Book

Dancing Stallions is currently in preproduction. If a literary agent is secured, that should lead to a publisher and a release date somewhere around the summer of 2015. Without an agent, the plan is to hire a publicist, produce the book ourselves, and promote it during a book tour.

The back cover above has a ghost image of Baskin-Robbins, the Arabian horse that Dana cherished so until his death and who sired most of the horses currently starring in the 2014 Edition of The Dancing Horses.

Here are some excerpts from the book including Chapters 1, 6, 7, 11, 12.

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the memory of my son, Darryl L Vincenti Jr., who died unexpectedly at the age of 46, on July 29, 2009. He is terribly missed and Dancing Stallions is a tribute to his life and legacy.

FOREWORD

On March 15, 1976, a significant stronghold of sexism began to crumble when the first male exotic dancer took the Sugar Shack stage. Dana Montana struck a blow that severed the patriarchal, misogynistic stranglehold men have had throughout human history—regarding women as possessions, to be exploited economically, emotionally, politically, and sexually. What Hugh Hefner offered men, Dana Montana provided for women. She turned the tables on the sexual exploitation of women in entertainment.

Among the many hallmarks of the American feminist movement, Dana Montana’s courageous and contentious decision to provide sexual fantasy fulfillment for women sent a social seismic wave of radical change through our culture that continues to generate aftershocks. Ms. Montana was not driven by a desire to rise to the forefront of a great cause; rather she was driven to fulfill the most basic of human needs—to love and be loved, and the most fundamental of all needs—to survive. Will she be remembered in the same breath as Susan B. Anthony, who wrote and submitted to congress the right-to-vote amendment? She should be.

When Betty Friedan’s, The Feminine Mystique, was published in 1963, provoking the second significant wave of the American feminism, Dana Montana was being fitted for a “Bunny” costume at the Chicago Playboy Club. Although the consciousness of the country was being raised regarding women’s rights, Dana was positioning herself to exploit her particular set of personal assets in an institutionalized bastion of anti-feminism—Playboy International, Inc.

During the next ten years, rapidly changing events, both in Dana’s personal life and in the moral life of our country, eventually led to a Monday evening in March when Elliot Lanzanna, for the first time ever, anywhere, began to strip away one of the most significant barriers blocking equality for women in America and in the World.

Now, years later, let’s look back at the life of Dana Montana and assess her influence on the world we live in today.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DANA MONTANA

Dana grew up on Chicago's West Side. Abandoned by her parents, she was raised by Italian grandparents. Following a conservative Catholic schooling and a failed marriage, during the early 60s Dana became a Playboy Bunny in Chicago. Several years later she opened The Sugar Shack, a nightclub in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin; a favorite summer vacation spot for Chicago residents.     

Struggling to make expenses, the Sugar Shack moved from live music, to Go-Go Girls (1970), to burlesque, and finally to the first ever showing of male exotic dancers (1976). American women were ready for this entertainment opportunity that symbolized their struggle for true equality in our male-dominated culture. Dana's idea to turn the tables on the sexual exploitation of women in entertainment went over in a big way.    

In 1979, a nationally syndicated editorial in the Chicago Sun-Times launched the Sugar Shack phenomenon. Dana made all the national talk shows and major magazines at the time and business boomed for years. Fate brought Dana fame and fortune, but the price she paid was high. Dana Montana still carries the torch for women everywhere continuing to offer the Sugar Shack experience for all who wish to attend.

Dana has continued to evolve personally and professionally. The Sugar Shack still features Las Vegas style male exotic dancing on weekends, but also presents female adult entertainers seven days a week. In love with horses from childhood, Dana’s SUGAR LEGACY ARABIAN FARM, developed during the ‘80s, has morphed into ANIMAL GARDENS, a family-friendly petting zoo, and most recently, Dana has produced, THE DANCING HORSES, a Las Vegas style themed equestrian extravaganza featuring highly trained horses hosting daily shows year round in an indoor arena in Delavan, Wisconsin seating 300 (www.thedancinghorses.com).

1

THE DREAM

THE ANTICIPATION WAS BUILDING to a fever pitch for the grand opening, the very first performance of the equestrian extravaganza I had envisioned some ten years before. The stands are filled with eager children, eyes gleaming in the magical moment about to transport them into a wonderland of festive fun and enthralling fantasy. Behind the stage, the performers are primed and ready. I’m not sure how the horses feel—but I know they do feel and I’m sure they sense something extraordinary is about to happen.

After months of rigorous preparation, day after day of practice sessions, finalizing the choreography and themes for each act, getting the costumes just right on both the riders and horses, making sure the lighting, sound system, projector and computer program are synchronized, the arena goes dark, the crowd becomes silent, the announcer, amplified as if the voice of God, or at the very least Emerald City’s Wizard from the World of Oz, introduces the theme of the show while the words take shape on the large projection screen, “Believe in your Dreams and they Will Come True.”

Intensified by the moving musical score from the film Star Wars, several spotlights focus attention on the closed and concealed entrance to the left of the arena stage, it suddenly opens, and a dancer, dressed in pure snow white, part faerie, part angel, begins a ballet interpretation of the background music, her wings waving gently in the wind. After a few minutes a lone, stunning, silver-white stallion gallops out into the arena, rises up on his hind legs, as if being ridden by the ghost of the Lone Ranger, and also begins executing choreography while trotting about the arena, but with no obvious direction from a trainer, all while the screen is projecting mesmerizing scenes of white-capped ten-foot waves rolling up onto a secluded beach.

The magic had begun . . . the children were transported into the land of The Dancing Horses—a fantasy realm where their deepest most daring dreams would be realized.

THE FIRST PERFORMANCE OF The Dancing Horses took place in 2005, but years earlier, in the mid ‘90s, at my Sugar Legacy Arabian Farm, a circus trainer named Laura Amadis joined the staff at the ranch. She decided to surprise me on my birthday by training my prized stallion, Baskin-Robbins, to perform a circus routine to music!

After saying she had a special present for me, we went down to the round indoor arena, ornately enclosed in beautiful stained glass windows. When the music began, Baskin pranced out and began the choreography for a liberty dance, reared up on his hind legs, spun and twirled, and all to the selected patriotic-themed sounds playing in the background.

I cried . . .

In that mesmerizing moment the seeds for The Dancing Horses were planted in my fertile mind, but years would go by during which many obstacles had to be overcome before they took root and flourished.

THE DANCING HORSES has become my life since I began presenting the show and compared to years past, when my 16-hour days were often so filled with projects and passion, I seem to be living what little ability I have left to dream these days through the bright, hopeful, excited faces of the many children that come day after day to the Animal Gardens petting zoo and arena I built to present the sons and daughters of my beloved Baskin-Robbins who sadly passed in 2004.

For the children filling the stands, their dreams are all there waiting to come alive, if only they can believe. For me, now in my 70s, it feels like all my dreams have become mere memories, and though many have been realized, I miss the energizing, rebellious passion that used to drive me forward to accomplish whatever goal I set my mind to when everyone and every surrounding circumstance told me to give up.

Time marches on, I’m not getting any younger, and blessed with success, and knowing you can’t take anything with you, I try to give back every day to the children who still have a future they can enthusiastically look forward to. So, each day, for over seven years now, I’ve climbed up on the stool in front of the indoor entrance to The Dancing Horses arena to greet and encourage the kids as they enter the magical world I’ve created for them.

Most days my daughter mans the ticket counter. This account is of a summer Sunday in 2013 in the vacation resort area of Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, and a good crowd has shown up, but the 300-seat arena will only be about a third filled today. At 12:30 I begin letting the ticket holders into the arena early for the daily 1 P.M. show where a couple of ponies are always waiting for the kids to ride.

I was five years old when a pony ride at a small amusement park along the summer shores of Lake Como led to my lifelong infatuation with horses. Infatuation is not a strong enough word. During my long life, and for many reasons, some of which even I barely understand, I’ve been able to love horses and other animals much more deeply than I have any human being—sad to say I suppose, but to be honest, sadly true.

Animal Gardens and The Dancing Horses are there for the children should they ever be in need of the special kind of unconditional love that only horses and other animals can give. The 100 or so appreciated customers in attendance are not enough to make our ongoing expenses. Typically, anything people do with horses, especially expensive Arabians, will always end up costing you money. The Dancing Horses, however, has never been about money—it’s always been about The Dream.

“That’s right . . . go on through there,” I say, pointing the way to a family with three eager children who can’t wait for the show to begin.

As the line dwindles, finally the last person passes by, the doors close, the lights in the arena dim, and my daughter Danette opens the show by telling the children about my life and my dreams.

“That lady you met on the way in, my mother, Dana Montana, and yes that’s her real name, not Hannah Montana, but Dana Montana, rode a pony when she was about your age and fell madly in love with horses. From that day on every Christmas a pony was on her wish list, but it was not to be for a poor immigrant Italian family living on the West Side of Chicago. Her family, though, had a cottage on Lake Como and as a teenager Dana met a boy, Johnny, who fell in love with her. He had horses and they rode and rode and rode through the Lake Como countryside. While out riding one day my mom saw the most beautiful horse, stopped, and learned from the trainer that it was an Arabian named Mint Julep, owned by the famed Wrigley family from Chicago. When Dana wanted to know more about what it would take to own such a remarkable horse, the trainer shushed her away saying she would never be able to make that happen. Now, my mom was just a teenager then, but don’t ever say no to Dana Montana, or tell her that a dream she has will never be realized. A few years later, my mother bought her first Arabian, Baskin-Robbins, and today she owns 53 magnificent Arabian horses. Though not related to the ice cream family, my mom has gone on to name the sons and daughters of Baskin by giving them the names of the flavors of Baskin-Robbins ice cream! My mom rode Baskin every day of his life until one morning in 2004, entering his stall she could see him lying still on his side. He had passed, and unable to get over the loss of her beloved stallion, my mother has not been riding since.”

My daughter’s voice is being amplified, so although I seldom sit through an entire show anymore unless I’m been staging a new act, I can always hear the story she’s sharing with the children. When Danette mentions Baskin my heart breaks all over again. On this particular day, while the show is going on I leave the arena and head back to my office. Walking through the door I enter the foyer and for some reason this time stop to stare at the picture of Baskin-Robbins in his prime, framed and hanging proudly on the wall.

I slip into a time tunnel to remember and relive the circumstances that led to my being able to purchase not only Baskin, but the ranch and the many other horses boarded, bred, and trained at my Sugar Legacy Arabian Farm. It was there that the dream for The Dancing Horses was conceived, but it was another kind of prancing, provocative, dancing stallion that made The Dancing Horses as an enterprise costing millions of dollars possible. 

THAT FIRST NIGHT THERE WERE just under 100 people in the club—a good showing for a Monday. About half of them were true friends who came to support me no matter what. The others, there was no telling how they would react. Everyone applauded as I walked out on the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. This is a very special night as the Sugar Shack goes into yet another dimension of entertainment. It's new and it's different! It's risky, but damn, it's about time. Now let's have a really big welcome for my first gorgeous male dancer—the first anywhere! Ladies and gentlemen . . . ."

ON MARCH 15, 1976, ELLIOT LANZANNA strutted on to the Sugar Shack stage and became the first male exotic dancer the world had ever seen.

It was as if a journey, an all-consuming quest that began in my childhood, finally ended. The consuming drive that possessed me, drove me, to become much more than I was or could have ever imagined myself to be, had been realized. I’d been in the entertainment business for years, so I recognized the enthusiastic crowd reaction as a clear sign that my dream of turning the tables on the sexual exploitation of women in entertainment had become a reality that would soon be accepted by a wider public audience and the greater society in general.

Now I knew it was just a matter of time before the seeds of this movement would grow into a phenomenon that would bring me notoriety and financial security. While Elliot moved into the mid portion of his routine, sitting quietly and alone in the backstage office I found myself drifting back in time, wondering how I got to this moment of accomplishment that seemed to sum up my entire life.

6

SIGNS OF THE TIMES

WHEN MY MARRIAGE TO DARRYL didn’t work out, I was faced with the prospect of providing for myself and my children. Without any specialized training and living in an era when women, in general, were discriminated against in the male-dominated workplace, I had few options so I returned to tips-based waitress work.

With few exceptions, women were still an exploited underprivileged minority in American society. Even today, women, as a group, tend to occupy low-paying service jobs. Most people living in poverty are women with children. When I was working, the average secretary's annual income was just barely above the poverty line.

Before women took over secretarial duties, clerical positions in business were staffed by men who consistently earned incomes above the blue-collar wage rate. In our culture today, the man is the sole wage earner in only a small number of American households. Back then, women still struggled to find gainful employment outside the home. They often earned much less money for equal work and had limited options because of ongoing stereotypes directing women toward certain kinds of employment and away from others.

Yes, back then, and today to a lesser extent, we still call them firemen. Yes, little girls are still surrounded with pink—boys by blue. Yes, little boys are handled rougher and expected to be more aggressive and competitive while little girls are told to keep their place and to dream of marrying, raising a family, and being taken care of by a man. Yes, too many incidents of physical and emotional abuse go unpunished by our criminal justice system.

In the 1960s only a small portion of the main characters on television were women, and men were most often portrayed in the take-charge roles. Yes, women fought and won the right to vote years ago, but other entrenched cultural values tended to keep women home with their children and out of the corridors of economic and political power in this country.

Even today only around 20 women hold top CEO spots in Fortune 500 companies and although things are improving we still haven’t had a woman president of the United States.

In 1963, various women's rights groups were attempting to open the doors closing off women's choices.

PUBLIC AWARENESS OF WOMEN’S rights issues was raised significantly as a result of the publication, in 1959, of three definitive studies on the subject. One of them, Women and Work in America, cited information indicating that between 1890 and 1950 there were few gains in opportunities for women to find substantial employment outside the home.

That awareness led to the establishment of the President's Commission on the Status of Women. Support from women helped elect President Kennedy in 1960. It was time to pay back some of his political debts. Besides, because of the space race America needed to mobilize all of its resources, including women.

Early Russian space advances sparked an inevitable competition with the United States. President Kennedy was determined to place America in the forefront of space technology. His declaration to have the American space program land a man on the moon before the end of the decade required contributions from every sector of society.

During World War II women proved their value to the industrial war effort by successfully taking over jobs left by men who were sent to the front. When the war ended, the men returned and the women were expected to resume their proper place in society as homemakers and mothers.

Studies in the late ‘50s clearly indicated that there was an extensive group of educated women who were not part of any productive activity outside of the home. That needed to change. Eleanor Roosevelt, a longtime women's rights advocate, became a driving force behind the President's Commission. The year before the commission released its findings, Mrs. Roosevelt died.

With her passing in 1962, the women's movement was without a leader of stalwart proportions. From her early work spearheading women's suffrage in the 1920s, Mrs. Roosevelt had been a highly respected, tireless, and effective worker in the women's movement. One of Eleanor's last significant contributions involved her work with the President's Commission.

The Commission's report was released in 1963 with generally disappointing results. The politics that led to the Commission also controlled and limited what the Commission achieved. The report didn't push the Equal Rights Amendment or make any other radical changes, but did raise public awareness of many problems confronting women.

The President's Commission did move women toward equal employment status with men in the public and private sector. The report was picked up by the media and public awareness of these significant, yet subtle changes, began to take shape in the minds of women and men across the country.

The report given the title, American Woman, declared the need for child-care programs, directed government agency administrators to no longer indicate a gender preference for positions filled, suggested that the manual labor restrictions applied to women lifting heavy objects take into consideration each woman's ability to do the work, pointed out the need for paid maternity leave, hoped educational institutions would alter their schedules and provide financial assistance to accommodate women's needs, and advised setting up programs to help women break through the barriers of cultural expectations regarding their professional aspirations. One finding; the need for women to be paid the same as men for equal work, became legally binding earlier that same year.

As early as 1923, Alice Paul conceptually framed the sweeping Equal Rights Amendment. Esther Peterson, Assistant Secretary of Labor in 1961, initiated a different approach: propose a separate bill for each specific kind of discriminatory problem. While the controversial Equal Rights Amendment faltered for years, an eighteen-year-long effort finally led to the Equal Pay Act of 1963 which protected a woman's right to enter the workforce on all levels and earn wages comparable to men. Next on the political feminist agenda was protecting women's rights to get those good-paying jobs in the first place.

In the summer of 1963, a civil rights bill was proposed by representative Emmanuel Celler of New York, mainly to protect minorities from discrimination regarding access to public education, voting, and employment. By winter, the National Council of the National Woman's Party called for an amendment to include a ban on discrimination because of gender.

