When next you pass me on the street, please accord me the respect I so richly deserve: I am the newly-crowned winner of the Ms. 2007 Wet T-Shirt Contest.
"Ha!" you say, "the year has barely begun!"— but just because we held the competition in the first half hour of January does not void its integrity. My tits rule the waves.
The contest was held at the otherwise-tragic event known as Phyllis Christopher's going-away party in San Francisco. Phyllis was one of the legendary On Our Backs staff members, a brilliant erotic photographer, and just one those gals from Buffalo who is a constant delight and inspiration. Her departure to England is forced, due to the relentless hypocrisy of the United States immigration "service." England will welcome Phyllis along with her British wife Helen, but the US has stymied their pleas for years.
When I first got Phyllis's invitation, she promised a Roman Orgy room, monkey dancing, a baby pool full of Jello, high-stakes poker, karaoke smack-down, and even a secret room for shy people like herself who might get overwhelmed by it all.
I wrote her right back and boasted that I would swamp the t-shirt contest.
Since my crown, many have questioned my strategy, or wondered how I pulled it off in the first place. Their doubts are legitimate! Despite all my pre-party conceit, as I stood trembling beneath the dwarf chocolate fountain, and surveyed the other contestants, my heart skipped a beat.
The first girl on our homemade stage— essentially a large box crammed into the back of a Victorian flat living room— was a champion arm-wrestler with perfect skin and perkiness that could not be disputed. She was gorgeous— and 18 years younger than me.
Our silver-throated emcee, "The Pam-inator" Russell, put the needle down on The Stripper, and the crowd (90% female) went wild.
The second competitor was earning applause before she even hit the carpet. Annika— her real name— is over six feet tall, and her breasts are popularly known as "The Blessings" throughout the greater Bay Area.
"My god, what am I doing to do?" I clutched my erstwhile coach, Pussy Tourette backup singer Christina Vickory.
Christina is a stunning creature herself, and I was fortunate that she wasn't entering the contest and crushing all my hopes. But she rolled her eyes at my self-doubt. "It's simple," she said, whispering in my ear over the din. "Work the judges."
Judges? I didn't even know who they were! Christina pointed them out to me: Roxxie and Sally, who were laid out on the floor in front of the stage, staring right up at the celestial nipples.
Roxxie is the founding editor of GirlJock— I had her number! I didn't know as much about Sal, but she'd just performed a killer Steve Perry imitation during the Karaoke blowout, and I surmised she could succumb to femme wiles and manipulations just as well as Roxxie. I was inspired.
"I need a bottle!" I yelled, charging down the hallway to grab my tshirt.
Now, as every bosomy woman knows, a wet tshirt contest is a bit of a contradiction for us. We don't look good in a man's crew-neck tshirt... in fact, you might say it's the worst look for anyone over a B-cup. Thank goodness I had one of my dad's old-school V-neck numbers, which was worn down to a tissue.
I was outfitted in fishnet stockings, four-inch-high black ankle boots, and a leather miniskirt that my daughter had stolen from my closet years ago. I clamped on a wiglet (all hail the wiglet!) that made my ponytail appear to descend to my ass. For accessories, I wore my 80s Stormy Leather gauntlet glove, and my genuine 70s Playboy Bunny Club necklace.
Someone handed me a sports cup— "No, no, a champagne bottle!"
Others were urging me into the shower, but I knew better. An actress has to have a prop, and if I was going to wet myself, I wanted the very best.
Phyllis, the genius, handed me an empty Magnum, and I filled it to the brim with cold water. I motioned to Pam, before she began my introduction, and told her to tell the crowd that I was freshly released from Vaginal Rejuvenation surgery. The music started up again.
At that point, it's a bit of a blur. I recall holding the bottle over my head like a trophy, and cascading the ice water down my head, wiglet, and tits. I took a long swig and spewed it, geyser-style, all over the screaming audience (I learned that from my 1st-grade Red Cross Swimming instructor!)
I was channeling Flashdance; I had everything going except a brass pole. I realized, in a stripper-nano-second, that there's not much time you can kill pinching your nipples or cuddling your boobs. The secret is to simply be sexy, and let your tits do whatever they would normally do. And never, ever, lose eye-contact with the judges!
The song was hitting its cymbal climax when I stage-dived off the platform, right on top of Sally and Roxxie, and crushed them with my now-soaked chest. I threw in a threatening look at that point. If you can't seduce the authorities, intimidate them!
The crowd was apoplectic. I tried to do the splits and nearly killed myself. I crawled off the stage feigning slinky-ness, to cover my injury.
Cameras were flashing everywhere— and yet, as you will note, so far I have not received a single document of the event. (Party photogs, please contact me!)
But maybe it's all for the best. I believed I was hot, and a realistic appraisal might traumatize me.
When some of the other contestants looked downcast in defeat, I told them, "The lesson here is that making a fool of yourself is the recipe for sexual success." That, plus old age and cunning.
I won $100, collected in a hat, and a box of homemade chocolate brownies, all of which I shared with my gorgeous colleagues. The other contestants included a masseuse, a real estate broker, and an Ivy League physicist who has sworn me to secrecy. I've gained new hope in the scientific community just from meeting her, though.
I've told my friends that my prize is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream, but a few people who don't know me well have looked askance. They assume I enter wet tshirt contests all the time— that I'm not a virgin. You are so wrong!
Yes, I've attended thousands of strip shows and even helped produced a few hundred of them. I've written as eloquently as I could about erotic dancers and sexual performance. But when have you seen me on stage, peeling it off? Never.
It's true I've been photographed, by professionals like Phyllis, with lighting and makeup that would make anyone look like Tempest Storm in her glory. That's how I found out about wiglets!
But the thing is, I've never had much physical confidence; I've never led with my body. I envy athletes and actors who have the grace to pull it off. I was the kind of kid who was picked last for every team; I ran the wrong way around the bases. Even when I finally did sport a fetching physique, I was the last person to realize it.
My nerdiness has protected me in many respects, but like so many Marion Librarian's, I always daydreamed what it would be like to be a hunk, uninhibited, the star of the runway! Phyllis's party was my big chance, because I knew my pals would cheer me on, out of sisterhood or hilarity, if nothing else.
What do I intend to do with my crown?
Well, of course, I expect there will be a press exposé that reveals my making-out with other girls, forgetting my underwear, and drinking too many chocolatinis. I'm only too happy to admit it all, so Donald Pimp can just save his fucking second chances for himself.
In truth, I plan a solemn campaign to fight for erotic literacy throughout the land, and stand up for the values that made these tits worth fighting for. As Sophia Loren has proven so well, girls who wear glasses and décolletage are not to be trifled with!
Top photo, by Jill Posener for Stormy Leather. Middle photo, Phyllis's book cover of me for Sexual Reality. And bottom is La Loren from Two Women, of course!
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