like to learn how to spell “HOT” with 6 H’s, some Scandanavian vowels, a couple of Arabic and Hebrew consonants and end with an explosive T from an obscure African tribal language that fizzles out into half a dozen Russian saunas built in the middle of the Serengeti.

And now… the boylesque, that red-headed step-child—not you, Tigger!, just the category—as Paco Fish from Baltimore opens in a big white wig and short pants—Frenchie McFrenchieson—strips down to French flag biking shorts and pulls out his Eiffel Tower—a tourist-sized Eiffel replica, that is—get your minds out of the gutter—and extra points for yanking the dickie—Chicago’s Hot Toddy as The Devil, Beelzebub himself, classic red, pitchfork and all, and the kid is CLASSY, suave and debonair, moves like an evil bastard and chews his cigar with devilish glee—tears his top off but keeps the red arm-ings—like that rockstar at the end of “School of Rock?”— tears his pants off keeping the leggings—and the final reveal of codpiece and a barbed devil’s tail—standing O—mostly dames in the audience, remember—I would question my own sexuality but last I heard waterboarding was still torture—one of my faves—Baltimore’s Evil Hate Monkey—BROUGHT IT in his green drum major uniform banging a bass drum, a drum he balanced atop of like a German wheel and then flipped used as a miniature trampoline, bouncing frenetically and losing ever-more clothes—but keeping the fur, natch. End Act I.

I ventured out in to the casino and ran into Jonny Porkpie and the ever-effervescent Nasty Canasta and get this—Jonny is pimping his new book coming out with Hard Case—“The Corpse Wore Pasties”—with Nasty and Gigi LaFemme on the cover painting. Hot shit! Will have to do a proper interview on the kid’s dealing with the publishing industry (oft-derided in these pages). Plus the great tales—Lola Van Ella, from St. Louis “Misery” (ok, that was Greta Garter’s joke) drove 28 hours just to get to the fest, hallucinating beasties on the way. Commitment!

The Variety competition, all gems, starting with Aerobella Trapeze—aka Harvest Moon and Mr. Fantastic from the greatest city on earth—did their sensual double-strip act previously described in these pages—SO much more effective when they’re on a proper stage suspended 30 feet up than dangling over the bar at Pubic Ass—wicked hot partner writhing, circus-y to the max—and our favorite pastry Anita Cookie rides in on a “horse”—Julie Atlas Muz and the Hate Monkey in costume—and saddles up as with Gigi and Pop—stand-up bass and a ukelele player who whistles the “William Tell Overture” in it’s entirety—that’s dang hard to whistle, yippi ki yay—as Anita grins, hambones, loses her cowboy shirt, spanks her ass, spills confetti, loses her tutu showing a leg holster—and the uke player kicks her legs out to get her into the splits—she fires a confetti cannon—and it’s like Miss Astrid said—I’m so rude—the show is hosted by Miss Astrid and El Vez, and between Astrid’s haunting, deadpan caustic delivery and El Vez’s rambling, non-sequitur babbling, it’s a crack up—Astrid’s intro of Gigi and Pop: “Do you want to see something really stupid?”—stupid like two foxes & a vixen—they won—Anita, you’re just so fucking cute—the Oona Tramps, who did in 5 minutes with no words what would take me a weekend—killer live band—ivories, horn, bass, skins, bone—and a troupe of well-trained vaudevillian clowns—think S. Beckett’s tramps crossed with Laurel & Hardy playing the Keystone Cops—this group has the comic timing of a Swiss watch with a pop-up cuckoo wearing polka-dot boxers.

The group competition: The Schlep Sisters’ disco dance act to a mashup of “There’s a Party in my Pants and Everyone’s Invited” and “Heveinu Shalo Aleichem” —the Abba of Burlesque, the Amazing Knicker Kittens Burlesque Revue from Stockholm—simply so numerous you’ll have to pick your own favorite—I’m going with Pepper Potemkin and the other brunette with the stoic nose—didn’t get your name, baby, but I got your number—classic showgirl action, fans and all, all in white—fab staging, girls stripping in rotating twos and threes—The Chicago Starlets—the progeny of the now-married—boo—L’amour—all in matching cantina-girl corsets and glitter bras working it to “Chicago” as robustly as if in a New York musical—I need to spend more time in Chicago—yes, read into it—cue the full-on topless kick line—and now the sweet and juicy Peach Tartes, not only from New York, but including Madame Rosebud, busting that great shoot-out boob-out act—Foxy Tann & the Wham Bam Thank You Ma’ams get the gold star for specificity—“Choreography,” Astrid said, “look into it”—the Minnesota sisters have poise they ain’t even used yet, and Foxy possesses that most elusive of performer qualities—PRESENCE—and embodies the spirit of Jimi Hendrix (“Foxy Lady,” natch) with controlled abandon, a virtuoso of her own confidence—her attendants undressed her and the crowd was jealous—and, lastly, finally, fucking-a frenetically, NANDA—HOLY MOTHERFUCKING SHIT—Christ on a ninja-black popsickle stick—yes, they won the category, and they brought the crowd to their feet—(Gotta get academic. NANDA has pulled off the cross-pollination coup of the decade. Dig: you can grab most of the audience—women and gay men—by simply being hot, male or female, provided you have great costumes. You can grab the straight men and gay women in the crowd simply by being female. But NANDA has grabbed every possible demographic by being hot men who not only take their clothes off but beat the shit out each other—the ONLY way you can get straight men to ogle other men.) —cleverly designed soundscape—smacks, cracks and whizzing misses—perfectly choreographed stripping-ninja fight routine punctuated by Matrix-like slo-mo moments as the performers even appear to FALL in slow motion—crowd goes apeshit—APESHIT—screams and a standing O.