Not without considerable struggle, mainly by forces concerned that such a rider would jeopardize passage of a long overdue bill on behalf of African Americans, the gender clause was part of the Civil Rights Act that eventually passed.

Without the support, resources, and organization of an extensive women's rights group or movement, a few determined women's rights activists had succeeded in taking major legal and political steps forward to realize their ultimate goal of remolding American society in such a way as to open all the doors of opportunity to women.

1963 was also the year of the Freedom March in Washington, D.C. during which Dr. Martin Luther King delivered his monumental “I Have a Dream” speech. And, 1963 was the year in which President Kennedy was assassinated. This was a turbulent year full of spontaneous change and building pressures for more social change. What did all of this mean to American women?

IN ANCIENT JUDEA, BY CUSTOM WIDOWS and the poor were allowed to glean in the fields to sustain themselves. It was a humble existence, but it meant survival. Survival would no longer be good enough for America's militant women. The legal and conceptual framework for equality was just being laid down at the time.

Betty Friedan argued in her best-selling book, The Feminine Mystique, that women certainly had the right, and should feel the freedom to have both a career and a family.  Also, in 1963, Esther Peterson presented a paper entitled, "Working Women," at a national conference in which she establishing the principle that it was the inherent right of each woman and her family to decide that issue. At the same conference, Alice Rossi showed that throughout history women had clearly defined working roles connected with the survival of home and family.

The postwar era was unique in human history. Never before had a culture developed a vast financially secure middle class enabling a mother to stay home with her children and not work in some capacity supporting the occupational efforts of her husband. Awareness and assessment were important, but more legal, political, and social activism would be needed to make substantial improvements in the economic condition of most women in America.[1]

THIS WAS THE POLITICAL, moral, and social setting that in 1963 influenced my decision to view the prospect of becoming a Playboy Bunny as both my right as a modern woman and an economic necessity for me and my family.

---

[1] Toni Carabillo, et al., Feminist Chronicles, 1953-1993, Los Angeles, 1993, Women’s Graphics

7

WELCOME TO THE PLAYBOY CLUB

ALTHOUGH I WAS MARRIED IN NAME only, that still meant something in 1963, a time in American social history when divorce was a disgrace and living without a man often led to economic ruin for a mother with small children. In late October I found myself responsible for raising Danette and Darryl Jr. on my own.

We attempted to work on our marriage, but the results were consistently disappointing. Danette was just past her second birthday while Darryl Jr. was 14 months old. My husband retreated to the security and seclusion of his parents’ home. I spoke with him on the phone occasionally, but we rarely saw each other. Apparently he was working, but he was also still drinking heavily and not contributing to our support.

Working as a secretary, because of recent gains in the feminist movement did I demonstrate to protest my unfair low wages? No! I forged ahead by working two jobs instead of one. When the opportunity to advance from waitress to Playboy Bunny presented itself, I jumped at the opportunity. In that position I saw the potential for better money and a kind of professional status.  

It was late October, 1963 when I stepped off the bus at the corner of Michigan and Walton in Chicago's Loop. I stopped for a moment and inhaled a hopeful lungful of crisp fresh fall air while contemplating the decision that would inevitably change my life and influence the lives of many other individuals and the greater society.

My eyes glanced west following the crackle of brightly colored flags snapping in the brisk Windy City shoreline breeze.

Most prominent was the proud, round Playboy Club flag complete with embroidered Bunny emblem. I turned and saw the entrance to the impressive building, framed by fluttering monogrammed flags, and could hardly believe I was actually about to enter the famous, or by some accounts, infamous Chicago Playboy Club to apply for a job.

I could barely make out an announcer's words of welcome, "Ladies and gentlemen, the world famous, one and only . . . Chicago Playboy Club!"

Approaching the massive wooden doors, I stopped for a moment before a display window featuring a variety of Playboy gifts, each marked with the unmistakable Bunny logo. Glancing beyond the display, my eye caught a glimpse of a glamorous and gorgeous woman—stately, perfectly proportioned with enviably long limbs. My confidence was shaken.

What was I doing expecting to compete with someone like that? Just as those negative thoughts crossed my mind, a man spoke up.

"Need some help little lady?" said the doorman, unmistakable in his resplendent regal red coachman's coat sporting big round brass buttons.

"I have an appointment with Adrienne Foote. I'm supposed to apply for a position as a Bunny, but I'm not sure I should," I answered awkwardly, while nodding over to the exquisite woman I had just been looking at. "I really don't think there's much use in my keeping the appointment. This was just a fantasy—and not even my fantasy."

"Don’t feel that way, I think you're real pretty, ma'am. You just go right up them stairs and you give 'em your best."

I TOOK RAY, THE DOORMAN’S advice and entered the lobby. Down three steps was the gift shop, walls lined with pictures of Playboy Playmates and Bunnies. I followed bright polished brass rails to the stairs leading up to the corporate offices.

I was surprised to notice how unpretentious, grim really, the management area of this exclusive club was. While waiting to be called for my appointment, a number of women who had already achieved the coveted status of Playboy Bunny, passed by.

A mystique surrounded them. I saw them as having become larger than life. Almost immediately I found myself feeling there was nothing in the world I wanted more than to join their sisterhood. Often disappointed by dreams that never came true, I was beset by nagging insecurities yet I sat down, my mind lost in a sea of self doubt. Finally, my name was called.

"So, you're Murray Laterman's friend?" Adrienne Foote questioned in an icy tone suggesting I’d slept my way to the front office rather than legitimately deserved to be there.

I was so focused on my goal, now an obsession, that nothing this lady could say was going to put me off my quest to possess the Holy Grail of Bunnydom.

Besides functioning as the Bunny Mother, Adrienne was a walking, living, breathing standard of what a Playboy Bunny symbolized. She carried herself like a supermodel. She had the charisma of a Hollywood starlet. She was clothed and groomed as if she’d just stepped from the pages of Vogue.

Without saying another word, Adrienne handed me an application. While I was writing, she spoke up.

"Is that the real color of your hair?"

"No, I dyed it blond a couple of months ago. I'm really a redhead . . . I mean I've had red hair almost all my life though I'm naturally a brunette," I stammered, not sure just how honest I needed to be with her.

I’d struggled in the confessional all my Catholic life often making up sins to please the priest—a man, from what some of the boys told me, should have been confessing to me, but this was different. With the priest it was about going to hell. With Adrienne it was about making it to Bunny heaven and I didn’t want to blow my chances of getting there.

"I'll tell you one thing right now, the blond hair goes. Get back to your normal color, and stop biting your fingernails! Get some false ones. Oh, and lose ten pounds immediately!"

Adrienne's directives seemed cold, calculating, and critical, but I wasn't about to get upset. In fact, my only thoughts were how to please this demanding icon of Bunny beauty. I continued to fill out my application and handed it to Adrienne when I was finished.

"Watch what you eat. Short people show the pounds they put on instantly. You're short you realize."

She was on a no-holds-barred roll again.

"Fine, fine, anything you say!"

"Now, go upstairs and be fitted for a costume."

"Does that mean . . . ?"

"It doesn't mean a damn thing. Just go up to the dressing room and ask for Lucy. She'll fit you for a costume and meanwhile I can look over this application. Then I'll see how you look in the costume," she continued while looking down—all business.

The criticism from Adrienne would never stop. It was as if she resented having to hire me because of the pressure Murray Laterman put on her. She didn’t have to like me as long as my work was good enough to earn her respect.

LUCY WAS THE OFFICIAL costume mistress and wardrobe handler for the Bunnies, but she was much more than that. Unofficially she was a friend, confidant, marriage counselor, psychiatrist, doctor, and sometimes banker for every single Bunny who ever passed through her hallowed space. She was a gem.

Lucy looked me over and suggested, "You better try on a 36-C."

"You know Lucy, at best I'm a 34-B."

"You were a 34-B darlin’, you now are a 36-C. You leave the details to Miss Lucy," she explained.

I was swimming in the 36-C, but Lucy had the solution. She gathered several fluffy white Bunny tails and handed them to me with her standard instructions.

"Jam them under your tits. They fill things out just fine. Front office still can't figure out why we go through so many thousand of these little tails each year. If they only knew," she giggled.

Women don't have natural cleavage. That was the only deficiency in the ingenious French corset Bunny costume—there was no built-in mechanism for creating cleavage. The costume was cut up the side, with string ties. There the Bunnies hung their flashlights and name tags. Completing the costume were the mandatory bow tie collar, cuffs, Bunny ears, and dyed-to-match three-inch heels.

Other Bunnies were coming and going in various stages of undress. These women looked like the models displayed in Playboy. Even in a casual setting like the fitting room, they were intimidating for me to be around. At the time there were 80 women on staff to fill the various shifts. I began feeling more and more inadequate. I questioned whether I could ever really be accepted in such an elite group. Lucy stayed by my side and propped me up just enough to keep going.

"Now Dana, you look just great, but you also look worried. It takes time to get used to this whole thing," Lucy suggested, having had to help any number of new recruits overcome insecurities during her tenure there.

With the costume on I turned gingerly toward the full-length mirror. I was pleasantly shocked to actually see a Playboy Bunny! I certainly looked much better than I felt inside, but that was changing as I kept checking the image in the mirror from every conceivable angle.

The first thing I noticed was the excellent cleavage created by the twelve bunny tails tucked in my bra. I thought to myself, not bad . . . you know what, we just may be looking at Bunny Dana!

"I made it!" I shouted to the doorman on my way out of the club, remembering Ray’s kind words of encouragement earlier that day.

"I knew you would!" he shouted back.

I’d survived the first day of the application and training process!

Tucked under my arm was a thick book—the Bunny bible. I had one week to absorb the contents of the 300-page operating manual before reporting back to begin formal training.

WALKING BACK TO THE 3M Company, where I planned to quit my clerical job, I sensed the events of the past several hours had changed me—a kind of graduation day that had nothing to do with diplomas, but which would alter the course of my life forever. I was now a graduate from the university of guts and determination.

It was a spectacular clear, crisp, autumn day and I felt radiant and glowing with hope and pride, internally reflecting the brilliant sun now slowly setting west of the proud Chicago skyline. Where so much doubt and insecurity had been, I now reveled in a strong sense of having accomplished something important.

Like a bride on her wedding day, or an athlete who has just broken a record, I was beaming inside with pride. I wanted to stop people on the street and say, "Excuse me, I'm a Playboy Bunny!" I resisted that urge, but continued to experience surges of pure, unbridled joy.

What people must have thought as I burst into laughter for no apparent reason while strutting down Michigan Avenue as giddy as if I’d just won an Oscar for my performance in front of Adrienne. With the business of leaving my old job taken care of, I headed for home and a reckoning with Grandma Dane.

"You what?!" she shrieked throwing up her hands while shaking them back and forth, as is the Italian septuagenarian custom when displaying displeasure.

I remained calm and explained the situation.

My task was complicated by the fact that my conservative Italian grandmother had lived through many difficult periods with me being hurt and had become understandably overprotective.

"A Playboy Bunny . . . Granny, this is a perfectly respectable profession for a woman today. I’ll be working at the famous Playboy Club downtown. Oh Granny, it's going to be terribly exciting and interesting. Try to understand," I pleaded while doing my best to ease her fears.

"Oh my God in heaven . . . a rabbit . . . a Playboy rabbit. You'll end up naked for everyone to see your body. You'll have staples in your navel like those other bad girls."

"Granny, settle down . . . Bunny, not rabbit. This is a wonderful opportunity for me. I am going to be a Playboy Bunny. Do you have any idea how many girls want to work for Playboy? They’re very professional." I kept saying over and over without making any headway.

"You'll have to sleep with that terrible man, Leffner! You, the mother of two babies. Shame on you! Think of the babies. Oh, Dana, think of your grandmother."

"Granny, I don't have to sleep with anybody, and his name is Mr. Hugh Hefner, not Leffner. I'll probably never see him. It's all completely different than you think!"

"I forbid it! My granddaughter is not going to be a Playboy rabbit. Where did I go wrong? Momma mia, momma mia."

"Bunny, Granny, Playboy Bunny! And I am going to do it! It is the best thing that ever happened in my life," I insisted.

SHE WAS STUBBORN AND UPSET, but I knew this was right for me and didn't budge. Granny left the room muttering something about lighting candles and saying special prayers to save my soul. Meanwhile, I dug right into the Playboy manual.

I couldn't help but be impressed with how thorough Playboy management was in preparing the guide. Nothing was left to chance or interpretation. It looked like a book of military regulations. The duties of a Playboy Bunny were outlined in detail. It covered descriptions of a speed system for mixing and moving drinks, and exactly what to say and what not to say to customers during every assigned position as well as any conceivable situation that might come up.

The mystique, the ambiance that Playboy wanted to create was captured word for word, line by line, on those pages. Establishing and maintaining the Playboy image was not left up to the discretion or interpretation of individual Playboy Bunnies. The Playboy Club operation was a carefully choreographed and strictly structured business. It was the Playboy Bunny's job to effortlessly lead the key holder through each phase of the exciting exotic entertainment world that was the Playboy experience.

Rather than being put off or intimidated by the demands of learning so much material, I was determined to absorb and follow each and every directive down to the smallest detail. It was a daunting task and one that by association made me feel that much more privileged to be working for Playboy.

Slowly, my hard-to-shake feelings of self-doubt turned into the confidence to complete the challenging task. Anticipating a boot camp level of training, I was preparing myself for the test of a lifetime.

Throughout the manual was the Playboy Employee Code, "You are one of the chosen few." I read it over and over. I thought it . . . I believed it . . . I felt it. So many women wanted what I was striving for.

By the time I finished going over the manual, I was thoroughly indoctrinated.

My training drill sergeant was Kelly Collins. She set the standard for the Playboy Bunny Image. It was Kelly's face and figure that adorned all Playboy promotional material. She happened to be Keith Hefner's girlfriend. Keith was Hugh Hefner's brother and responsible for all matters concerning the Playboy Bunnies. Involved with the Hefners or not, Kelly was the epitome of grace and style. Her regal stately stature and impressive presence, sporting a fashion-forward flipped-up Marlo Thomas coiffeur, inspired each trainee to want to be just like her.

I was one of seven told to report to the Penthouse at the Chicago Club for an intensive week of training. While waiting I could see a look of eagerness, anticipation, and willingness-to-please on the faces of all the girls. Kelly's Marines-drill-sergeant opening speech hit hard and was designed to intimidate.

"Listen up gang! Making it past Adrienne is a piece of cake. You are not a Playboy Bunny until I say you are. The record will show that about 50% of the prospective Bunnies who get this far, go no farther. Now, let me make one thing abundantly clear! If you came here to meet men, or operate as some kind of a swinger, get out right now! Anyone caught giving their telephone number to a customer is finished on the spot. Hugh Hefner is a very busy man and last time I checked, no Bunny was on his personal appointment calendar. The number two guy is his brother Keith, and he's my boyfriend . . . need I say more, cuties. Playboy isn't broken, so don't set out on your own to fix it! You do exactly as I tell you and exactly as you read in the Playboy Manual and you may have a shot at surviving this week. Deviate one iota and you're history!"

Each recruit sat in stunned silent attention, except for head-nodding acknowledgement of Kelly's remarks. I kept saying to myself, Yes, Ms. Collins. Yes, Ms. Collins. Right, Ms. Collins. Thank you, Ms. Collins.

Despite desperately wanting to please, I dropped several trays of drinks and lost my balance trying to maneuver atop three-inch heels for the first time. The Bunny costume posed problems as well.

As ingenious as this French corset design was, complete with stays and laces to conform to every bend and curve, if you didn't bend over properly gravity could carry your breasts right out into someone's martini. You also had to worry about those bunny tails stuffed under your breasts. If a Bunny didn't carry herself correctly, those tails could work their way up and out becoming visible, or worse, fall out.

We learned the Bunny Dip—a way of bending over backwards with a tray of drinks so that in case of any mishap, the spillage would not find its way onto the customer. A proper Bunny Dip also gave the customer a birds-eye view of a Bunny's bosom.

The training was intense and challenging, but the more I was immersed in the Bunny baptism, the more I was committed to Playboy.

I passed my written and performance tests, accepting and absorbing the indoctrination from all the lectures and films. I loved what was happening to me and it showed. Most of the Bunnies felt the same way.

When the smoke cleared, there were three recruits remaining and I was one of them. Finally, the night arrived for me to realize my dream and begin to function as an official Playboy Bunny. Bunny Dana was on top of her world!

