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Coming of age back in the day… Earlier this week I reminisced with a friend about how much easier twenty-first century adolescent boys have it with respect satisfying their hormonal urges—at least visually. A veritable cornucopia of smut and depravity is available 24/7 for one with access to the Internet. We never had such effortless entrée into the venue of, um, fine art. During my formative years there were sneak-a-peak girlie magazines available for those fortunate enough to have older brothers or a father inclined to study art (snicker) in the human form. Some of the older gentlemen tried to disguise their voyeuristic proclivity by being shutterbugs, joining camera clubs, and subscribing to certain photographic industry publications, which featured plenty of nude females to illustrate the use of shadowing, etc, etc. to improve their technique. (Yeah, right.) Both types of periodicals were hidden from the prying eyes of us horny tweeners, and (I’ll bet) from wives. I recall discovering a photo magazine in my Dad’s desk, and the electric thrill of actually seeing exposed bosoms, which sent my hormones reeling. Of course I never revealed my discovery so I could creep back at opportune times for additional lingering looks. I never “read” a girlie magazine until I went to college. Our fraternity restrooms were well-stocked with what we called cock books. Most were old and tattered, but that didn’t spoil the images within. We used to lie to each other saying we were most interested in the articles, cartoons, and jokes. Before then, as an eleven-year-old paperboy, I was exposed to little eight-page pornographic comic books referred to as either eight-pagers or Tijuana Bibles. A grizzled pressman at the newspaper supplied them I suspect just to laugh at our reaction. Eight-pagers featured famous newspaper comic subjects and movie personnel in ridiculous circumstances. Let’s see…there were Dagwood and Blondie, Popeye, Roy Rogers and Trigger, Dick Tracy, and many others. Anyway, there was nothing available that could compete with today’s Internet offerings…except maybe one live version. One of the veteran pressmen who handed us our papers fresh off the press would entertain us, as we sat folding and packing our newspapers for delivery, with magical stories of what he called the burly-cue. We thought he had to be pulling our legs, but one of the older paperboys said it was true because he read advertisements about two burly-cues in the newspaper of the closest big city. Since my parents subscribed to that paper, I couldn’t wait to get home and check it out for myself. The Toledo Blade had two or three regular sections, and a one-fold, four-page section at the back called the Peach Section since it was approximately that color. Mainly it contained humorous columns, puzzles, a comic strip called, Miss Peach, and ads for coming attractions at local movie theaters. Among the cinematic ads were announcements (with photos) for two burlesque theaters, Townhall and Gaiety. The photos were of scantily clad ladies in what looked like harem attire with come-hither smiles, and smaller insets announcing whatever comic was performing. Whoa! The burly-cue is real! The ladies had large bosoms that the pressman said they would actually bare! I couldn’t wait to tell my friends. First, I saw my Dad sitting in his easy chair reading the sports page. I decided to try something…I pointed to the Townhall ad. “Hey, Dad, what do they do at burly-cues?” I gave him my best innocent look and held up the Peach Section. He was amused. “It’s not burly-cue; it’s pronounced burlesk. It’s a theater where comedians work on their acts. A lot the famous comics got their start in burlesque.” My Mom looked up and piped in. “It’s also a place where women take off their clothes for vulgar men. It’s not very nice.” She gave me a meaningful stare. “It’s indecent.” “Oh, um okay. I saw the pictures in the Peach Section, and just wondered.” I acted like the whole thing was a terrible bore, and hoped they bought it. Toledo was an hour north by automobile, which was much too long for a bicycle ride along dangerous US-24. More discouraging was a small insert on the burlesque ads that said one had to be 18-years-old to be admitted. Next day at the newspaper, the pressman said not to sweat it because they didn’t check IDs. He said they let in high school kids all the time. Since my friends and I were either twelve or thirteen, high school seemed an eternity away. We made a pact that the first to get his driver’s license would borrow a car and drive us to Toledo and the magic that occurred at the Townhall and the Gaiety. Meanwhile, I found a deck of cards in my Dad’s desk that featured fifty-two nude ladies. My friends came to the house frequently over the next three years for a look. It would have to do. Finally the day came when this guy, Rimer turned sixteen, a year older than me, and was able to take his driver’s test. We were all excited, but tried not to get our hopes up too much because Rimer was an incredible screw-up. He would do things like get an “A” in a subject one term, and an “F” the