I'm Too Sexy for My Cane

At the beginning of 1976, My agent had sent me to a new Strip club in Quebec City that was celebrating its grand opening. It was as big as a warehouse, with table seating for two-hundred patrons. Working the service bar were delicious-looking young French men in white shirts with bow ties. Ooh-la-la. Vive Quebec.

The stage was one of the best I've ever danced on; shiny parquet floor thirty feet long by ten feet wide with spectacular lighting and sound equipment. The dressing room was situated behind a red velvet curtain and had room for the three house strippers and myself. Everything about this club was top-notch.

My fondest memory of that club was the warm friendship I shared with the Master of Ceremonies, Jean Luc Moreau. Jean Luc was originally from Basel, Switzerland, the tripoint of France, Italy, and Switzerland. He spoke five languages fluently and was dapper, trim, and white-haired. He also liked the delicious waiters as much as I did.

In our free time during the day, Jean Luc loved taking me around his adopted city to show off the spectacular sights. Because it was still the Christmas season, Old City was dressed up in fairy lights and Christmas trees. It was as if we'd been magically transported to a little village in Europe.

While we were strolling around one snowy afternoon, Jean Luc told me about an idea he had for a new show. He claimed it would be perfect for me because I was so short.

That piqued my curiosity, “What exactly do you have in mind that my shortness would be perfect for?" I asked. “Am I going to be a Munchkin stripper? Will I need ruby slippers?”

“Aha! You’ll see. You’ll see,” he promised.

Taking my arm, he guided me into a used clothing store. Not so much of a boutique as a Salvation Army thrift store like what we have in the states.

“What kind of costume did you have in mind that we can buy here?” I asked, puzzled.

“Let’s see- “Jean Luc pondered, as he rummaged through the racks of old lady clothing. “Yes, yes. This is just right.” He announced as he held up an old, woolen skirt made for someone much bigger and much older than I was.”

“So, now I’m going to be the witch from the Hansel and Gretel story? Am I going to be baking toddlers in an oven?”

“Here, hold this,” he ordered, as he continued flipping through the racks of clothes my Italian grandmother would have loved. “There. There- this is what I was looking for. Try it on.” He urged.

“Jean Luc. I’m not wearing this old overcoat onstage. What? Am I going to be naked under it?” I complained.

“No, no. Just try it on.”

So, I did. It was as ugly on me as it was on the coat hanger. Jean Luc seemed pleased by it. “See? It’s just what you need!”

He gathered together an old, beat-up blouse with huge, gem-encrusted buttons, two grey colored slips that may have been white twenty years earlier, a pair of old-fashioned black hosiery, like Grandma D’Angelo wore after my grandfather passed away, and for the piece de resistance, he found a pair of those clear rubbery rain boots with the button and loop closures. Satisfied with his elegant finds, he hustled me back to the dressing rooms and ordered me to put everything on.

“Oh, my God. You’re a crazy person!” I exclaimed. “I’ve been kidnapped by a crazy person.” But I did as I was told because crazy people can be dangerous.

I stepped out of the dressing room, modeling the height of a couturier in this elegant city. He clapped his hands and danced around, claiming that he was a genius and that I was going to be a star. When I looked in the mirror at my new strip 'costume' I just shook my head and decided to go along with him, because I wasn’t sure he was all there.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this outfit?” I demanded.

“It is for your new “Old Lady” show. I have the perfect music in mind for you. It will be hilarious, and no one will believe it when you strip off all these layers.” He triumphantly declared.

Hmm. I mulled it over and started getting into the spirit. I pulled my lips in around my teeth and screwed my face up, trying to age myself. Then I remembered watching Laugh-In when I was in high school. With enough makeup, I could look like Ruth Buzzi when she did her old lady skit on the park bench.

“Jean Luc, if you weren’t so damned gay, I’d kiss you.” I threatened. “You’re a genius.”

“See? See? What did I tell you? It will be fabulous with the right music.” He promised.

I continued searching through the store for accessories and dug up an old, metallic green drawstring purse. I hit Jean Luc on the head with it. Yep. Just what I was looking for. Then I found the best part of the entire costume, sitting alone on a shelf in the back of the store. A clear dime-store rain hat that tied snugly under my chin.

Digging through the bins of under clothing I found a gigantic brassiere and a worn-out girdle that had seen far too many donuts. I would have to visit a department store and buy up several dozen extra-large panties, which I could doff one at a time to the music. I would also need a bucket to collect all my clothing in and maybe some toilet tissue to fill up the brassiere and a rubber chicken for that final touch of finesse.