MY FIRST ASSIGNMENT WAS to work the Cartoon Corner, a small lounge area tucked away behind the much larger Living Room buffet dining area. The Cartoon Corner got its name and atmosphere from the images of original cartoon characters found in Playboy. It was considered a good training station because it was seldom crowded, except on weekends when the club was always jammed to the rafters.

I felt confident that without undo pressure, I could perform my duties flawlessly in front of my supervisors. During the first few hours I handled a number of customers with precision, charm, and efficiency. Around midnight, I heard a commotion in the Living Room.

A group of ten people were making their way through the buffet area, stopping occasionally and talking to friends as they moved along. I couldn't make out their faces, but from the attention they were getting, these were VIPs. I followed their progress until I was shocked to realize they were heading for my station.

 My heart started racing as I tried to calm down. The group barely fit into the sofa section forming a booth-like nook. Nervous, but determined, I gathered all my courage, took a deep breath, and headed for their table. Executing a perfect ballerina-like Bunny dip, I went to work.

"Hello, I'm Bunny Dana. Welcome to the Playboy Club. May I take your cocktail order, please?"

I listened intently, wrote down each order, and while looking at each man as he ordered finally noticed Benny Dunne—a big, gruff, bulldog-faced man, but a certifiable Playboy VIP. He was the entertainment director for the club and a member of Hugh Hefner's inner sanctum of movers and shakers. I felt some pressure from Benny's presence because he was well aware of precisely how I was to speak and behave.

If anything went wrong Benny Dunne had the authority to fire me on the spot. Just then he barked, "Give me tomato juice!"

That bothered me. I became nervous and didn't look at the last customer as he ordered a glass of white wine. I did remember to thank the men before withdrawing from the table to regroup and fill their orders.

"God, do you see who's at my station?" I asked one of the other Bunnies standing at the service bar.

"Yeah and he's so handsome," was her reply.

"Handsome?" I shrieked. "Benny Dunne, he looks like a friggin’ horse!"

"No, No! Not him, Dana. The other guy, stupid. Don't you recognize him? That's . . . ."

I stopped paying attention because I was loading my tray with the ten-drink order and planning on how to manage the Bunny-Dip so as to deliver them without incident. I made it to the packed corner and positioned myself.

Establishing my balance before offering the first drink, all went smoothly. So did the next seven. The men weren't paying any attention to me anyway which made things a little easier. They seemed to be in good spirits, laughing and talking lightheartedly among themselves. Then it was time to serve Benny Dunne.

I bent backward reaching carefully for the tomato juice with my right hand. I was just about to grab the glass when the tray slipped from my left hand.

The crash of glass, ice, and bottles smashing to the floor and across the table stunned everyone. I froze speechless. Benny Dunne catapulted from his seat and howled at the top of his voice. "You dumb bitch! Who the hell are you? Look what you did. You got tomato juice all over my pants."

The room director was at my side before I could speak.

"Benny . . . please . . . it's her first night. Take it easy, we'll get it cleaned up. Bunny Dana, please clean the table and we'll start over. Everybody just relax . . . I'm very sorry!"

"I'm so sorry," I said apologetically as I reached out toward the last man. I began soaking up the spillage when he spoke up.

"Don't worry sweetheart, it could happen to anyone."

I finally took a good look at the guy as he was wiping some wine from his jacket. It was Andy Williams! I backed away, again stunned and speechless like a star-struck schoolgirl.

"Oh . . . my . . . God . . . you're Andy Williams. Mr. Williams, I'm so thrilled, I mean sorry that I spilled . . . jeez, I spilled on Andy Williams . . . ."

I was not making much sense, when suddenly tears started flowing. At a discreet distance from Benny Dunne Andy said, "Don't worry about Benny, he's a loudmouth. He shouldn't talk to any of you kids in here that way and I intend to tell someone about it, too."

I couldn't believe my ears. Andy Williams was going to take a stand on my behalf. I found myself right in the heart of a fantasy world, a twilight zone full of real live stars. With everything that happened, what did I remember about him? Andy Williams had the deepest blue eyes I had ever seen.

Snapping back to reality, I continued cleaning up the mess before impulsively realizing I might actually have something to talk to him about.

"You're in Las Vegas all the time, aren't you, Mr. Williams?" I asked.

"Yeah, a lot of the time, why do you ask?"

"My dad lives in Las Vegas. His name is Christy Montana," I said believing it was a comment worthy of polite conversation, something that shouldn’t upset him one way or the other.

"You're putting me on. I know your dad. What a great guy. You won't believe this, but I played golf with him at the Desert Inn last week. He's a terrific player. Wait till I tell him that I met his daughter. He must be real proud of you, working as a Bunny."

"I . . . I don't know, Mr. Williams. I don't get to see him very often."

Our conversation was rudely interrupted by a red-faced Benny Dunne.

"You . . . you clumsy fool. Get away from that table. Don't you say another word to Mr. Williams! Go . . . before you actually hurt somebody. You are a disaster! I said leave! I don't ever want to see you again!"

As I scampered from the area, another Bunny was quickly assigned to take care of the group and the next day I was sent back for two days of additional training.

DESPITE THE SETBACK, I continued to thrive on the celebrity status and the opportunity to meet celebrities associated with being a Playboy Bunny. Unfortunately, Bunnies were not allowed to meet with customers outside the club. The natural opportunities to date some of the influential men that frequented the club were denied to most of the girls.

After a typically demanding night’s work at the club, my friends and I would hit Rush Street to unwind. The Bunnies came from every walk of life and each had their own reason for being there. Some were supporting children; others paying their way through college. Many hoped to meet and marry some exceptional man. For others, it was just a good-paying job.

Rush Street was a conventioneer’s paradise. Lining the street was a collection of strip clubs, saloons, nightclubs, and gin mills all just a few paces from the Playboy Club. Gayle and Margie were my two closest friends. Together we made quite a threesome—a redhead, a platinum blond, and one with striking jet-black Sonny-and-Cher hair. The Stork Club was our favorite hangout.

It was an unpretentious place, but the owners loved catering to the Playboy Bunnies because they gave the club a certain cachet. I can't remember ever paying for a drink there in three years. The minute we walked in voices could be heard responding, "Here come the Playboy Bunnies," as all eyes turned for a more studied look.

Proud of who we were and represented, we shamelessly peacocked with poses, positions, and struts that accentuated our ample Marilyn-Monroe feminine assets. When we were out, the problem wasn't finding men—it was how to get rid of them. I wasn't shy and took on the ball-buster role for our Sex-and-the-City trio.

"Get lost loser. We're alone and we like it that way!" was my typical Bunny-Bitch scram line.

Most conventioneers disgusted me with their stale breath and on-the-make mentality. They reminded me of the jerks who took advantage of my gullible mother who was always expecting one of them to help develop her career in show business. I was used to dealing with obnoxious men, so that didn't detract from the wonderful feeling of being catered to like a celebrity.

These feelings were especially sweet because I remembered all too well being shunned by the satin-jacketed V-Ettes, the kids living in the Lake Geneva area, as well as school classmates down through the years. Things were certainly different now.

For the time being I had achieved the recognition and acceptance I’d been missing all of my life. The other Bunnies were the sisters I never had. The Playboy Club was the stable home I never really had. Although not the most beautiful Bunny, I earned a place in the group by being their collective voice and protector.

Because of my background I was instinctively tougher and more independent. When provoked with abuse or injustice, I struck back fast and dealt with the consequences later. I was admired and appreciated for those qualities.

I prized the beauty, grace, and style personified by the Playboy Bunny which made me even more determined to maintain my position of importance within the group and did so with bold, but calculated maneuvers within the rigid Bunny-Bible Playboy system.

THE RABBIT PUNCH WAS A DRINK that came with a souvenir Playboy mug. A Bunny cocktail waitress could earn an extra $5.00 for each case of mugs sold. I was always looking for ways to enhance my earnings. I found it challenging to test my sales ability while improving my self-confidence.

Cooperating with the bartender, I devised a strategy to have every one of my drink orders served in a mug. When women were in the party, things went smoothly.

"Oooooh, look at that cute mug. I want a couple of those to take home. Bring all my drinks in those!" many ladies would say.

Often that strategy would result in sales of a case of mugs per table. It got so that on a given shift, as I walked toward my station I'd hear the bartender grumble, "Montana's here tonight, call downstairs and get me twenty cases of mugs!"

I sold between five and ten cases of Playboy mugs every night, far more than any other Bunny. The room managers were constantly asking me to share my sales secret. I would just laugh and say, "Bunny Dana can do anything she sets her mind to."

The Playboy system was rigid and structured. The individual had to conform or face the consequences. Demerits were used to enforce policy. Was I back at Saint Mel’s Catholic School? Deviation from standard practice was not only discouraged, the resulting demerits could add up to being fired.

I respected the system, but realized there was some safe space within which a Bunny could demonstrate individual initiative. My Bunny-Dana policy was to conform to the rules, but make them work for me whenever possible and by doing so I also helped the house.

I was never told not to have all my drinks served in mugs. I wasn't ever instructed to use the mugs for each order. There was a gray area and I took advantage of it. Of course, it took some salesmanship, but once a customer had the mug in their hands they usually wanted to keep it. When a mug was refused, I simply took it back, washed it, and put it back in circulation. On nights when I sold ten cases I made an extra $50 a night while the club moved 120 mugs at $1.50 a piece. The mugs were an advertising bonus because the Playboy logo was prominently displayed on the side. I bent the rules, but everybody benefited.

This was a simple, but significant example of the workings of my mind and the nature of my personality and character. The Playboy mug sales concept was a result of bold innovative thinking—the kind of risk-taking adventure needed to lead a revolution.

The initiative that began with the Playboy mugs, would in the future, and without really meaning to, help lead an entire generation of women into a new era of sexual freedom and gender equality.  

MY LIFE AS A BUNNY WAS regimented, but that wasn't a problem. Because of my past, I thrived on the predictable order and discipline that characterized my responsibilities with Playboy. I felt secure in such a setting, while at the same time feeling challenged to assert my creative individuality whenever possible.

The Chicago Playboy Club became my home and entire world. I signed up to work as much as possible; often double or triple shifts, which meant 11 AM to 4 AM covering lunch, private parties, and the regular night shift.

One of the perquisites for Bunny Dana involved having my hair done professionally every day. I had my own long auburn hair, often worn down to the middle of my back, as well as a short dark wig. Sometimes I sported a Streisand look that drew compliments. Those damned high-heeled shoes were another story.

Initially, my feet swelled up and hurt so badly I had difficulty completing even a single shift. Lucy, the wardrobe mistress, would have an Epsom salt soak ready during my break to help reduce the swelling. In time, I adjusted to the physical demands of my new career.

I wanted to be a part of everything that went on at the club. I volunteered for every optional assignment. Unfortunately, I was seldom selected for promotional work.

Only the girls who best represented the perfect Bunny Image were sent out to represent the Playboy organization during public functions. They wore cheerleader skirts and sweaters with a Bunny emblem sewn on. Beauty, as defined by the pages of Playboy, was the primary standard used to establish Bunny Image. I didn’t make the team because I did not have that jaw-dropping centerfold look.

This was particularly painful for me because of my history being shunned growing up. Bunny Dana did have other qualities though. I was a hard worker, a productive salesperson, and an engaging conversationalist. Finally, I was selected to help with a business promotion taking place on Michigan Avenue in the President's Room in an upscale hotel in the Loop.

It was their annual banquet. Walking into the room I couldn’t help but both notice and admire the presidential portraits that lined the walls with a regal presence—American democratic royalty. It was November 22, 1963.

The Bunnies were there to give brochures out to the conventioneers. Without any apparent reason the mood of everyone at the gathering switched from jovial to grief-stricken as the terrible news of President Kennedy's assassination spread.

The unexplainable tragedy shocked and stunned everyone. All normal activity ceased. We were instructed to return to the Playboy Club, but couldn’t find a cab.

Instead of waiting, we walked back to the Playboy Club. Making brisk progress down Michigan Avenue, we stopped in our tracks at a storefront display full of televisions showing graphic pictures of the assassination scene in Dallas. Soon crowds gathered around us to get a closer look at the coverage.

Finally back at the club, we were open but word of the President's assassination was being broadcast over television monitors and a common grief infected everyone with a profound sadness we couldn’t shake. No one felt like partying that night.

President Kennedy, along with his glamorous, distinguished wife and children, had captured the affection of a nation infatuated with what the president represented—the hope of an era of grace, beauty, and meaningful change in Washington. His passing was felt all over the world.

That night my work at the club was anything but rewarding. As the evening ended so did the innocence of our great country. America had come of age. Gone was the Camelot Era we wanted the Kennedys to maintain and pass on to succeeding generations—a legacy promoting a proud, moral land governed by law and justice. In its place was a cruel, unsafe realm ruled by despots wielding ruthless influence and power.

I WAS USED TO SUCH conditions. I learned to cope in a cruel world during trips down Madison Avenue when, as a child of five, I was sent to visit my mother, alone and unsupervised. I had a thick calculating skin and I used it to my advantage. Always on the lookout for another opportunity besides the mugs to earn extra money, I volunteered to be the Camera Bunny.

None of the other Bunnies wanted this position because policy would not allow a charge for the Polaroids. If a customer asked, "How much?" the only response allowed was, "A nickel!"

Since many customers were conventioneers who usually had one drink too many, they would often hand over a nickel, and think they were being cute. Any friends observing this absurd transaction usually ended up laughing so hard you'd think they were breaking up over a Johnny Carson Carnac the Magnificent skit. The joke was really on the Bunny, but the customer seldom saw it that way.

Again, I was not daunted by the challenge of turning this losing proposition into a bankable moment for this enterprising Bunny.

The typical setting for a photo involved taking a Polaroid of a group of people sitting around a table. It wasn't anything special, but the customers enjoyed having a hard-copy proof of their presence at the infamous Playboy Club. I decided I could play off that general principle and add another dimension to their photo op. The next night I gave my idea a try.

Greeting a customer I would say, "Hi, I'm Bunny Dana. Would you like to have your picture taken with one of the Bunnies?"

Bingo, an instant success.

The other Bunnies cooperated and the number of photos being taken increased dramatically. Still, there was the problem of turning all those free pics into cash for the Bunnies to stuff under their bustier.

Next, when a customer asked how the picture would cost, I would say, "Anything you want to give, sir."

That helped, usually resulting in at least a $1 tip. Then, I added an odd little look when handed the initial tip, to which the customer would respond by asking if that was enough. If I paused, the tip would grow. If asked what the usual tip was, I could go for the big score and say, "Between $5 and $20." Out would come the serious cash which was immediately stuffed between that famous Bunny cleavage.

By the end of the night, Bunny Dana usually had herself and extra $200!

There was money to be made as a Playboy Bunny, but it took some initiative. It was tips-only employment. Cash tips could be kept. Half the charge tips were returned in the form of a check, minus $8/day for costume rental and $4/day tip sharing and food. The other half was kept by the club. Some of the Bunnies weren't beyond larceny, collaborating with bartenders to divert George Washington’s that should have gone to the club. I continued to ask for the job that no one else wanted. One night I was on another roll with my camera when three handsome men at the bar waved me over.

"Hey, over here . . . take our picture!"

"Sure boys, would you like to have it taken with one of the Bunnies?"

"Yep, that would be outstanding," one of the men answered.

"Just wait a minute while I ask another Bunny to come over."

I set up the shot, took the picture, and then after a friendly exchange answered the usual last question with, "Anything that you want to give, sir."

This time the man with a short crew cut and eyes much too serious for a night out at the Playboy Club, handed me 50 cents which began a predictable dialog as I gave him my best look of displeasure while looking at the small change.

"Isn't that enough?" he asked.

"Well . . . I usually get from five to twenty dollars," I replied accompanied with the sweetest, most endearing smile I could muster, and bolstered by the manipulative misdirection of a long look at my Bunny bosom as I turned to present my twin DDs in his direction. Is it my fault if he thought for a moment that he might get more for his Andrew Jackson than a mere Polaroid”

"Just for a picture?"

"Don't you think it's worth more than 50 cents?" I went on, not about to let this trophy fish throw my hook.

"Well, what if that's all I've got?"

"That would be very sad," I said feigning upset with a forced pout.

"You'd like me to give you more, wouldn't you?" he persisted.

At this point the conversation became noticeably strange and clearly counterproductive. Resigning myself to losing this round, I just figured these guys were a weird bunch and walked away after tossing a curt, "Thank you, fellas," over my shoulder and didn’t think anymore of it for the rest of the night.

