Free Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes by Kristi Lynn Davis Page B

mailed off my two favorite photos to ABC Printing in Missouri for duplication.
    When those boxes arrived with five-hundred, 8”x10”, black and white glossy photos of my face, I was star struck. I almost felt famous just because I existed, multiplied, in print. Still, that was a lot of pictures. Would I ever really use them all? I imagined them littering some garbage dump, seagulls leaving their droppings on my beaming smile and visions of fame. Future rubbish or not, it was thrilling to see my dreams begin to take shape. I had headshots!
    Next issue: housing. An aspiring female singer who I knew from college also wanted to try New York City and agreed to be my roommate. My plans appeared to be falling into place perfectly. Until, that is, they fell out of place. The woman got cold feet and backed out at the last minute. I panicked. I couldn’t afford to live alone, and Jenny already had a roommate. Would I be forced to abandon the plan and stay in Michigan? And do what? I had no plan B.
    In the end, Jenny came through for me, once again. “Good news! I ran into Ashley at dance class. She and her family are going on an African safari, and you can stay in their apartment for the month of August.” Not only was Ashley a college dance friend of ours from Impact Jazz Dance Company, but she was also a member of Kappa Alpha Theta, the high-class sorority envied for its beautiful, rich girls. I could only imagine how stylish her home might be. Hopefully, this apartment-sitting job would buy me enough time to find a roommate and a more permanent place to live. All signals now “GO,” my parents and I loaded up their minivan with my meager belongings and headed east for New York City.
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    As suspected, Ashley’s home—a two-bedroom apartment on the 16th floor of a posh, Upper East Side high rise—was gorgeous. There was even a doorman to welcome me at the building entrance. A doorman! Ashley’s very thin, trendy, forty-something, divorced mom was an interior decorator, evidenced by the splendidly froufrou domicile. I was living in the lap of luxury, and all I had to do was water the plants, collect the mail, and feed the cat. What could be so bad about that?
    The family had already left for Africa, so I was able to nose around at will. I marveled at the lifestyle so different from how I grew up. The kitchen appeared to be an afterthought and was about as big as a tiny, walk-in closet. On the walls hung framed menus collected from famous New York City restaurants. There was no place to sit in the kitchen and no dining room. Where did they eat? It appeared to be standing room only.
    I guess that’s why the kitchen was so small: They didn’t cook. Oh, maybe they brewed an espresso, plopped a cocktail onion into a martini, or slathered cream cheese on a bagel. They didn’t even own a regular coffee maker. All I could find was a silver metal, two-story Italian contraption that sat on the stove like a teapot, but I couldn’t figure out how to use it. I assumed the family primarily ate their meals out or ordered in. Why cook when you have every restaurant and take-out delivery imaginable at your fingertips with a mere phone call? And really, New York socialites don’t eat anyway; do they?
    Down the hall was what I quickly determined to be Ashley’s bedroom, which was where I was supposed to sleep. Her bookshelf was crammed with Broadway Showbills . “How lucky she is to be able to see any Broadway show she likes or pick from a smorgasbord of the world’s best dance classes on a daily basis,” I thought enviously. She was spoiled for culture. I sneaked a peek into her mother’s bedroom, which was draped in sexy shades of lipstick red and pink. The closet was lined with designer shoes stuffed with cobblers’ wooden inserts to keep them perfectly shaped. How glamorous her life was.
    The living room furniture was so fancy-schmancy I was reluctant to sit on it for fear of doing damage and not being able to pay for