Back in the lobby I run into Sapphire Jones, who’s “checking out the competition for next year” and looking perfectly elegant in a sheer dress. “Some of the things you write,” she said, leveling her gaze, “make me want to slap you—then hug you.” Oh, Sapphire… it’s so obvious which one I would prefer. When she blows up, just remember that I picked her out of the crowd at her debut.

From the cold plunge into the hot tub— I’ve adored Roxy Dlite since I first saw her last year in Brooklyn—and she sweeps in like a summer breeze in white wedding attire—and wow such a smile—so tight on her curvy hips the equator is holding its breath—turns doffing kid gloves into an art form and tears off the tuille edging of the dress and works the ties of her corset with Jo Boobs expertise—gets down to pasties and SO SEXY panties—three parallel strings rising in each direction from the triangle of bounty—and in comes “Diamonds are Forever” and a diamond ring—the circus act, mind you, with a rock on top—and she spins and contorts and—did you know Roxi had circus skills?—and at the routine’s end drops from the ring onto the stage in the splits and—wait for it—takes a bow, tres classy—and I’m thinking it’s only the first act but she cinched it even as Astrid makes a joke about her diaphragm appearing on stage—Little Brooklyn—“Brooklyn!” we scream from the peanut gallery—enters Drag King as an explorer about to be eaten by headhunters—pith helmet, khaki, the whole bit—and sips from a skull before revealing a grass skirt and a blonde wig and stripping with a ukulele Polynesian style—Ophelia Flame

from—what it is with the cold places producing such hotness—Minnesota—a thin, tossable redhead in royal blue smoking to a sleazy sax does a standout pastie reveal lying flat back—what flat, fab abs—Tata DuJour from Key West with an update to her dinosaur lady act from last fall—this time with a rear-wall video projection of 3 doofus cavemen stunned by her striptease—prehistorically hilarious, y’all—and damned specific as she tosses her clothes INTO the video—Peekaboo Pointe—another reason I’m here, NYC in da house!— booming bass and blaring horns—all kitty cat, stripping down to a teeny black bra and scratching and clawing and arching her back—earns her title of fastest tassel twirler—what I wouldn’t do to scratch her back—San Francisco’s Kristen Nekyia sweeps the floor with her silver skirt and lithe body to pseudo-Indian music—pulls off one of her gloves with her toe—seriously, leg bent back and up—and gives the crowd a look that says “I will eat you”—I’d be scared if I weren’t so turned on right now—and what can only be a signature move, a lift of the breasts that feels like the Pilates exercise of separating your rib cage, a punctuation mark on a killer routine—flips her body over in a handspring and pulls off her bra on the landing—DAMN—and Lux La Croix from LaLaLand does a straight up re-visitation of “What a Feeling” from “Flashdance”—entrance in work clothes, stripping to black dance clothes, that old familiar “first there was nothing” accelerating into spastic joy—but this movie ends with twirling pasties, hells yeah sweety weld my chassis anytime—and NOLA’s Perle Noir is straight-up built like a brick shithouse, and if you’ve never spent any time in the south trust me that’s a complement—and has more presence than an entire sorority at Mardi Gras preening for a Girls Gone Wild Video—buxom, kablammo, dark as a sex scene in French film noir, with a hip thrust that shivers to the quick—swings her glove like a dare—loses the dress and demands cheers from the crowd, working it—bouncing that bod and pulling cartwheels and shoulder rolls—and that hand throw at the end, Damn, she

knows she’s hot lava—Atlanta’s Renea’ La Roux in an enormous ensemble—go France, y’all, the crowd loves an overdressed woman—rolls up in a freaking carriage—and blows up to “Rock Me Amadeaus”—and seriously, between how well-fucking-endowed she is and how tight that corset, cognitive dissonance—Trixie Little—we just love her—does her flea circus routine, tight and lean—both the routine and her body—as the fleas get into her outfit and make her wriggle out of it—lucky us—again, why is it so hot to see her let her hair down?—Indigo Blue brings her Wild Cherry tribute from Seattle to lay some “Temptation” on us in royal blue—fave color of the weekend—twirling tassels and tempting us with her lovely face and a body that can only be called insane—Kalani KoKonuts, a Vegas local, in full Vegas showgirl regalia complete with towering headdress—and oh that golden caramel skin—and Denver’s Vivienne VaVoom does a royal blue fan dance to Journey—her cute face and short curly blond locks upstaged by the fab ass she deigns to show off—and then it’s Angie Pontani, doing her farewell act, her point routine behind her gossamer scrim of a dress, silhouette of heaven, what a body Angie and we’ll sure miss you.

Standing ovations, Astrid & El Vez vamping, announcing of the winners. The lobby is a-buzz with excitement and I get to meet Madame Rosebud’s mom—“She’s been doing this since she was 2 years old,” she says, “she’s always been talented and creative,” whipping up acts with a hula hoop and aerial acts off the stair case. Charming woman, cute as a button. Everywhere you turn there are factoids to collect—Jenifer Koole, from Edmonton’s Capitol City Burlesque—told me it was rare for Canada’s troupes to tour, so bless them for coming out—and you pick up the greatest fnords, like B*O*B saying, “Wait ‘til you see my Hello Kitty caramel apple.” B*O*B, I’m pretty sure we’ve all seen it.

And get this—a camera crew from the fucking Travel Channel puts me and my photographer on camera and tries to get us to explain why what we just saw was an “extreme” competition. Extremely hot?

I’m gonna take a cold shower and pour myself a tall glass of fuck me. See you next year!

Kiss kiss,
JDX

Photos by Melody Mudd. Performers who would like high-res images should contact her directly at melodymudd@gmail.com.