On our way back to the hotel, Jean Luc told me about the music he had in mind for this new show. “Spike Jones- “he announced. Yes, Spike Jones. You Always Hurt the One you Love.”

Speaking of being hurt by the one I loved, I hadn’t given my most recent ex, Jake, a thought all day. This was the medicine I needed to get through the next few weeks until the bruises faded. Jake hadn’t used his fists to hurt me. But he had pounded the hell out of my heart just the same. I was in between stages of hating him and wanting to disembowel him with a dull spoon and missing him terribly, hoping he would find me in Quebec City so I could do other things to him, that didn't involve a dull spoon.

My brain caught up with Jean Luc’s music list at, The Stripper, Hey, Big Spender, and Let Me Entertain You.

“I can help you do the makeup. I am an expert.” He guaranteed.

Jean Luc flagged down a cab, and we returned to the hotel and club to get ready for the evening shows. My first show of the night was going to be Jungle Fever. It never failed to get the rapt attention of the audience. I began the show with the song, Nature Boy by Jose Feliciano, The Lion Sleeps Tonight, Wild Thing for my hot chair routine, and the finale, Jungle Fever by the Chakachas, which would have been dripping sexuality had The Mormon Tabernacle choir been singing it. I had worked out a floor routine facing the side and back of the stage, so the audience would never get a glimpse of my baby-making mechanism. Now, you don't see it and now you still don't.

Quebec had allowed total nudity for years. I was not comfortable with it. But I could manage it.

The next show went perfectly and I ended the night with my Cabaret show, which Jean Luc drooled over because he was in love with Liza Minelli.

The following afternoon, Jean Luc and I recorded the Old Lady show and worked out the details of the outlandishly ridiculous skit. It was full of slapstick humor and naughty hilarity. He was the perfect coach because of his background in real burlesque.

That evening, nervous as all get out, I got ready for the Old Lady show. I applied the flesh-toned pancake makeup and scrunched up my face to find the wrinkle lines, as Jean Luc had taught me. Between the flaking pancake makeup and the gray-colored wrinkle lines, I was looking very much like an old lady. I drew on a full unibrow with gray eyeliner and blacked out my two front teeth with a black kohl crayon. Perfect- but it needed something more hideous, so I added a repugnant mole on my nose. She was perfect.

Getting dressed for that show was an hour-long process, with all the extra underpants and seemingly endless strips of toilet tissue stuffed into my bra. Grabbing my purse and bucket I ambled, old lady style into the club’s front door, instead of using the stage entrance.

I rummaged around in the ashtrays on the tables, cadging long cigarette butts here and there and depositing them into my little drawstring purse. The customers were warily polite to me, and no one complained out loud. But it was obvious that I was annoying the heck out of them. When the sound man started the tape all eyes focused on the stage, instead of on me, as I edged closer and closer to the stage. It was about four feet off the ground and quite a feat for me to mount it, being only a few inches over four feet myself.

Jean Luc’s taped voice announced, "Ladies and Gentlemen, all the way from Montreal, Layna Royale!" When no such person appeared onstage the taped voice said, “someone? Anyone?”

I struggled to hoist myself indelicately up onto the stage as the audience watched in surprise. I began to bump and grind, little old lady style to The Stripper and Let Me Entertain You and when You Always Hurt the One You Love began, I hopped back off the stage in search of victims for my purse-whacking.

After clambering back onstage, I continued the obnoxious routine to Hey, Big Spender, pulling out yards and yards of toilet tissue from my bra, and doffing at least a dozen size extra large big girl panties. When Patricia the Stripper began, I mimed standing in the courtroom, after being arrested for indecency. Then, I pulled the rubber chicken out of my bra in mock surprise for the finale. After scooping up my costume and accessories and plopping them into my bucket, I went backstage. Jean Luc called for an encore, and I had to come out and take another bow, facing the curtains instead of the audience to roaring laughter.

Jean Luc gave me the thumbs up, and I realized that as hard as I had worked on becoming sexy and sultry, the thing that made me happiest was making people laugh. There was no end to my tom-foolery when people laughed at my Old Lady shtick. It was like pouring lighter fluid on a burning building. I ate it up and became even more ridiculous.

That show propelled me into being called upon for entertaining at conferences and popping out of cakes at parties all over Quebec. Women loved it as much as men did- perhaps even more because when they heard a stripper was entertaining I sure wasn't what they were expecting. The show also made me a featured performer who was never asked to go nude.

Win!

Now, the question remained; did Jake ever find me in Quebec City? Did I disembowel him?

Tune in next time to "The Spoon Turned."