The next morning I arrived at the club around 10 o'clock.

I was immediately ordered to the Bunny Mother's office which never meant good news. At least Toni LeMay was new in that position.

Toni took over from Adrienne Foote and had a good working relationship with me. Keith Hefner's presence was unsettling, though. Neither of them looked pleased.

"I've got a report on you, here, suggesting that you are soliciting from the customers," were Keith's opening remarks.

"Soliciting? I never . . . ," came my stammering reply.

"With the camera, Dana—gouging. Do you know what we charge for pictures?" Toni added.

"Yes, a nickel," I said quietly.

"Last night you deviated from our policy in a major way and told an undercover Willmark agent you usually got a lot more than that, an obviously angry Keith continued.

PLAYBOY HIRED THE WILLMARK Detective Agency to do undercover monitoring of operations at the club. It was not unusual for companies to hire out such surveillance in order to check on suspicions or just to get a baseline on how their customers were being treated by employees.

The Willmark agents knew what they were doing and were hard to spot. They were also hired to protect the Bunnies and the carefully choreographed image Playboy created for their Playmates and Bunnies who were to look beautiful and sexy, but have the morals of the wholesome girl next door.

The agents made sure there was no prostitution taking place and that the girls weren't being exploited in any way. I was caught and rather than attempt to deny the charges, I took the offensive and criticized the camera policy.

Despite my contention that the policy should be changed, I offered a sincere apology and made sure I looked completely contrite. At that point, Toni LeMay spoke up in my behalf.

"Keith, she is the most dedicated Bunny I've got. I don't think she would ever do anything to intentionally damage Playboy. I really don't."

Keith seemed to take Toni seriously and paused as if wanting to find a way to make this all go away, so I wouldn’t have to.

"Wait a minute Dana," Keith interrupted. "You don't mean the customers actually hand you a nickel. I mean five cents?"

"Yes sir, they never give more than a nickel if you say that to them. It becomes some sort of bizarre joke. Just follow me around on the floor some night and you’ll see for yourself.”

Keith leaned back in his chair and stared at me while considering what I told him. Then, without any further discussion, he dismissed me.

Toni delivered a short, somewhat reassuring smile as I left, but it only offered a false reprieve because the next day I was suspended for two weeks and banned from ever again being the Camera Bunny.

Shortly after I returned to work, though, a telling memo was posted:

                TO:                         ALL PLAYBOY BUNNIES

                FROM:                  KEITH HEFNER

                RE:                        CAMERA BUNNY

From today forward Bunnies assigned as Camera Bunny will no longer tell customers that the photo cost is a nickel. The proper answer and only answer to be given is, WHATEVER YOU WANT TO GIVE, SIR.

I was not given any credit for my role in bringing about such a significant change in policy, but privately I felt vindicated. No one approached me with any kind of conciliatory gesture such as, "You were right Dana you just went about it in the wrong way."

Over my two-week suspension I was able to make up for some of the lost time with my children. Going back on triple shifts, I missed my kids again. I devised another somewhat risky, but ingenious plan to see more of them.

My grandmother brought Danette and Darryl down to the club in the mid afternoon when things weren't too busy. I would take the children into the dressing room and show them off to the other Bunnies, where we’d all played with them.

During breaks I would take off my Bunny ears, wrap up in a oversized coat, and hustle the kids across the street to a movie theater. I'd get them comfortably seated and tip an usher to check on them. Then I’d return to the club, repositioned my Bunny ears, and get back to work until the movie ended. Off with the ears, on with the coat, and I would be “Mommy" and not Bunny Dana for a little while longer until Granny came to pick them up.

At times I was forced to send them home in a cab, but that was uncomfortable reminding me of those lonely rides home from visiting my mother as a child.

This ritual took place many times over the period of my employment as a Playboy Bunny.

THE YEAR WAS 1963. Although women had the right to work outside the home, there were cultural prohibitions against it. Many activists were working at the national level to improve the economic and political status of women in America. I shared their passionate vision of equality for all women.

I was clearly concerned with basic human rights issues, but being a woman, I was most concerned about civil rights violations as they applied to me in my everyday struggle for existence. I stepped out onto the teetering precipice and risked disaster in order to secure a better path for other women to follow.

Sensitive to civil liberties issues, I got involved in the replacement of Adrienne Foote by Toni LeMay.

During the months that followed my initial employment as a Playboy Bunny, I distinguished myself as the Bunny who spent the most time at the club, who knew the most about club operations other than the Bunny mother, and who would listen when problems came up. Some of the most consistent kinds of complaints surrounded allegations of preferential treatment.

The preferred Penthouse assignments, as well as work with VIPs, went to a select group of Bunnies. Many of the other Bunnies were upset about Adrienne Foote's discriminatory management of assignments and they wanted something done about it.

In one case, Bunny Alice had five children she was supporting at home. She needed to be able to realize her full income-earning potential as a Playboy Bunny as a matter of survival. 

Adrienne and I never did get along, but I valued my position at Playboy more than I disliked working for Adrienne. As time went on, I began to sense that if Adrienne could find an excuse, she would have me fired. Adrienne's constant criticism was unrelenting.

According to Adrienne I was a black sheep among swans—I just didn't live up to the Bunny Image. Knowing I had to fight back somehow, I set up a general meeting to be attended by Keith Hefner to spell out the grievances being voiced by the other Bunnies. Aware that I could be let go on the spot, on this matter of principle I was willing to risk the one thing I treasured most in the world—my status as a Playboy Bunny.

Bunnies could be fired for any breach of Bunny Image which involved all aspects of appearance and behavior as judged by the Bunny manual and evaluations by the Willmark agents. Then there was the system of merits and demerits.

Despite all the pressure to conform, I had something to say about the unequal treatment of the staff under Adrienne Foote's direction. This was a violation of basic human rights I could not tolerate. During the meeting, my initial charges were supported by the other Bunnies in attendance.

The primary complaint involved preferential assignment to the lucrative Penthouse shift. With the controversy aired, the meeting ended without any on-the-spot changes made by Keith. Not long after the meeting, however, Toni LeMay was moved into Adrienne's position.

Toni LeMay soon appointed me as her assistant. Toni and I formed a solid working relationship and friendship. I was well qualified, having worked hard to learn every aspect of what was expected from a Playboy Bunny. It was at this time that I completely dedicated myself to see the Playboy organization thrive.

Professionally it meant a few extra dollars and some scheduling duties, but most important I was given the responsibility of fielding complaints. Also, I had a rare opportunity to observe and learn about the technical behind-the-scenes workings of a big-money nightclub. I handled order forms, procedural papers, manuals, and all the other small items that have to be taken care of on a day-to-day basis.

Another critical aspect of my training, learning how to market the sexual hype surrounding a hot night spot operating in the sex-exploitation industry. All this knowledge and experience would be invaluable when the day came for me to open my own club.

MY ORIGINAL CONTACT, MURRAY LATERMAN, early on told me that Playboy was an efficient well-run business and not some cover for illicit activities. He certainly was right.

During my three years at the Playboy Club I only saw Hugh Hefner on two occasions. He was quiet, drank soda, and was with a group of polite associates. His manner and presence were unassuming. He seemed pale and undernourished. He did not embody his larger-than-life Playboy-After-Dark image.

On a couple of other occasions he came to the club while I was working, but I didn't even notice him. He would inconspicuously slip in to see a show or visit someone, then leave without any fanfare. But then there were the mandatory parties at the Playboy Mansion on Ohio Street.

Occasionally I would be ordered to present myself at the mansion after work. It sounded like an invitation, but everyone knew that attendance was mandatory. Typically there would be well under a hundred people of all types wandering around just like any cocktail party. I was never directed to be flirtatious or overtly sexual. What I really remember is being bored most of the time.

Some of the Bunnies drank a little too much. Some drug use went on, but nothing conspicuous. A few guests had morals that were less well tended than mine, but if there were any wild orgies going on, I never saw them. Nothing sensational ever surfaced for public consumption around Hugh Hefner. No one in the organization would have risked their special status with Playboy by stumbling up to Hugh, drunk or stoned, and suggest anything off color. The same was true with the other Playboy executives.

That's not to say some of them weren't difficult to deal with, like Benny Dunne, but they never demanded sexual favors as a condition of employment. I would see Arnie Morton, Victor Lownes, John Dante, Keith Hefner, and others, in and around the club on a regular basis.

They all behaved in a businesslike and professional manner whether they were entertaining guests or just relaxing at the club. I never observed anything from these men that could have been considered lewd, suggestive, or inappropriate. That was part of the genius of what Hugh Hefner created.

He fostered and maintained a mysterious enigmatic fantasy surrounding the world of Playboy. The most beautiful women in the world seemed to be at his beckon call. Rumors circulated about how many of the Playmates Hugh Hefner slept with. Talk to any man alive during that era and they would tell you that an invitation to the Playboy Mansion meant a ticket to an erotic adventure of a lifetime.

THE MYSTIQUE OF PLAYBOY did not in any way resemble the reality of Playboy, Incorporated. When people walked into a Playboy Club they expected to realize their fantasies. In order to maintain the mystique, standards of decorum were strictly enforced in the Club and at Playboy functions.

Anyone at the club who thought the Bunny at his table was the incarnation of July's Playmate of the Month would quickly find himself out on the street if he treated her with anything but complete respect. Pawing, off-color remarks or soliciting for sexual favors were also not allowed. All a Bunny had to do was mention any deportment violation to the room manager and security would escort that person right out of the club—key holder or not.

It was a glorious era. You could talk to anyone connected with Playboy in any capacity and they'd have nothing but good things to say about how the organization was run. Few, if any other nightclubs could match the erotic ambiance created by the beautiful Playboy Bunnies, perched like peacocks in spectacular spread-tail mating display, in different places, in various colored costumes throughout the club.

Hugh Hefner deserves all the credit for conceiving, constructing, and maintaining this marketing concept. He knew that in order to preserve the sensual but wholesome mystique of the Playboy Image, the Playboy Bunny, who was the tangible link between the fantasy and the reality of Playboy, had to be treated with dignity. It would tarnish the image of Playboy to allow the Bunnies to be cheapened. He also knew instinctively that the other representatives of Playboy, the executives under him, had to conduct themselves in a manner beyond reproach.

Indoctrination was used to accomplish this goal. Everyone on Hugh Hefner's team believed they were a privileged part of something special. Seldom did a Bunny just walk away from Playboy. Occasionally, a Bunny would leave because she found a man, or her boyfriend was uncomfortable with the nature of her work.  Most of the time, however, a Bunny was asked to leave because she couldn't maintain Playboy's rigid high standards.

The American woman was transformed and glorified by the revealing pages of Playboy. She was put up on a pedestal and turned into a wholesome symbol of beauty and sensuality. Hugh Hefner was not creating an icon to be defiled in any way.

For the reader, the message was go ahead and look, but you can’t touch the girl next door gracing the pages of a Playboy photo spread. The same philosophy was carried over into the Playboy Clubs—you may look, stare, gawk, leer even  but don't you dare touch the merchandise.

Although the Playboy Clubs were ahead of their time, perhaps being a precursor to today's upscale Gentleman's Clubs, they never took the next logical step which was to offer exotic dancing. That may account for why the clubs eventually died out. Also, Hugh Hefner was not the driving management force behind the Playboy Clubs.

Strong executives and early Playboy investors like Arnold Morton, Victor Lownes, and John Dante were the primary reason why the clubs thrived as businesses initially. When they left to take on other challenges, the heart of the successful operating team was lost and not replaced with equally capable managers.

THE FANTASY CREATED ON THE pages of Playboy was an illusion that could have easily dissolved in the cold light of any objective scrutiny. Although Playboy primarily served the needs of the American male for sexual fantasy fulfillment, as an institution it was part of the sexual and social revolution taking place during that era in American history.

Eventually, women would also benefit from Hugh Hefner's bold and innovative entertainment initiative, but only when society was ready.

Was it ironic, coincidental, or expected that one of Hugh Hefner's Bunnies would be destined also emerge as an icon to extend the Playboy philosophy to the weaker sex by creating an entertainment revolution for the sexual fantasy fulfillment of women.

AS A PLAYBOY BUNNY I learned to understand and appreciate the genius of Hugh Hefner. I realized why he stressed the importance of not crossing over from the Playboy fantasy into any kind of overt extension of that fantasy in the Playboy clubs. 

If society’s sexual morals were altered, that was one thing. For the business of Playboy to flourish, the fantasy had to be kept pure at every level of the Playboy organization. Beautiful Bunnies in costumes was one thing, but taking those costumes off in the clubs would have corrupted Playboy from the inside out. More leeway was possible inside Hef’s inner sanctum, his residence—the Playboy Mansion.

When the new mansion was constructed out on Charing Cross Road in Los Angeles, sensational stories about sex orgies and wild drug parties began to circulate. I strongly suspected the rumors reflected the exaggeration of fact fueled by the extraordinarily potent image of sexual excess created by Playboy.

I would have been disappointed to learn that Hugh Hefner’s home really had degenerated into a rampant immoral hedonistic playground.

During my years with Playboy I came in contact with many exceptional people and through them learned more about human nature, about myself, and where I would draw the line between fantasy and reality if that choice was ever forced upon me.

DUKE CAMP WAS THE GENERAL MANAGER of the Chicago Playboy Club and from time to time it was normal for him to introduce me to various VIPs who were friends of his. One day, Duke mentioned he was going bring a man named Richard Hoff by to meet me.

I was on as Camera Bunny that night. Richard asked me to take a Polaroid of a couple across the room and give the picture to him. I did and was handed a $100 bill.

"Go buy your children some toys. Duke tells me you've got a couple of kids . . . by the way, how about having lunch with me someday?" he proposed, boldly and quickly going where no man dared go before at the club with any realistic expectation of success.

"No . . . thanks, really, but it's against the rules," I answered reflexively, but honestly, confused and not really knowing what to do.

From talking with Duke I knew that I could bend the rules in Richard’s case, but I really didn't want to go out with him. I still considered myself a married woman in the Catholic till-death-do-you-part sense of the term. Over the next few months I politely put off Richard's constant advances.

By any standards Richard Hoff was a high roller. I couldn't help but be intrigued by such a man. He carried a strength and presence that suggested he was accustomed to giving orders and having them carried out without question. Handsome, he had piercing John-Stamos brown eyes and thick black hair. He dressed in the finest Italian tailored suits. Most important to me, though, he was a perfect gentleman—never a suggestive remark or a rude comment.

All of this was in short supply at the club which attracted mostly conventioneers hoping to act out the Playboy life style there. Add alcohol to that mix and the result was a lot of obnoxious behavior.

Some social disease seemed to strike these men once they were away from their wives. One loser tried to outdo the other with crude, sexist remarks—the louder and ruder the better. They seemed to be competing for some unofficial Jerk-of-the-Night award. They all had the same stupid lame line.

"Why don't you ever smile?"

You smile, dipshit, I'm busy right now! I’d think, but knew better than to hiss back.

I learned much about men during my years with Playboy. They develop a strange hyper misogynistic masculinity when gathered in a group competing for an attractive woman’s attention. They feel compelled to play Casanova and are usually too drunk to care about how miserably they fail in the attempt. The more miles away from home, the worse they act. Being constantly hit on by idiots like these, I was particularly vulnerable to a genuinely smooth operator like Richard Hoff. 

I had my own fantasy about the kind of man I would want to attract as a Playboy Bunny. I pictured him as stylish and sophisticated—dripping in both dollars and power. I had no illusions that a knight in shining armor would walk into the club and whisk me away to Never Never Land some day because, in general, the club attracted classless characters. Richard Hoff, on the other hand, represented a living, breathing incarnation of my idea of a man who embodied the Playboy Philosophy and lived the Playboy lifestyle.

Richard continued to wear down my resistance with the charm of a Cary Grant and the apparent morals of a Boy Scout. Although I hadn't seen my husband in months, my marriage was legally intact. For me, that meant moral obligations. My Catholic conscience considered dating to be a form of adultery.

I’d only been with one man—my husband. Casual sex was forbidden. It was even difficult for me to listen to stories told by other Bunnies of their sexual indiscretions. I often cringed and pretended not to hear what was being said. Finally, though, I weakened and agreed to meet Richard at the Stork Club after work. What sin could I commit over a glass of wine?

I was supposed to be safe at the Stork Club—people I knew, other Bunnies around for support. It was my territory—a place where I would be in control. Richard had other ideas.

