Tales of Times Square: Expanded Edition Read Online Free PDF

Frederick’s. On top lies her trademark Indian costume, which transforms her into “Princess Bursting Feathers.”
    “What freaks me a bit,” says Raven, “are the guys who tremble in their seats with their mouths hanging open.” She relates the incident of a pen pal, a lawyer, one of many who persistently write her, and with whom she corresponds. “So the guy came to one of my shows, talked to me a bit in the lobby. But he’d never been here before, and he overreacted to Mardi Gras by pulling down his pants and whacking off in the seat. Someone stopped him before he got tossed out.”
    Most of the old goats who follow Raven are more than content to be professional fans, incapable of crossing the line. “But who’s safe? I never used to trust myself when picking friends from fans, but now I do. I protect myself, though, I don’t wanna end up anyplace weird. I’m not a victim.... Most of the guys out there, I would never go out with. They’re dear fans, they know what they are, they never expect anything. I’ll go across the street to Bernard’s with a bunch, but there’s no reason to go anyplace else.”
    These old coots also provide a protective entourage in New York. Raven can deal with wackos in the audience, humor them perfectly. Like the guy out West who falls to his knees and prays to her—she works it into the routine and obliges him with a religious spell. “You’ll be the first I’ll tell, if I need help,” she tells her dukes, who are eager to defend her, “but even if they seem nuts to you, I know how to handle them.” It’s more dangerous for strippers in Middle America, where folks are more apt to figure her profession qualifies her as rape meat or something. Yet some porn starlets have claimed that they run less risk of being raped because they’re perceived as too powerful sexually: the exact opposite of what some idiot bent on rape would seek. When it does happen to a girl in the perimeters of porn, the cops offer no solace.
    “Everyone finds the weakness of the other, in this business,” says Raven. “I’ve seen girls forced to give head. If a girl is easily scared or thinks her job is more important than her integrity, the guy’ll find out what the weak point is and dive in there. I see thirteen-year-old girls whose parents have put ‘em to work in strip clubs.”
    Raven applies her mineral oil, the better to bounce those light signals off her bosoms into the tit-starved audience. She hates makeup and never uses the traditional Max Factor body pancake many strippers need, which is plastered on with water and alcohol, then buffed like a shoeshine so it doesn’t streak. Just this morning, to avoid makeup, Raven spent forty-five minutes under a Silver Solarium sun lamp to maintain her California tan. Only one spot requires the hated pancake: “I had this tattoo on my inner thigh that said ‘Forever Damien.’ It was removed by a plastic surgeon, so there’s a little scar.”
    Raven does her act barefoot, and never wears heels onstage, since falling and injuring her left bazoom. It almost had to be removed. Russ Meyer recommended a cosmetic surgeon who specialized in Vegas showgirl implants. The surgeon was able to zero in on the swelling from an angle that left the breast intact, and corrected the injury.
    “The operation was three and a half hours and I had to come up with $5,000. I figured I might as well have the tattoo carved out too.” She dabs the pancake over the faint spot where the good doctor’s work was.
    “Last time I was on tour for seven weeks straight, my feet were torn and bloody from dancing. I’ve picked up splinters and glass. The lighting at the Melody isn’t too good, but at least their stage is smooth. Stages are all different, and my show changes instinctively with each one. I usually play dinner clubs, cabarets. I was the first stripper ever to play the Playboy Club in L.A. The Melody is still unusual for me.”
    Friday night’s costume turns out