next. Sure enough, he flunked the driver’s test. That night I looked longingly at the ads in the Peach Section. The Townhall featured Rose LaRose, the Queen of Burlesque, while Evelyn “Treasure Chest” West was appearing at the Gaiety. Next day we cursed Rimer; then after baseball practice went to my house for a peek at the cards. Afterwards Rimer got caught by his father while indulging in his prostate maintenance program. Rimer was sternly advised that, “Ball players don’t do that.” About a month later, Rimer miraculously passed the driver’s test and received a temporary license. Six of us, including Rimer (naturally), made plans to head for Toledo the following Friday night telling our parents we were going to Kingsbury Park for a swim and maybe play some basketball. Rimer refused to drive faster than 50 MPH making the usual one-hour trip seem excruciatingly long. In addition, he was a horrible driver often grinding the gears with sloppy clutch work, and frequently looking into the back seat while making inane comments. We mostly ignored him with visions of female anatomy dancing through our heads. Think we were excited? Oh, man! Our choices were Ann “Bang Bang” Arbor at the Townhall, and Alexandra the Great 48 at the Gaiety. It was a tough choice, but by a vote of four to two we opted for the Townhall. Ann “Bang Bang” Arbor’s picture in the Peach Section made her figure seem more alluring. As we stood in front of the theater it seemed surreal to be only a few feet away from seeing an actual mature naked—well, partially anyway—woman. I noticed Rimer looking at the posters and making loud comments accompanied by nervous laughter. He told us he also had a woody. To keep him from screwing things up we told him to shut up, get in line, and say NOTHING to the old lady in the box office. The pressman was right. The bored lady at the window gave us a look of detached amusement, and issued our tickets without a word. We were in! The Townhall was maybe one-quarter occupied and smelled like a combination of dirty sweat socks and urine. It was the kind of place where you went to the men’s room for a breath of fresh air—unflushed septic log and all. We took seats in the middle of the theater trying to look like we were regulars. A disheveled, sixtyish vendor with a soiled shirt and a salt-and-pepper, three-day growth of whiskers walked up-and-down the aisle announcing, “Peanuts, popcorn, f**kin’ pretzels!” An organ was center front below the stage and was raised slightly from the orchestra pit. A guy was pounding out a rhythm with a heavy, grinding bass accent while a young, up-and-coming dancer sighed breathlessly on the stage and stripped provocatively. Two rows behind the organ player sat a guy with his head bobbing up-and-down, obviously rubbing one out. Next came a group of comedians in goofy hats, garish bowties, and baggy pants doing some kind of skit where a “director” often yelled, “Makeup!” while an assistant smacked the others in the face with a giant powder puff. Nobody laughed. Someone shouted in a boozy voice, “Get a new routine!” The evening ended with the appearance of Ann “Bang Bang” Arbor who was a very attractive, statuesque lady—tall, round, and firm. By then the house was about half full and the patrons cheered and hooted their approval. She worked the entire stage expertly and got her fans jacked-up (probably an excellent word choice given the venue) in a heated frenzy. We marveled at how she could spin pasties in opposite directions. She strutted from one end of the stage to the next, parted her flimsy, silky, harem skirt, and said, “See Mickey Mouse?” The drive home was about as loudly juvenile as you would suspect. Each of us knew we would relive the images over and over in, ahem, private times, and talked about when we could return again. There were also bragging rights. For sure we’d be heroes at school; known as the first guys in our class that had actually been to a burlesque theater. Post Script – A few years later three other friends and I made the trip after one of my buddy’s girlfriend vociferously voiced her disapproval. Her beau, Dennis, matter-of-factly confessed our journey while at the local drive-in theater anticipating a passionate make-out session. She looked at him with disgust, and like a 1930s movie drama queen, uttered angrily. “What? You openly defied me!” With that, she left him and stormed out on foot. About the same time, my youngest brother, Thom, returned home from the Townhall to discover our mother found him out. He received a tongue lashing from her, but a that’s-my-boy wink from Dad. Post Post Script – A week ago one of my neighbors, himself a 15-year-old burlesque attendee from decades ago, advised me that Rose LaRose herself owned the Townhall. Ah, art… Copyright 2015 by Gene Myers author of After Hours: Adventure of an International Businessman (2009), Strategic Publishing, New York, NY, Songs from Lattys Grove (2010) PublishAmerica, Baltimore, MD, LeaderTrip: A Lesson in Organizational Transformation (1994), Network Press, Houston, TX. Available in hardback and eBook from www.amazon.com.
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