He’d been waiting months for an opportunity to share his feelings and started right in.

"You're such a beautiful woman. I admire you so much. I want you to come back to my apartment with me right now," he proposed impatiently—more an order than a request.

I was shocked by his forward intentions and yet flattered that he would choose me to be the object of his affection. Nevertheless the first words out of my mouth were no compliant.

"Don't put me in this position, Richard. You'll get me over there, then you'll try to get me to go to bed with you, and I won't. This is just a waste of your time. You’d be much better off with someone else?" I hissed, trying my best to put him off without being too rude or insulting.

If I made an impression, it wasn’t the one I was going for.

"All I care about is being with you—spending time with you. You're important to me. I need to be around you," was his stunning and unexpectedly disarming comeback.

Without realizing it his sharp words cut deep into the most vulnerable recesses of my empty heart. Seldom in my life did anyone ever just want to be around me.

I didn't say a word, so it must have been the look in my eyes.

"Let's go," he ordered.

Once I got up from that chair there was no turning back. Like General Eisenhower launching the D-Day invasion, there was no disobeying a direct command for this inexperienced private in the midst of a battle in this particular gender war.

LOCATED ON THE CHICAGO RIVER, the exclusive twin towers of the Marina City complex of condominiums and other facilities housed his elegant, sleek, contemporary penthouse. Walking in it was decorated in fashionable reds and blacks. All the rooms were romantically lit and scented. Through the windows I could see city’s sparkling lights outlining the panoramic downtown Chicago skyline. Looking down, the black night waters of the river were undulating along like a great snake toward Lake Michigan.

"Close your eyes," Richard whispered.

"What's this?" I asked, shocked to feel something slipping over my shoulders.

It was an exquisite floor-length white ermine coat.

"It's yours. I bought it for you months ago. That's why I've wanted you to come here for such a long time. I know you, Dana. I know about your kids, the kind of life you've had. I know that you don't sleep around. I admire that and it only makes me want you all the more."

I was flattered, but flustered and excused myself to walk around the apartment trying to clear my head. In a large wall mirror I caught a glimpse of a Cinderella figure wrapped in a magnificent fur. Was I dreaming? Could this reflection actually be me?

"Dana, come here. I've got something else to show you."

He took me down the hallway to the apartment next to his. There he had furnished a smaller, but still elegant and spacious, living quarters.

"This is yours. I'll hire a maid who can take care of the children and you'll all live here,” spit-balling me with one fantastic proclamation after another.

"Dick, this is all very wonderful, but I couldn't possibly. I'm still married and I'm working at Playboy!"

"Forget it!" Richard came back forcefully. "You never hear from your husband. He's old news. You'll never get back together with him. As far as the club goes, you'll quit. You'll live here like a queen!"

"I love Playboy, Richard. Anyway, this is far too much for me to handle in one evening. Right now I’ve got to get home to my kids. Anyway, I need some time to take all this in. Let me go and we'll talk tomorrow," I countered, knowing I had to get a grip on reality before being swept off my feet into making a snap decision I would most likely regret in the morning.

I this was a chess match, I’m sure Richard thought his telling series of moves would have be conceding defeat. If the Godfather, he’d just made me an offer that any girl in her right mind couldn’t refuse. Although he might have been able to bully me into submission, he continued acting the gentleman and allowed me to leave, but no without play the Ace he’d been holding up his slippery sleeve.

"Okay . . . okay . . . you go to your kids. My, or should I say, our Thunderbird's downstairs. I'll tell the doorman to give you the keys. You see the kids and come back. I want you back in a few hours."

I didn’t challenge his order to return, but simply and quickly took my opportunity to escape from what I feared would become the Buchenwald for this insubordinate private.

Descending down the plush building elevator, I released a primal scream of relief; venting the fear, ecstasy, and the pure unimaginable fantasy of what just happened.

What an incredible first encounter with someone, I was thinking as I drove the bright, white, waxed Thunderbird down the deserted early-morning Eisenhower Expressway. I might have looked like a high-priced call girl on my way home from a profitable evening, but I didn't feel that way.

I LIVED IN A PART OF TOWN that was undergoing rapid decline. I knew two police officers who made a point to make sure I got from my car into my apartment safely each evening.

In exchange for that service I would share stories of the night's activities at the Playboy Club. I even arranged for them to visit the club several times. The officers were thrilled to know a glamorous Playboy Bunny.

Tonight, when I saw them waiting for me in the usual spot, I had to sound my horn several times before they recognized me.

There was no way I could even begin to tell them all about the fantastic events of the magical Prince-Charming evening that almost was.

My telephone was ringing loudly as I walked through the apartment door.

"Where the fuck have you been?" the angry voice on the other end of the line shouted.

"It shouldn't have taken you 20 minutes to get home. What the fuck has been going on!"

"Dick, for heaven's sake, relax. I talked for just a few minutes to some friends of mine. They're two police officers who escort me home whenever they see me," I shared trying my best to calm him down.

"You've got no fuckin’ business talkin’ to cops," he snarled. "You didn't mention my name did you?"

"No, Richard. Now, I've got to get some sleep. I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed, but I'll get over to see you tomorrow," I replied, closing the conversation as I hung up the phone.

The telephone rang again almost immediately.

"You better be staying there. I'll call. I'm going to check up on you, Dana."

What a freak! His temper tantrum was both puzzling and alarming. Part of me knew this man was terribly unstable—the car, the fur, the apartment, then, the fit of rage. Another part was almost blindly fascinated.

Has anyone ever gone through what I just did on a first date? I drifted off to sleep trying to unravel the mysterious enigma of Richard Hoff.

The next day I drove to Marina City, made my way to Richard's penthouse and fully intended to return the car and find some way to back out of what was happening between us.

"Here are your keys. I have to go. I'm scheduled to work at five o'clock."

"No you don't. I called Duke Camp and you have the night off. I told him to replace you—that I'm taking you out to dinner. So, he replaced you. That's all there is to it, so relax," was his Tony-Soprano-confident comeback.

As if hypnotized by his determination and overbearing will, I went with him.

When he wasn't being so brash and bold, he was a delightful and captivating companion. After a leisurely and romantic meal we went back to his apartment where soft music and lighted, white, scented candles set the mood for what was inevitably coming next.

Sitting close on the couch, we began to kiss. He was gentle, yet passionate and the mood was mesmerizing. All of a sudden the memory of Sister Gabriella saying, "This is a sin, Dana, you are married!" spoiled the moment and I pulled away.

Not having any of that, Richard took my hand gently and led me down the hallway to his dimly lit bedroom. I was mesmerized. He slowly and seductively undressed me. Each movement was deliberate and purposeful. He never hurried, sensing I was beyond any further resistance. He savored each act building toward our inevitable union.

He helped me recline ever so gently against the soft, silky, silver, down comforter covering his king-size bed framed with a mirrored wooden headboard. I was motionless, as if drugged by his charm and overwhelming Sean-Connery manhood. He then undressed slowly, saying only, "Dana you are so beautiful."

Having closed the distance between us, he pressed his firm hard body deep into mine.

IT HAD BEEN SO LONG. Such pleasure was a strange feeling for me. He moaned softly as our movements began a crescendo of mutual sensual ecstasy. Tears came to my eyes and I began to stiffen.

He kept up the rhythmic motions and urged me on saying, "C'mon baby, move a little."

Then, he stopped abruptly.

"Damn it, you are the worst fuck in history! What the hell is it with you?"

He jumped off the bed and looked at me in disgust. I was laying there naked—exposed in body and soul.

Richard stared at me for what seemed like an eternal moment, then, his mood changed.

"I'm sorry. You just don't know what to do. Let me help you. There are lots of women like you."

Once again he began to affectionately kiss and fondle me. He began near my neck, moved to my breasts and nipples, then between my thighs. All the intimate stimulation made me lightheaded. My tears kept interrupting the mood, but I couldn't control them. About an hour later he gave up trying to involve me in his orchestrated sexual concerto and finally entered for his own quick release.

"Do you still feel guilty?" he probed.

Without warning, a different kind of guilty panic dismissed any pleasure I might have been feeling.

“Richard, I don't use any birth control. Am I going to get pregnant?" I whimpered while sitting up abruptly my eyes darting around in a blind frenzy.

"Naw, you don't get pregnant every time you make love, for God's sake," he laughed, disregarding what he considered my unjustified concerns.

After what happened the first time Darryl entered me, and that wasn’t even all the way, I definitely felt justified in worrying about getting pregnant.

"Please, go get me something like a douche at the drug store," I begged.

"Have you lost your mind? I'm going to get dressed and go out at this hour? Get serious, Dana," he shot back defiantly.

THE NEXT TIME I SAW RICHARD it was at the club days later. He had stopped calling and was no longer pressuring me to accept his proposal to move in with him. I suppose as some kind of decent act of closure he gave me $100 and told me to buy something for my children. Richard then proceeded to spend most of the night flirting with Terry Kimball, another beautiful Bunny who also was a centerfold in Playboy. His message was clear enough—I’m moving on.

That night driving home, feeling like some street whore, I tore up the money and flung the bits out on the expressway.

From that day on, I was always uneasy when Richard came into the club. He approached me several times for dates, but I always refused—politely, but firmly. Several months later Richard came into the club with three friends. They had obviously been drinking.

"Hey cunt, come here!" he crudely shouted so that everyone could hear.

Furious I walking directly over to confront him.

"What did you just call me?"

"You heard me . . . bitch!"

Suddenly, Duke Camp showed up.

"Dick, hold it down, will you?"

"Fuck her, Duke. You gonna let this cheap little whore come between us?"

"Dick, I want your key. As of this moment you are no longer a member here and you are not welcome on these premises. This young lady is a Playboy Bunny. She works in this club and nobody in the world is going to speak to her in that manner. You have no right to abuse her and I will not tolerate it for a single second. Get out of here before I personally throw your ass onto Walton Street!"

Richard Hoff was not the only person to ever be thrown out of the Playboy Club. VIP or not, any indiscriminate touching or other disrespectful behavior or language directed at a Bunny was grounds to be removed from the club and have your key confiscated.

Gruff Richard Hoff, possibly connected to the mob, and definitely a bully, never challenged Duke’s decision.

There was lightning in Duke Camp's eyes and thunder in his righteous words. Richard knew enough to avoid a confrontation at least on Playboy’s home turf. Insulting a Bunny in front of Duke Camp was a sacrilegious act.

On his way out Richard threatened to make me pay for what I’d done to him.

The word around the club was that Richard Hoff was a dangerous man—someone you did not want to upset or offend. Perhaps he was, but for some reason I wasn’t worried.

I saw him a couple times on Rush Street and wondered if he carried a gun under his expensive sport coat. In time, he was reinstated at the Playboy Club. He left me alone and this time focused his flirtations on Terry Kimball. She got the royal Hoff treatment.

He gave her an expensive diamond ring and she was often picked up in a black stretch limousine. After several months he dropped out of sight. I didn’t care one way or the other.

My one dangerous brush with dating, who knew it was a full-contact sport, resulted in a general paranoia of men. To compensate, I lost myself in my work. Richard Hoff was not the only fascinating and or eccentric character I met while working at the Playboy Club.

Another high-roller stands out. He was a club key holder who came in passing out $100 bills to the Bunnies. I encouraged him to attend the Twist parties. Arranging for him to dance with several Bunnies, he would give each one of them a C note. He always came in late; around one or two o'clock in the morning. He didn’t look well-heeled, but he always had fistfuls of those Benjamin Franklins.

This went on for two or three months until one day he simply stopped showing up.

I happened to be dressing in the Bunny room when I noticed an article on the front page of the Chicago Sun-Times about the man. He had been arrested for embezzling thousands of dollars from the bank where he worked. The authorities were trying to recover the funds and, of course, none of the Bunnies remembered receiving any money from him at the club.

SUCH WAS THE APPEAL of the Playboy mystique. People from all walks of life wanted to become a part of the fantasy that was Playboy. Unfortunately, some couldn't distinguish between the fantasy and the reality of the Playboy experience.

One of my good friends from the club, Carol Cottinie, had both opportunities and difficulties during her years with Playboy.

After putting in several years as a Bunny, Carol met and married a real cowboy. Together they ran a horse ranch and even operated the stables connected with the Lake Geneva Playboy Club for a while. Later, they moved to Arizona where they started a dude ranch and stables. When her husband was reported shot and killed, a story came out that Carol was responsible. She was later indicted for the crime. The Bunnies certainly didn't all lead Cinderella storybook lives.

The Playboy Bunnies made up a unique sorority. They were extraordinary women who conformed to the strict Playboy standards while still retaining their provocative individuality. Bunny Myra was one of those exceptional ladies.

Like moths drawn to her exotic flame, Myra Duckworth had the charisma to both attract and entice many of the wealthy men who frequented the club. While dating them, Myra was often given expensive gifts such as cars, diamonds, furs, vacations, rings, and on and on. Interestingly enough, she wasn't the most gorgeous Bunny on staff. What she was dripping in, however, was that elusive, irresistible quality known as sex appeal.

One of Myra's close friends at the club was Bunny Beverly Day.

Beverly was one of the first Bunnies to have her breasts built up from within with silicone implants. That was a rare thing at the time. Like Myra, she attracted the most well-connected club members. Beverly ended up marrying Barry Crown, one of the wealthiest men in Chicago and became a Chicago socialite. Later in life, Beverly began promoting body building. Although middle-aged, she retained a terrific figure and maintained a pride in her appearance that was imbedded in her psyche as a Playboy Bunny.

My closest friend during the club years was Bunny Margie.

Margie always had the tendency to get involved with the wrong men who never seemed to want to marry her. Eventually she settled down as the long-term mistress of a restaurateur. Even Playboy Bunnies were vulnerable to insecurities.

Because of low self-esteem, they would often settle for so much less than they deserved. Terrie Kimball started off as a Bunny and became a Playboy Playmate featured as a centerfold.

Terrie was another Bunny who was given special perks because of who she was and what she had achieved while working for Playboy. Chauffeured limousines would drop her off at the club. When Terrie stepped out she'd be wearing expensive furs and diamonds—definitely a Playboy diva. She, too, dated the most influential and wealthy men that frequented the club. Then, there was Patty Reynolds.

Patty, also a centerfold, had a dry, cutting sense of humor. I couldn't help but take offense to the caustic comments she’d sling in my direction. Patty was working one night when a notorious crime syndicate boss came into the club. He singled out Patty. They started dating and as a result she led quite and exciting, if not dangerous life as the girlfriend of a Chicago mobster.

Life, however, is always full of twists and turns. Patty eventually left Chicago and the mob boss, and moved to Lake Geneva to design and sell bird feeders. Into her 50s, Patty still had the beauty, figure, and charm that made her so special as a Playboy Bunny.

I had my eyes open during my Bunny years, but never was really looking for romance while I worked for Playboy.

UNLIKE MOST OF THE GIRLS, I never expected Prince Charming to come riding into the club on a white Arabian stallion and ride off with me into the sunset. My primary interest was in supporting myself and my children. Despite the disastrous state of my marriage, I always felt bonded to my husband and consequently never was free to explore other relationships.

To a Catholic girl from my era, with my upbringing, marriage was forever. I hadn't even begun to consider breaking my vows. Whenever I did stray I paid a heavy price in guilt. I’ve always carried a burden of shame over my affair with Richard Hoff which represented the sum total of the less-than-wild lifestyle I lived during three years as a Playboy Bunny.

Although the glamour that could come with being a Bunny's didn’t light up my life, I did achieve a number of things that meant something at the time.

Working as a Bunny allowed me to purchase my first brand new car. It was a white convertible Pontiac Bonneville with white leather interior. How proud I was to own that automobile! That was enough glamour for me; being able to drive up to the club in my Bonneville with the top down with my handsome collie, Vegas, by my side. Every day I could enjoy a few moments of feeling like a VIP.

I always felt wonderful cruising down the Eisenhower Expressway in my new car. Approaching my neighborhood those two young beat cops were always waiting to escort Bunny Dana safely home and possibly hear some sexy club stories about events that might have taken place that night.

Afterwards I’d negotiate my way up the back stairs fighting off fatigue and exhaustion, fall asleep for a few hours, then, get up and do it all over again—returning to my beloved home away from home—the Chicago Playboy Club.

11

TURN THE TABLES

I HAD JUST BEEN THROUGH ONE of the most difficult periods in my life. During all of the struggles overturning the charges connected to the Morganna incident, Darryl was distant and did not offer any support. Over the years I came to expect this sort of thing from my troubled, unstable husband, but at least I saw him occasionally. That was more than I could say for my totally absent father growing up.

Darryl could not cope with any responsibility or difficulty. This pattern became a bad habit during his troubled childhood when family issues at home caused him to escape rather than face his problems and fight back, vanishing into the oblivion induced by an alcohol stupor. When things were going well, however, Darryl would be around to share in the success.

During the prosperous summer months at the Sugar Shack, Darryl worked steadily and helped himself to a portion of the profits. As business slacked off, so did Darryl, drinking more and doing whatever he wanted in Chicago.

I knew I had to rely on my own initiative to work out the solutions to the many problems that threatened my ability to support myself and my family.

Darryl was around when I didn't really need him, and gone when I did. I survived by not expecting anything from him. But then, why would I expect anything more from a husband and father?

Young children learn their parental expectations while growing up. What they observe from their parents are the patterns that all too often repeat when they find themselves in parental roles.

I WAS BEING VICTIMIZED ON TWO levels, neither of which I could do much about. From my childhood I was predisposed to becoming involved with a man who would recreate the childhood script of an absent, distant father. From a broader perspective I was a member of an oppressed minority.

Women have long been expected to bear the responsibility of raising children, whether or not the father is a present and active member of the family. Darryl and I went through periods of court-sanctioned separation. If I ever brought up the possibility of divorce, Darryl threatened to insist that the Sugar Shack be sold and the resulting assets split between us as part of any settlement.

I yielded to Darryl's blackmail because I couldn't risk the possibility of losing the one thing that made it possible for me to maintain my independence—my business, the Sugar Shack. During this period of contention I did not have the funds to buy out Darryl's share of the Sugar Shack so we stayed married, on paper.

My conscience would not allow me to actually carry on an extramarital affair. Regardless, I was not even entertaining fantasies along those lines, which made our separation marginally manageable. Remaining married meant that my children had a father and together we had at least the form of a family. Within the context of my conservative Catholic background, the marital vow was before God and for better or worse until death do us part.

Without being able to count on Darryl, and with revenue down over the winter months, I was always looking for extra income to support the family. It was risky, but to that end I organized a high-stakes poker game on Sundays at the Sugar Shack.

My intuition has always served me well and I used it to pick up the feel of the game. Routinely I seemed to get the cards I needed or at least just knew how to play the cards I was dealt. I coupled a certain amount of luck and instinct with an expert understanding of the principles of the game. The result, I won much more than I lost.

My winnings helped put food on the table and keep a roof over my family. The word spread about the poker game and those who showed up were charged a $10 fee to help cover the cost of snacks and refreshments. Usually the group numbered around eight.

I played with the money remaining after paying for the food and beverages. If I lost that money early, typically $50 or $60, I was out of the game. Most of the time I won, and sometimes as much as $1,000. During the slow winter months my gambling windfall often made the difference, putting the Sugar Shack on the black side of the fickle balance sheet at the end of the month.

On a Sunday evening one of my regulars, Brandy Scott, arrived to play poker on the arm of an exceptionally tall and handsome young man, introduced as a friend.

Brandy was unquestionably attractive and had auditioned to dance at the Sugar Shack. She was also working as a bartender at another club in Lake Geneva. During her audition I found myself questioning something about what the overall impression she was giving off.

The person on stage who seemed to be a beautiful young lady, with long legs, perfect breasts, and a tantalizing figure, also had hands that were just too large. I finally saw through more than Brandy's filmy negligee, realizing I was looking at what originally was a man's body, artfully transformed through silicone implants, hormone injections, and surgical nips and tucks.

The most telling sign that she was a he had been pulled down, back, and taped completely out of view. For some reason I drew the line at allowing a female impersonator to flaunt her phony physique in front of my patrons. Although she was definitely a talented dancer and had a terrific stage personality, I was honest and explained to Brandy why she couldn't dance at the Shack.

She understood, and despite that became one of my close friends. Brandy would stop by the club to chat and I would visit her at the bar where she worked. No one else even suspected that this gorgeous woman actually possessed a full set of male genitalia. Brandy was simply a miracle, or others would say a departure from nature, a woman trapped inside a man's body.

On this Sunday night Brandy’s guest was personable and offered each one at the table a firm friendly handshake. She introduced him as Larry Slade.

With the poker game underway Brandy kept insisting that Larry tell us what he did for a living. Being naturally reserved and a little shy, he was reluctant to do so. Naturally, we all became curious until I finally spoke up.

"You've got to tell us now, Larry, if only to shut Brandy up!"

"Well, I work for Liberace in Las Vegas.”

"Right . . . and I'm a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers," I shot back sarcastically.

"Honestly, I'm his bodyguard and chauffeur. Liberace always carries most of his jewelry and money around with him in a case, you know, like a briefcase. Well, I'm responsible for the case and he is never without it. Also, I drive the Rolls Royce limousine he takes to the show each night," Larry told us, without giving any impression that he was bragging.

By this time I realized he was telling the truth and wished he had gone into more detail about his fascinating employer who happened to be a nearby Wisconsin native.

But much more than Larry’s celebrity connection, I was drawn to his humble sincerity and interesting manner. Larry was more interested in playing serious poker than churning the gossip mill.

The game continued and Larry kept losing, and losing, and losing. He had no understanding of the game and after a few drinks his attempt to manage his play became even worse. He literally could have just dropped by and placed a $500 contribution right in the middle of the table and left.

Despite losing he became a regular and stopped in for the Sunday game every time he was in town. I eventually learned he was so casual about losses because he played with money borrowed from Brandy.

His inept card playing aside, I continued to be drawn to the ruggedly handsome, yet polite and pleasant man. He added more than money to the weekly poker games.

He shared stories about Las Vegas and we talked about the entertainment business in general. During that period he visited the Sugar Shack several times, always complimenting me on the quality of our dancers and how well the show was presented.

LARRY UNDERSTOOD THAT I selected, costumed, trained, and choreographed the regular house dancers rather than go through agents to find experienced strippers with seasoned acts. What surprised him most was that the class of the Sugar Shack stage shows rivaled those he’d seen in Las Vegas.

I appreciated the compliments, but already knew I understood the business of tastefully presenting exotic performers. Several of my personally-trained local dancers went on to tour and headline and I was proud of that accomplishment.

Then, later Larry found himself attracted to one of the Sugar Shack dancers—stage name, Shenanigans.

Larry kept saying how smooth, provocative, and professional the svelte former waitress was. He felt she had the potential to headline around the country because of my expert coaching, guidance, and packaging. Sensing we had a useful rapport building, one Sunday night during the poker game I felt comfortable bringing up a radical idea that had been brewing in my rebellious brain for some time.

"What would you think if I were able to turn the stripper world on its head?" I asked carefully, but confidently.

"What do you mean exactly?" Larry responded.

"You know, I could teach men to strip for women just like I now teach women to strip for men.”

"What do you mean, men?" Larry responded, hardly able to believe what he was hearing.

"Men Larry, MEN! I could coach them just as effectively as I do the girls and I think women are ready for it. I've never heard of this being done anywhere in the world before!"

I BOLDLY BEGAN TO BELIEVE in what I was saying. Everyone sitting around the poker table laughed at the prospect of men taking off their clothes to entertain women. They dismissed my idea as frivolous. They imagined the reaction of the men in the audience when the first male stripper took the stage and started his act.

They couldn't have done or said any more to discourage me from pursuing my bold rebellious concept of turning men into sex objects for the hedonistic, indiscriminate, and impersonal pleasure of women. The very thought of male stripping embarrassed them. Finally I heard, "Shut up about it and deal!"

The card game resumed. I won some, lost some, all while processing the nasty reactions I’d just been slapped in my innovative face with. Undeterred, my usually reliable sixth sense told me there was blockbuster potential in what I was proposing.

My obsession with male stripping gradually subsided as I got my mind back on the game. Other, more fundamental core issues next began to stir my emotions as much as the radial concept of male exotic dancing.

I found myself being drawn to Larry. He made me miss the warmth and tenderness of having a man in my life. It had been months since Darryl and I made love, if you could even use that term. As in other areas of his life Darryl was a selfish lover. He never spent the time needed to take care of my needs. How did we ever have enough sex for me to give birth to three children?

I’d been raised in the Italian-Catholic tradition. Their message to young Catholic girls—sex was a sin, sex was a duty, and sex was only for making babies, not pleasure. And, if you didn't believe and practice that Catholic decree, you were going to hell. Not exactly a healthy orientation to anyone’s sexuality.

My husband wielded sex like a sword and a shield, to both defend and excuse his own infidelities. It was convenient for him to blame his philandering on the fact that my sex drive wasn't as intense as his. For other women, this might have been a significant issue, but not in my case.

What I knew of sexual expression and its connection to relationships involved cruel and hurtful images. Consequently, finding ways to express my sexuality was never important to me. Although I didn't necessarily miss making love to Darryl, his countless affairs were still hard to take. One instance was particularly painful.

A young, attractive local girl came to the Sugar Shack looking for employment. During her interview I learned of the 18-year-old's personal problems connected to a home broken because of the relentless hammering of alcohol abuse. I empathized and hired her.

After demonstrating she was a good and trustworthy employee, I invited her to come and live with me and my family. June appeared to appreciate what I was doing for her. She willingly gave back by helping take care of the children and keeping up with the household chores. She was even pleasant to Darryl when he was around. I never suspected anything out of the ordinary was going on until events surrounding Darryl's birthday.

A surprise party was planned for the end of the evening shift at the Sugar Shack. I scraped together enough money for a small cake, some champagne, and a new watch. Darryl and June were both scheduled to work that night—neither showed up.

I was more than concerned and became suspicious. Calls to locate him revealed clues that wove a tapestry of connection that evening. One bartender when questioned innocently gave them away when he answered, "Yeah, I guess I did see him. Darryl and Juney were here celebrating their birthdays!" Finding this out, I became incensed with rage.

I closed the Sugar Shack early that night, determined to find them. Calls to all the other bars in town turned up nothing. I got into my car and cruised past all the restaurants looking for their vehicles. Then it was on to the motels.

I found Darryl's car parked behind the Shady Lane Motel. June's was in front. The owner was a family friend so though it was now late, I didn't hesitate waking him up.

"Oh . . . hi Dana. What brings you by this time of night?" he asked, feeling just a little put out.

"Hey I'm really sorry, but my husband's drunk and he called me a little while ago to come here and get him. It's his birthday and I guess he celebrated a little too much. He forgot to tell me the room though," I said calmly, acting as if nothing was really wrong.

He reached up to the extra-key board and after rubbing his eyes handed it to me saying, "Just throw it on the dresser after you get him. He's in #22. I'm going back to bed."

I was now shaking uncontrollably and a trembling tirade was about to erupt.

I walked deliberately, but briskly, toward his room and quietly slipped the key into the lock. Without making a sound I eased the door open, but a security chain kept me from going in. I reached past the chain and switched on a light. The telling rays revealed a nightmarish scene—my husband with my trusted house guest, naked and in bed together. Unable to contain my rage, I lashed out.

"I'll see you both in court. I trusted you, June. When I catch you outside this room I'm going to kill you! I treated you like a daughter. You lived in my house. You whore! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

June quickly covered herself. Darryl, obviously in a drunken stupor, just calmly looked at me as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. I slammed the door in his face and stumbled back toward my car.

Driving home was difficult with every muscle in my body trembling and my vision blurred with tears. Arriving home, I called June's mother.

"Your daughter is nothing but a self-serving whore. She's in bed with my husband right now. She's a tramp and a fucking whore!"

I slammed the receiver down and swore I would never again care about Darryl or concern myself about anything he did.

YES, DARRYL PLAYED AROUND. Most men did and within the brotherhood that kind of behavior won tacit approval, if not praise.

Everyone in our small town knew that Darryl and I were having marital problems. Word of this incident spread through the gossip mill quickly, especially since it involved a local celebrity—me. I was probably the only one in town who was actually surprised by what happened.

There were so many incidents like this where bitterness broke out because of something Darryl said or did.

During a Sunday night poker game Darryl staggered in dead drunk. No one paid too much attention to him until he began falling over me as I tried to play my hand. He kept insisting I play a different card.

"C'mon Darryl, I'm winning. Don't mess with my luck.”

It was so humiliating being treated that way. I tried to ignore him, but he made that impossible. Finally, one of the guys at the table told him to settle down so the game could continue.

Of course, since the request came from one of his male friends he just laughed and left to get himself another beer. A little later he lost interest in harassing me and disappeared back into the night, well on his way to blurring the reality from another day in a drunken stupor.

WHY MUST WOMEN SUFFER SO at the hands of men? Why must men prove their manhood at the expense of a woman's pride? I forced myself to think of Darryl as unimportant. He was like a dormant disease—only noticed when it flared up causing pain or discomfort, and like a disease the flare-up would eventually pass and life would go on.

A terrible way to live, but that was about to change. I would soon shift from having no feelings for Darryl, to desperately wanting to detach myself from the ball-and-chain that was our dysfunctional marriage.

BUSINESS CONTINUED TO BE SEASONAL during the ‘70s. Many times I considered giving up and moving on to some kind of better business. When the Playboy Club and Resort opened, I was at least able to keep the Sugar Shack operating on the weekends during the snowy months.

When money was available, I felt obligated to spend it on my children and attempt to live a normal life. They paid the heaviest price during the lean winter months. I kept searching for the entertainment formula that would provide a steady year-round income for my family and the Sugar Shack.

The exotic specialty acts were only a step in that direction. The idea of a male exotic review continued to resurface as a viable possibility with a potentially lucrative upside.

I experimented with the idea by bringing it up to two of my cocktail waitresses. They were ecstatic! My male bartender thought I’d completely lost it while a couple of other onlookers just nodded it might work.

A few weeks later, during one of our Sunday night poker games, I came right out and spoke to Larry Slade.              

"I'm going to do it!"

"What now?" Larry asked, turning in my direction, reacting to my bold declaration without being exactly sure what I was talking about.

"I'm going to try the idea of presenting male strippers at the club, what did you think I meant?"

"Hey, well, good luck but remember what I told you the last time we talked about this. You've got to have real men up there—no sissies!"

I knew he was right, but where would I find a man's man willing to dance on a stage and end up naked just to give gratuitous thrills to a group of women. All the studs I told about the idea just laughed in my face.

I had no guide to go by. Male exotic dancing was not taking place anywhere in the world at the time. Signing up my first male stripper would be tough sell.

I turned back to Larry.

"You're absolutely right. I need good-looking, tough, real, macho types—guys that have the courage to try something different and the willingness to listen and learn about what needs to be done to make this work. On the up side, it should be an amazing experience for them and the money could be outstanding!"

"Dana, spare me. You sound like an Army recruiter."

"I'm deadly serious. I know exactly the kind of man I need. Larry, you are that man!" I declared, looking directly into his deep, dark, daunting Clint-Eastwood eyes.

"Me . . . dance?" he shot back in shock.

"Look Larry, you’re perfect. You only work about six months out of the year and they are mostly in the winter when you wouldn't need to be here. You're handsome, charming, well built, and you've even been on stage before. One other thing, I think you've got the guts to try it and the talent, balls, and swagger to pull it off."

I sank the hook as deep as I could into his psyche and started reeling this 6’ game-changing prize in.

One of the guys playing poker was fed up at that point.

"Either shut up about this idiotic idea or get out of the game!"

LARRY AND I TOSSED IN our cards and went to another room to continue talking. Clearly involved in the discussion, I called upon all of my persuasive skills knowing how important it was to present the right kind of man for my first male exotic revue.

If I could land Larry, others like him would follow and my dream to turn the tables on the sexual exploitation of women in entertainment might become a viable moneymaking reality. Larry reopened the dialogue which was a good sign.

"What would I do? I mean what would I wear? How would I act on stage? When would you actually want to start?"

Larry’s rapid-fire questions were like being peppered with rounds from an AK-47 assault rifle.

"Hold on! I can't just start with one dancer. I need two or three at least," I shot back.

"Yeah, well, where the hell are we gonna find 'em?" Larry added cynically.

I had no idea, but I liked the way Larry phrased the question. Where are we going to find them? I had my first male stripper sitting right in front of me!

I began to imagine the kind of show I wanted to stage. The men had to be performers and present themselves with class and sophistication. Drawing from my own attitudes about sexual fulfillment, I knew that it would take more than bare flesh to stimulate a woman's fantasies.

I had long learned to trust my instincts when it came to designing, training, and choreographing exotic performers for the club and justifiably so. I just knew I could also select and guide the men in ways that would reach into a woman's sexual psyche and cause her to respond to the sensual scenario unfolding on stage.

Not that it would be easy. These men would have to stir up a romantic whirlwind around up to 300 women with both the pulse of their personalities and their potent physical presence. Furthermore, the men had to be understanding. Women have been sexually repressed for years and getting them to let go might take some patient coaxing.

I needed self-confident guys who could break through a woman's natural defenses and set off their sexual fantasy fireworks. I was traveling through uncharted territory and like a Christopher Columbus or Marco Polo feeling both apprehension and exhilaration. One of my greatest concerns involved the moral character of my male performers.

Over the years I’d seen so many of my female dancers destroy their lives with drugs and alcohol. I didn't want that for my male entertainers. I wanted them to be stable, responsible young men with strong self-images, upstanding values, and life goals beyond the Sugar Shack stage.

Larry shared my concern and actively helped me locate another prospect.

He spoke to Elliot Lanzanna, a friend and airplane pilot, about the prospect of becoming part of a new business venture at the club. Six feet of gorgeous, muscular, Mediterranean man-hunk, Elliot wanted to hear more and Larry suggested he stop by the Sugar Shack to speak with me.

As Elliot approached I could see that he was both dressed and groomed meticulously, sporting a trendy pants suit and fashionable ‘70s shag cut with black hair over his forehead and ears. His gracious greeting included kissing my hand in a respectful gesture embracing old world charm.

"Oh Miss Montana, I'm so pleased to meet you. You're much younger than I expected . . . and so lovely, and to have a club like this of your own. Larry wasn't real specific about the reason for my coming here to meet you he just said it was some sort of business opportunity."

"Yeah, you might say that, Elliot.”

All of my first impressions were go for moving forward with him.

“What do you do for a living?" I probed, wanting to get a better sense of just who this handsome man was on the inside.

"I'm a pilot. I fly private charters and private commercial flights. It's okay, but I'm not going to fly airplanes forever."

I knew choosing my next few words would be critical because they would shock him, but he was definitely qualified as the kind of man‘s man I was looking for.

"I've decided to do something pretty radical here at the Sugar Shack. For the first time anywhere in the world I'm going to present male exotic entertainers on my stage. I want to talk to you about becoming one of them."

While he was taking in the bombshell I’d just dropped, and before he could respond with any sort of dismissive reaction, I went on.

"I've been watching you for the past ten minutes and you are just the type of man I've been looking for. You're good looking, charming, comfortable in your own skin, you're mysterious—and all in one package! Just one more thing though, can you dance?"

He smiled, which I knew was a good sign, and nodded he could, along with providing tacit approval of the rest of my proposal. The full impact of what he just heard had not hit him yet.

"I grew up thinking I'd be a fireman, or maybe a cowboy—certainly not a male stripper."

"Elliot, the world we live in keeps changing. When you were a boy there was no such thing as an astronaut so you couldn't have wanted to become one. Now we have them and it's a goal anyone can strive for."

We both laughed. I was determined to have all the answers for any problematic questions he might throw at me.

I went on to reassure Elliot that I would work with him every day for as long as it took to get him ready. I reminded him that his act would be thoroughly choreographed; complete with sets, music, and costumes.

My instincts told me Elliot would be more than just adequate. He had an entrancing personality mixed with magnetic charm. Sitting in the chair across from me, I sensed the flair of a young Errol Flynn and the raw sex appeal of a Rudolph Valentino. In my mind all he had to do was show himself on stage and he would be a sensation.

Elliot agreed to make the commitment.

Two down—one to go.

The next day, Larry brought another prospect to the club. Frank Lilly was the best dancer of the three, but just didn't have the look I thought would be appealing. The more we worked together, however, the more I began to discover his inner John-Travolta potential.

Besides, it wasn't as if I had a long list of prospects to choose from. Here was a man, now committed to the project, who was a great dancer. I told myself just to drop my reservations for the time being. Preparations could now be made for opening night!

I TRULY ADMIRED THESE MEN. There was no way I could give them any kind of guarantee that this was going to work. They might be laughed off the stage, or worse. They were demonstrating so much courage. I understood what that meant and appreciated what they were doing.

Together they were explorers, probing through a possibly dangerous Wild-Wild-West entertainment wilderness. The guys were eager and willing, but the rehearsals were hell.

Men have fragile egos anyway and the possibility of the worst kind of humiliation made them temperamental and hard to work with. Men hate rejection, even if it’s only coming from a single female. How much worse would the feeling be if the ego castration came from 100 women all at once and in public.

EARLY IN MARCH OF 1976, four of us stood backstage in the Sugar Shack’s small dressing room listening to the incessant taunts and chants from the assembled crowd.

"Bring ‘em on!”

“Where are the guys?”

“C'mon let's see these hunks!"

The day had arrived!

Elliot was the first to worry out loud, wondering if he would be jeered by the ladies.

"Oh God, Dana, my legs are so skinny, they're going to boo me right off the stage!"

"You'll do fine," I said to reassure Elliot, while knowing full well that words alone weren’t going to dispel his fears.

Larry and Guy Garrett, who at this point had replaced Frank Lilly, seemed understandably nervous but ready.

It was a Monday. I’d been feeling the pressure all day. The negative attitudes of the people around me were draining. I’d been told by so many that I must be crazy—that this just couldn't work—that I would bankrupt the club.

The last remark had me worried since male stripping was one of my last ideas to put the Sugar Shack on a year-round firm financial footing. If this didn’t work, what would I do next?

That first night there were just under 100 people in the club—not a bad crowd. About half of them were true friends who came to support me no matter what. The others, anything could happen.

Everyone applauded as I walked out on the stage to announce the act.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. This is a very special night as the Sugar Shack goes into yet another radical dimension of entertainment. It's new and it's different! It's risky, but damn it's about time. Now let's have a really big welcome for my first gorgeous male dancer—the first anywhere! Ladies and gentlemen . . . !"

ON MARCH 15, 1976, ELLIOT LANZANNA strutted on to the Sugar Shack stage and became the first male exotic entertainer the world had ever seen.

12

NAUGHTY NIGHT LIFE

FOR THREE YEARS I EXPERIMENTED with various formats trying to find the best combination and schedule for my male and female dancers to share the Sugar Shack stage. There were still the male conventioneers from the Playboy resort who wanted to see female exotics.

During the week we usually presented only the female dancers. On the weekends I mixed the schedule, sometimes the male dancers opened the show, on other nights the women. The men always gave me grief at the door on nights when our male review was being featured.

“You mean I’ve got to sit through a bunch of faggots in order to see some tits?” was a typical disgruntled remark.

I was usually able to joke about it and settle them down. If they heckled the male dancers too much I would have to take the stage and bargain with them, deftly but diplomatically singling out the offenders.

“Obviously, a few of the guys in our audience are not totally pleased with the show so far. I’m going to make a special accommodation for them this evening. You ladies can pick out one of the unhappy men here tonight who you’d like to see come up to the stage and take his clothes off . . . and if he does I’ll buy his table drinks for the rest of the evening.”

That strategy had an amazing effect. It took all the pressure off my dancers and put it right where it belonged—on the loudmouthed hecklers.

Surprisingly, I’ve seen guys almost come to blows because one of their friends refused to get on stage when picked by the ladies. Every now and then some guy did have the guts to get up there and fake his way through a few minutes of stripping and I never minded paying the resulting bar bill.

The policy controlled a potentially serious problem and everyone seemed to have a good time with it. In addition, my guys made a point to talk to the hecklers who soon learned there were no sissies among my Sugar Shack dancers—studs who put it all on the line night after night for what I was trying to accomplish at the club.

As our reputation spread by word of mouth, the curious would call for more information.

“I heard about your place from a woman in Milwaukee who was there recently,” a muted shy voice would say.

“Oh really, great, who was it?” I’d ask, sincerely wanting to know who was supporting the club with a recommendation.

“I can’t say . . . ,” was often the uncomfortable answer before continuing her call.

“Well, tell me about it. I mean, what kind of a place is it? What kind of dancing do they do?”

I always tried to make my description as enticing as possible, but it could never be like actually watching Elliot, Guy, or Larry strut their sassy studly stuff on stage.

It was all somehow naughty and forbidden—like sneaking into a speakeasy during prohibition. People were routinely whispering and concealing their identities when speaking to me about the club.

Women were having a difficult time admitting to themselves that they actually wanted to experience the sensual thrill and fantasy allure of male exotic dancing. I wanted to shake them and say, “Hey, don’t you realize your husbands have been doing this sort of thing forever? Now, it’s our turn!”

They just couldn’t admit to being sexually curious—a trait only sanctioned for men in our culture. Despite their inhibitions, the calls kept coming and the crowds kept growing for each show.

IT WS BECOMING OBVIOUS that deep down women wanted to stimulate their sexual fantasies just like men. The Sugar Shack was providing a wholesome public forum to do just that.

There was strength in numbers and women felt more secure as part of a group while catching on to this new public outlet for their sensual passions. Women were beginning to feel more equal to men in a society finally learning from feminist values while also reaping the rewards of the recent civil rights legislation.

The concept of male strippers had proven itself, but I couldn’t say it had really caught on yet. I felt that given proper media exposure we could make it in a big way—in the only way that really mattered—in the Sugar Shack cash register.

I WROTE A LETTER TO RICK KOGAN of the Chicago Sun-Times explaining the innovative thing we were doing. He was the Nightlife columnist for the paper. A few days later I gave him a follow-up call.

“I got your letter. You’re really serious about this being good wholesome fun?”

“It is Rick, and I wish you’d come up sometime and form your own opinion.”

“Whoa . . . hold on there. I might be able to use a little piece about the club, but I can’t be driving all the way to Lake Geneva to do a story on male strippers!”

I knew over the phone I would never be able to convince him what we were doing was something more than mere salty entertainment. You had to see a show to understand. You had to be there when the ladies erupted in collective revelry over being a part of the male exotic review.

The interplay between the ladies and the dancers gave away their wholesome, innocent joy with what was happening. It was the look in their eyes—not lust, more pure fun, adventure, and enchantment. Their laughter and comments always gave me the same impression.

I kept reaching out to the media, mainly small local Wisconsin newspapers. Whenever they published an article, business seemed to surge in response to the publicity, but even professionally written accounts couldn’t capture the Magic-Mike mystique of what was happening.

There was a remarkable electricity in the club you just had to experience to fully appreciate—like sky diving, you can read about it or you can jump out of a Cessna cruising at 150 mph at 10,000 feet.

Despite trying time after time I could never get a reporter to actually come out to the club and see what was going on. I understood; most of them were guys and watching male strippers isn’t something most men would want to do.

Business was better than ever, but there was still room to grow. I knew I had to get the word out to a much wider prospective audience. In the meantime, something I did to ramp up the sensual intensity of the show was to have the dancers go totally nude right at the end of a performance.

The guys were against the idea at first, but I persuaded them to try it. Most men are so insecure about the size of their genitals, especially when not erect.

I didn’t intend to shock the women in the audience with this change, but strangely many of them were astonished by what they saw. Speaking with them I learned that many women go through life having only seen their husband’s sex organ. The Sugar Shack now took their erotic romance-novel fantasies one step closer to fulfillment.

The Sugar Shack stage was an entertaining sexual playground free from any danger, contact, or emotional entanglements. It was delightful, playful, if not just a bit naughty fantasy fulfillment.

Still looking for a media breakthrough, I’d originally asked to speak with a female editor at the Chicago Sun-Times. I expected that a woman would be more understanding, curious, and comfortable enough to visit the club for a firsthand look. I was passed on to Rick Kogan because he handled club reviews and feature stories. When I made a follow-up call, he remembered my letter inviting him to the club.

He seemed friendly enough and I got the feeling he was taking notes, but wouldn’t make a commitment to visit us. The next time I called him during an actual show and held the phone out to the audience so he could hear the ladies screaming and clapping in response to one of the gyrating guys on stage.

“Certainly sounds like everyone’s having a good time!” Rick responded.

“So, when are you going to come out to see this for yourself?” I pressed.

“Look, maybe I’ll be in the area some night and if I can, I’ll drop in,” were his disappointing concluding comments.

More months went by without hearing from him.

IN LATE MAY OF 1979 two women accompanied by a single man walked into the club. The man was dressed in a golf shirt and blue jeans. He was about 26 years old and looked like someone I might hire as a waiter or bartender.

“I don’t know if you remember me, it’s been awhile. I’m Rick Kogan from the Chicago Sun-Times.”

“Well, it took you long enough to get here,” I said jokingly, after recovering from being stunned that he’d finally showed up.

Fortunately, Rick had a sense of humor. I led his party to the best booth I had, then, hurried backstage to spread the news.

“Rick Kogan’s in the audience!”

“Who’s he?” one of the dancers chipped in.

“To you and me pal he’s the Chicago Sun-Times, that’s who! He’s sitting at booth number seven, so play up to the ladies he’s with, and make your show something really special tonight. This is so important guys!”

I watched Rick during the show. He was taking notes on a napkin. A couple of times he came up to me and asked a few questions.

“So, what do your lady friends think of the dancers?” I asked, hoping to get him to say something good about the experience his gal pals were having.

“They’re a little scared. They keep telling me to make sure the dancers don’t get too close to them.”

“Maybe they’d have more fun if you weren’t here, Rick,” I suggested.

“You might be right, Dana.”

Luck was with me. I couldn’t have handpicked the audience to be any more enthusiastic about the show and our crowd numbers were good that night. Rick got up and mingled with a number of different women to get their reaction to what was happening.

He spoke to a group of law students. One of the girls, a young, pretty, innocent-looking thing, was graduating. At another table a grandmother, mother, and daughter were celebrating a birthday. Gathering story ideas, Rick was fascinated to learn that Larry also worked as Liberace’s bodyguard and chauffeur. After the show, he spent time speaking with each of the dancers. Before leaving, he stopped to say goodbye.

“Well, Dana, that was really something!”

“So, what do you think—worthy of story in the Sun-Times?” I countered.

“I can’t say just yet . . . but I’ll let you know.”

I thought the whole experience made a good impression on Rick and his friends, but weeks went by without hearing from him.

Now, with only male dancers scheduled, our summer business was not as brisk as it should have been. I took a big risk dropping our female review and I was starting to panic.

Did I make a major mistake? Would my decision to present male exotics bankrupt the Sugar Shack as so many critics predicted?

I knew we needed the publicity that a major newspaper article could provide, so at the risk of offending him I decided to send Rick a follow-up letter.

Rick,

I don’t know how you felt about the show you saw the night you stopped in, but if you intend to publish anything about the Sugar Shack, you’d better do it because the electricity is going to be turned off soon!

               

Two days later I got a call.

“Go buy today’s paper,” he said glibly.

“What? Where is it in the paper? Is it a good story? What did you say about us?” I begged, too excited to wait until I got my hands on the actual article.

“Hey Dana, what are you trying to do save the price of the paper? Go get a copy,” and he hung up.

I raced out of the club, into my car, and down the road to a nearby convenience store. I fumbled for change, tore open the paper, and there it was spread across an entire page!

The article featured a black-and-white illustrated silhouette of a male dancer and several women reaching up to him. The headline read, “Naughty Night Life!”

The article represented the most publicity the Sugar Shack had ever received.

The Chicago Sun-Times was one of the most famous and widely read newspapers in the world. Rick’s article was more than I ever expected.

Here’s a sample of his actual words.              

Being naughty is what the Sugar Shack is all about; the only place this side of God knows where to feature nude male dancing. That’s right!

At the Sugar Shack, men dance without their clothes—without any clothes. The place is dimly lit, but noisy and active. There is none of the furtive whispering, sitting in the shadows, or lurking oddballs that one associates with some places where women take their clothes off. Rather, there is a boisterous, almost party-like atmosphere. The Sugar Shack is owned and operated by Dana Montana, a former Playboy Bunny, who is still quite pretty around the edges.

               

REMEMBER THE FIRST TIME YOU RODE on a roller coaster—that feeling you were on a breathtaking adventure and there wasn’t anything you could do to stop it once it got going. Well, my whirlwind ride as a result of the publicity generated by the Sun-Times article began that Thursday morning, July 12, 1979.

The telephone started ringing off the hook. Reservations kept coming and coming. Among the calls I took later that day was one from Rick Kogan. I hadn’t called to thank him yet, but he wasn’t concerned about that.

“Dana, I thought you’d like to know that the article received so much attention it’s being sent across the country on our syndicated system, which means it will appear in over one hundred other major newspapers!”

“That’s incredible, Rick. How can I ever thank you for everything you’ve done?”

“Just doing my job, Dana. Enjoy your success.”

A week later calls were still pouring in. Piled-up reservations kept the Sugar Shack packed night after night. The next publicity bombshell struck the following week.

Time ran a story featuring the Sugar Shack. Hundreds of supportive women from all over our part of the country called. WMAQ Radio in Chicago invited me to bring the dancers for a live call-in show scheduled to last two hours. Then, another call came in from New York.

“This is NBC in New York. I’m the producer of the Tomorrow Show, hosted by Tom Snyder. He was wondering if you’d be interested in flying to New York and being a guest on his television show. The date is August 16th. Would that be possible?”

“Absolutely!” I answered, knowing I had to continue riding the media roller coaster until it came to a stop on its own.

“We’ll fly you out here and have a limo waiting at the airport to pick you up. Bring a couple of your dancers, too.”

“Sure . . . no problem!”

They offered to put us up for the night in New York, but I explained we had shows booked and it would be better for us to go right home afterwards.

The taping was scheduled for 5 p.m. making it possible for us to plan on being home in time for our Sugar Shack commitments. We’d actually be back on stage in Lake Geneva before the Tomorrow Show aired later that night.

The limo dropped us off at 30 Rockefeller Plaza. The show’s producer escorted us down the long light-green halls of the building housing NBC Television.

“Everybody on our staff is really looking forward to having you with us today!” she said excitedly.

Larry Slade and another dancer, Guy Garrett, were catching stares from every direction. They did their best to stay cool. I was petrified. How would I look on TV? What if I muffed his questions? What questions would he ask? What are we all supposed to say? Would he want the guys to dance?

“I imagine you’ve been on television before,” the thoughtful young assistant asked.

“Not exactly,” I answered bluntly.

We waited in what they called the greenroom, a theatrical term for a comfortable space to be uncomfortably anxious. There was a simple couch and three chairs in the small room, everything green in color. We sipped coffee and watched a television monitor directed at the empty stage and set being prepared for the show.

“Not as fancy as I pictured,” Larry said.

“Hey big shot, five hours ago you were laying in bed back in farm country and now you’re complaining about fancy!” I shot back.

Suddenly the set was filled with a flurry of activity; technicians, script girls, producers, a whole menagerie of people hustling about in every direction. Before long, Tom Snyder appeared.

“He looks bigger in real life,” Guy Garrett said, eyes glued to the monitor.

“Guy, he’s on TV. You haven’t seen him yet in real life!” I taunted.

We were all feeling the tension.

The show started with the usual fanfare. We all loved hearing our names being mentioned on national television.

“Our first guest, Linda Goodman, an astrologer, is here to share her insights with us; and in the second half of the show we have a woman named Dana Montana and two of her dancers. Now, these are not ordinary disco variety dancers. They are guys who dance naked at a nightclub owned by Montana in a little Wisconsin town called Lake Geneva. What a way to make a living!”

The crowd applauded. We all just stared at the television monitor, hardly able to believe what was happening. We were a long way from the obscurity of our life back in Lake Geneva.

Going to the restroom to freshen up and make sure every hair was in place, I ran into two women who worked for NBC Network News.

“You’re Dana Montana, aren’t you?” one of them asked.

“Yep, sure am.”

“You’ve been the talk of the office since your story broke in Time. We’re really glad you’re here. It’s a pleasure to meet someone that could do what you did, Miss Montana.”

I was flattered, but without having fully grasped the greater implications of what I was doing, wasn’t quite sure why they were treating me like a woman who’d earned a place in the history of feminist accomplishment.

“Hey, thanks, but it’s no big deal.”

“Yes it is. What you’ve done is fabulous. You’ve made everybody sit up and take notice. You’ve liberated women all over the country,” the other said.

Before I could thank them they were out the door. It meant something hearing their comments. I wanted to find out who they were so I could invite them to come to Lake Geneva and see a show. Looking in the mirror, I certainly didn’t see anyone like a Gloria Steinem or a Betty Friedan.

I DIDN’T SET OUT TO MAKE A MAJOR contribution to the women’s liberation movement in America, but the Sugar Shack touched a sensitive social nerve in our culture. Women have been second-class sexual citizens for so long. I was giving them a chance to come out of the closet and express their right to sexual and gender equity without doing anything vulgar, risky, or dangerous.

On my way back to the greenroom, I heard a commotion.

Tom Snyder and his first guest were arguing right on stage. Twenty-five minutes into the show we were taken to another room for makeup. From there we were guided to the stage and seated. Tom was sitting quietly in his chair as someone carefully combed his hair. He never looked up to acknowledge our presence.

“We’re taping, Mr. Snyder,” came the unseen electronically-amplified director’s voice.

“So . . . naked men dancing . . . are they dancing for you Dana?” were his cutting and sarcastic opening remarks.

Apparently his first guest got him into a foul mood. It was not uncommon for Tom to spew out caustic comments, but I was still shocked. He was unmerciful throughout the interview, but I tried my best to parry his verbal thrusts.

“We have a nice clean little club. Not at all like those sleazy strip joints in Cicero.”

“Now wait a minute Dana. Are you suggesting that all strip clubs in Cicero are sleazy? Is that what you’re here for, to make that stupid meaningless point?”

No matter what we said it was twisted and shot back with ill intent. We only taped for 17 minutes, but it felt like three hours.

“So Dana, are there any clubs in Manhattan good enough for you and your dancers to visit tonight?” came more of his slashing verbal provocation.

“We’ll be returning for a show in Wisconsin this evening.”

“Leave now, then. We wouldn’t want to be any part of holding you up seeing as you and your dancers can’t be spared from the Midwest and the Sugar Shack for even one night.”

The limo rushed us back to LaGuardia where we barely made our flight to O’Hare. Confused and more than a little upset because of how Tom treated us during the show, we somehow managed to laugh it off. All publicity is good publicity, right?

It was hard not to notice just how almost maniacal Tom Snyder looked when you saw him in person, and certainly when he was in one of his moods.

A small private plane shuttled us to Lake Geneva. Feeling like celebrities, we arrived five minutes before show time and a packed house. Late that night we all gathered around a small television in my office to watch the Tomorrow Show.

The first segment went by in a flash. We were all nervous with anticipation when the phone rang.

“Hello, this is Wolfman Jack. I’d like to speak to Miss Dana Montana,” came the words spoken in his identifiably iconic graveled voice.

“Look, I don’t have time to talk right now. Have your secretary call me tomorrow.”

“Who was that?” someone in my office asked.

“Some goof imitating Wolfman Jack from New York,” I said.

“Are you sure it was a joke? It could have been him. I’m sure they knew you were on the Tomorrow Show.”

“Well, I . . . suppose it could have been!”

The phone rang again. This time a gentle woman’s voice spoke to me.

“Good evening, this is Rhonda Maxwell calling for Dana Montana. I’m Wolfman Jack’s secretary. We’re on the air in New York.”

I stared at the telephone and didn’t say a word, for at that same instant I looked up and saw my face for the first time on national television. It was all so surreal.

Since the Sun-Times article on July 12, the Time Magazine spread on August 6, and now the Tom Snyder Tomorrow Show, the Sugar Shack and Dana Montana were hot copy.

People were mailing me clippings from every little paper throughout America. The major papers put out feature articles. Every journalist within 150 miles called to set up a time to see a show and write a story. I was featured in close to 1,000 interviews, many conducted by phone.

Without intending to I had become a symbol, an icon, a Joan of Arc fighting for the cause of liberating American women.

People believed I plotted and planned for years to turn the tables on Playboy and the sexual exploitation of women in entertainment. Yep, I had been plotting for years; desperately plotting to figure out how to pay my bills. The media believed differently.

It made them feel better and it worked for me. That’s not to say I wasn’t sensitive to the plight of the average woman in this country. It would seem that in working so hard to protect my rights and improve my life, I was able to do something for women everywhere. That’s okay, too. The media accelerator was open full throttle as the offers for appearances kept coming in.

We were featured on Hugh Downs, 20/20, then, back for a second appearance on Phil Donahue, one of the most popular shows at the time. I was actually beginning to feel comfortable in front of the camera.

I learned what the director’s hand signals meant and to talk to the camera with the small red light on. Wherever I went, women whispered.

“There she is. That's Dana Montana. Boy is she lucky to get to spend all that time with those gorgeous hunks!”

Thousands of women were crowding into the club every week. I understood the media-hyped fantasy they came to experience. People thought the same thing about Hugh Hefner; that he slept with all of his employees, that orgies went on constantly at the mansion, and that the bunnies slept around.

I learned that wasn’t true while working as a Playboy Bunny. Now, the same notion was being applied to me and again it wasn’t true. We were operating a business. Yes, it was a business based on selling sex, but we were really selling a fantasy. Then, something completely unexpected began to happen. I started getting fan mail asking for my advice on personal matters.

A Dr. Ruth I wasn’t, but they imagined I was an expert on sex, lovemaking, and qualified to help them with their relationship problems. I tried to answer every letter as thoughtfully and insightfully as I possibly could. Many times, though, I didn’t have a clue what they were getting at. By writing back I at least let them know that someone was listening and cared.

What an ironic twist. People seeking me out as an expert on how to conduct and maintain relationships. Relax, Sister Gabriela and Granny, it was just their image of me. The whole thing was hysterical, actually. Getting back to my real personal life, the relationship with my husband had disintegrated into a complete disaster.

I WAS GAINING WEIGHT and couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror. I was 38 years old and had almost no sexual experience with men. All the attention I was getting didn’t swell my head because I knew the truth. Spending so much time thinking about other people’s relationships was a constant reminder of just how unfulfilled my personal life was.

Thrust into a media spotlight as the queen of my male-stripper kind only served to illuminate my inadequacies in this area. For the sake of business, I played the game.

“Hey Miss Montana, you tried all them dancers yourself?

“Every one of them had a personal audition,” became my standard answer.

ALL THE NOTERIETY KEPT THE Sugar Shack packed night after night right through the winter of 1979. A lot of money was coming in. The summer of 1980 was just as strong. We were booked with reservations three months in advance.

I was in my office one morning when a call came in from one of my former female dancers, Shenanigans.

“Dana, are you looking for any more male dancers?”

“I’m always looking, you never know when you’re going to find Mr. Superstar,” I told her.

“Well, I’m going out with this gorgeous bodybuilder. He wants to meet you. I think he’s really interested in becoming a dancer at the Sugar Shack.”

I kept my enthusiasm in check because this wasn’t the first tip I’d gotten from Shan, as we called her. She brought a virtual parade of men to see me, usually under the guise of becoming dancers. I think she was holding her own personal auditions, but I couldn’t pass up a chance to look over a new prospect.

There was a certain amount of turnover with my guys. Some of them simply tired of the tension of performing. Others moved on to other professional opportunities.

By the summer of 1980 we’d turned another corner and the Sugar Shack was open seven nights a week presenting male exotic dancers.

Eric Lantis was the featured performer at the time. At first he was just a beautiful body. I only hired him because Larry Slade began giving me trouble. After all the publicity he became more and more demanding.

Yes, Larry was the star of my original review of male dancers, but as the Sugar Shack became more successful he started acting like a male version of a prima donna, and the women in the audience sensed it.

His popularity began to wane. To compound the problem, if I didn’t agree to his every request he would threaten to leave. I saw it as an empty threat because there were no other male exotic clubs operating anywhere else. It became apparent, however, that it was just a matter of time before Larry, my old friend, my poker-playing buddy, and I would be parting professional company. Eric’s initial audition was a disaster.

He was obviously intoxicated walking up on the stage. That was somewhat understandable. For the guys, breaking in this new entertainment territory sometimes took a few stiff drinks to drown out their initial inhibitions. Eric stripped awkwardly and danced even worse. When he got down to his G-string he began rubbing his crotch in an obscene manner.

“Eric, stop! What do you think you’re doing? I’m not running a whore house. This is a classy show!”

Like so many men, he assumed that the sight of an erect penis was all it took to excite any woman. I didn’t hire him at the time, but when Larry started in again with his threatening demands, I called Eric back. This time he was willing to work with me and learn how to stimulate a woman’s fantasies through his movements and attitude on stage. I was grooming him for an act I wanted to stage featuring a barbarian.

There would be lots of strobe lighting and body-building poses. At the end of the act he would end up naked in the middle of the stage with no props.

Eric argued against the idea because all the other dancers had some kind of prop to take the edge off their nudity. We bucked each other, but I began to like him more and more. Before long, Eric was the star of the show. Larry finally made good on all his threats and left. When Shan showed up with this new prospect, I was both shocked and unexpectedly impressed.

He was a massive, muscular man wearing a white sleeveless T-shirt, sporting perfectly developed deltoids, biceps, and triceps that rippled down his Herculean arms. Shan left us and went over to the bar to speak with a couple waiters who came in early as her latest discovery slipped into my office.

He was soft-spoken and clearly a gentleman. His hair was too short and his body over developed, but his piercing blue eyes projected the captivating charisma of a Paul Newman. And, by coincidence, his name was Paul.

“I’ve never seen your dancers, but Shan’s told me a lot about you and them. I think it’s great what you’re doing here.”

First impressions were lock-and-load go as I sized him up down while he stood there as stoic as a totem pole carved from a great oak.

“Stick around and watch a show, since you’ve never seen one. Then we’ll talk afterwards, that’s if you still want to.”

Truthfully, I never expected to see him again after he walked out of my office. So many prospects were scared away when they first saw my dancers in action on stage.

They’d come in thinking there would be nothing to it, and later try to sneak out without me seeing them leave.

I kept my eye on Shan and Paul as they sat in the back watching the first show. To my surprise, they didn’t leave. After the show we played disco music and they danced. Shan, the former stripper, was putting on her own Gypsy-Rose-Lee show. Paul was moving on the fringes of her entertaining exhibitionistic display. When they stopped dancing, I noticed he helped her down from the stage.

“We’ve got to go now, Dana,” Shan said as she tugged on Paul’s arm. She had been drinking all night and her present plans for Paul didn’t include taking time out to talk to me. Paul gave me a disappointed look.

I wasn’t about to let this prize bluefin tuna slip away, so I had to think fast.

“Tell you what guys. Why don’t you come by the house tomorrow? We’ll sit out by the pool and talk this whole thing over.”

Sounds great, we’ll be there around noon,” Paul replied with Shan pulling on him impatiently.

They showed up on time and the first thing Shan did was to take off her top. When I glared at her she said she would put it back on if the kids came out. We all sat around dangling our toes in the pool. Paul’s sister was a Bunny at the Playboy Resort, as was Shan at the time.

Paul’s sister introduced them. They had been dating for several weeks. From my experience, that was usually a problem for guys in the flash-for-cash trade.

It was not easy to train a new dancer, but nearly impossible if he was involved in a serious relationship. Learning the art of male stripping took endless hours and required complete dedication. That usually aggravated significant others.

It wasn’t so much about jealously—they simply ended up spending too much time away from each other. Some of them, however, did have a problem with the fact that their man would be showing off his hot bod to other babes. It had been such a problem that I wouldn’t usually invest time in developing someone who was involved. When Shan went into the house for a minute, I spoke to Paul.

“Don’t be offended by this, but I need to know just how tied you are to Shan?”

He seemed stunned.

“Well, we’re good friends and we’ve been dating for a while. I don’t really understand the reason for your question.”

“You know Paul, the training period will be intense and demanding. I can’t have Shan at the club all the time. I hope you understand.”

“Good.”

“Good?” I reacted.

“That’s right. I want to learn as much as I can from you. I’m not going to marry Shan. She’s just a friend. What you’re offering fascinates me and I agree that a demanding relationship right now could damage my career,” he said sensibly.

“Paul, you’ve really got the right attitude and I’ll add you surprise me with your maturity.”

“Well, you surprise me a little too, Dana. I was afraid you’d be upset when I told you the truth about Shan and me. I mean, she told me you were like a mother to her and I didn’t want you to get angry with me for possibly leading her on.”

With just those few words Paul and I reached an important understanding that began the race leading to the checkered flag of Paul dazzling audiences on my Sugar Shack stage.

A swirling summer wind rustled leaves in the nearby trees sending soft ripples rolling along the previously still surface of the cool pool. Looking at Paul in the water I saw a vision of what he would become and it gave me Goosebumps.

Little did I know that Paul was destined to become more than just one of my new Sugar Shack headliners.